Flight Dreams Read online

  Flight Dreams

  A Mark Manning Mystery

  Michael Craft

  The author thanks both Mitchell Waters and John Scognamiglio for their encouragement, wise counsel, and friendship.

  The story that unfolds on the following pages is the product of an active imagination. Characters, places, and organizations named herein are largely fictitious. Any similarity to real-world counterparts, however, is hardly coincidental, and readers are invited to draw any conclusions they wish, inflammatory or droll.

  —MC

  Encore

  bien sûr

  à Léon

  Contents

  Part One OCTOBER

  Thursday, October 1

  Friday, October 2

  Saturday, October 3

  Sunday, October 4

  Monday, October 5

  Wednesday, October 7

  Friday, October 9

  Friday, October 16

  Saturday, October 17

  Monday, October 19

  Tuesday, October 20

  Saturday, October 24

  Sunday, October 25

  Part Two DECEMBER

  Monday, December 21

  Tuesday, December 22

  Thursday, December 24

  Friday, December 25

  Saturday, December 26

  Sunday, December 27

  Monday, December 28

  Wednesday, December 30

  Thursday, December 31

  Epilogue MARCH

  Preview: Eye Contact

  About the Author

  PART ONE

  October

  $100 MILLION AT STAKE

  Missing airline heiress will be declared dead in three months

  By Mark Manning

  Journal Investigative Reporter

  OCTOBER 1, CHICAGO IL—Three months from today, January 1, will mark seven years since the unexplained disappearance of Helena Carter, sole heir to the late Ridgely Carter, founder of CarterAir. Considered by many analysts to be the nation’s most profitable regional airline, the privately held corporation holds cash reserves estimated in excess of one hundred million dollars.

  Should Mrs. Carter’s disappearance remain unexplained on January 1, she will be declared legally dead, and her fortune will be distributed according to the terms of a will bequeathing the bulk of her estate to the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Chicago and a substantial sum to the Federated Cat Clubs of America (FCCA).

  Mrs. Carter disappeared from the grounds of her Bluff Shores estate, north of Chicago, on New Year’s Day nearly seven years ago. The police investigation has been stymied from the start. If the heiress was abducted from her home, her captor left no evidence of the deed. If, on the other hand, Mrs. Carter disappeared of her own volition, she left no clues as to her motive or destination.

  Jerry Klein, chief operating officer of CarterAir and executor of Helena Carter’s estate, has recently persuaded the courts to allow the estate to increase its reward offer to a half-million dollars for information leading to knowledge of the whereabouts of the heiress, whether living or dead. Police have dismissed numerous new leads generated by the offer, characterizing the informants as either cranks or frauds.

  With the approach of the seven-year deadline, wide speculation has grown that Mrs. Carter was murdered, and one of this city’s news organizations has openly named a suspect amid rhetorical calls for justice. The Journal’s investigation, however, has revealed no evidence to corroborate these accusations, and it is the position of this newspaper that Helena Carter must logically be presumed alive.□

  THURSDAY, OCTOBER 1

  “I SEE TREES.” THE hushed voice speaks slowly through the phone. “I see a large house surrounded by trees.”

  Mark Manning laughs. Confident that there is no need to take notes, he caps his pet pen, an antique Mont Blanc.

  “I fail to see what’s so funny, Mr. Manning.” The voice is indignant. “I’m only trying to help. This information could be useful to your stories.”

  “Sorry,” Manning says indifferently, “but it’s a safe guess that any wealthy person would live in a big house. And most houses have trees around them.” He closes his note pad and adds it to the tidy clutter on his desk in the newsroom of the Chicago Journal.

  “But I see these things so clearly,” the voice persists. “With a little help from you, Mr. Manning, we could find her body.”

  “She is dead, then? Do you see that?” He stares at his computer terminal, transfixed for a moment by the rhythmic winking of its cursor.

  “Certainly,” the voice responds, as if clueing-in an ignorant child. “Everyone knows that, Mr. Manning. It’s common knowledge.”

  “Thanks for calling,” says Manning, bringing the conversation to an abrupt close. “I’m on deadline right now and can’t talk any longer.”

  He hears a little squawk from the receiver as he tosses it back on top of the phone. He lights a cigarette with a small brass lighter that he flicks, extinguishes, and returns in a single motion to the pocket of a crisp blue oxford-cloth shirt.

  “Hey, handsome, deadline was nearly an hour ago,” says a taunting voice from behind. Daryl, a copy kid, overheard the end of Manning’s call and now sidles into the reporter’s cubicle. With an easy familiarity, he perches on the desk and asks, “How many does that make?”

  “Three this morning,” says Manning, disgruntled. He rolls his chair back from the desk, loosens his tie, and unbuttons his collar. “Every time my byline appears over anything pertaining to Helena Carter, I get a flurry of calls from these damned mystics.” He tosses up a leg and plops his foot next to the computer. Reflections from a fluorescent work lamp glisten as wavy bands in the polished cordovan of his shoe.

  “Then why’d you write it?” asks the college intern, fanning his hands in disapproval of the cigarette smoke. He flares his nostrils, exaggerating the “demure Negroid features” that are sometimes the subject of his coy patter.

  “Because today is October first. In three months the estate will be settled—unless she reappears before then.”

  “She can’t very well reappear from the grave, can she?” asks Daryl, scrutinizing a hangnail at arm’s length.

  “Of course not. But I don’t think she’s dead. I think she disappeared of her own free will.”

  “Sure, Mark, the old gal could’ve run away for lots of reasons—maybe she’s just screwy.” Daryl swirls a finger at his temple. “Isn’t it more likely, though, that she’s been killed?”

  “There was no motive to kill her.”

  “A hundred million dollars isn’t a motive? Look, doll, I’m the first to concede that you know more about this case than anyone else does. You’ve been on this story from the start, and there isn’t a paper in the country that hasn’t picked up your stuff, byline and all.”

  “What about the Post?” Manning quips.

  “I stand corrected. The tabloid across the street has not run your byline, but then, they’ve got Humphrey Hasting, and he’s writing exactly the kind of sensational fluff they’re famous for. But you, Mark, are the expert. My God—how many reporters get calls from a chief detective asking for clarification of details of his own case? So I bow to your expertise. Does that please you?”

  Manning answers with a shrug. He plants the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and joins his hands behind his head, stretching lithely.

  His is not the body of most thirty-nine-year-olds. Lean and muscled, he’s in better shape than most at twenty-five. The well-defined planes of his face hint at the precise workings of an analytical mind, as if made visible through the piercing clarity of uncommonly green eyes. His hair, now peppered with those first dashes of gray, is worn a bit short for the fashion of the day, imparting a military at
tractiveness to his bearing—an impression made all the more vivid by the pleated khaki slacks he always wears.

  Daryl crosses his arms, preparing to rest his case. “So how can you say—knowing everything you know—that a hundred million dollars is not sufficient motive for murder?”

  Reaching to flick the ash of his cigarette, Manning sits forward in his chair with a sigh that seems to say, All right, I’ll explain this just once.

  “Helena Carter’s will was located without difficulty shortly after she disappeared. It took some doing for a flock of ‘interested parties’ to persuade the courts to open the will of someone not known to be dead, but it was indeed opened, primarily for any light it might shed on motives for murder. All that was learned, though, is that the document simply does not raise any suspicions or point to any suspects.”

  “But, Mark, the old girl must have been crackers. No one in his right mind leaves that kind of fortune to be split between an animal pound and a church.”

  “Not a ‘pound,’ Daryl. It’s a federation of cat clubs. Carter was a cat-lady; she bred them. She was also a devout Catholic. The stipulations of her will were well thought out, and she employed top legal talent to implement them; she was no madwoman. She never had kids, but saw to it that her one surviving sister would be cared for by means of carefully constructed trusts. Yes, she decided that the bulk of her legacy would be used to endow organizations that were significant to her, but I don’t think that’s crazy.”

  “Look, Mark, it doesn’t matter if she was nuts or not. Point is, whoever murdered her obviously didn’t know what was in the will. He apparently thought there might be something in it for himself.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. How about the houseman that Hasting and the Post keep harping on?”

  “Daryl, people can fry for knocking off little old ladies. And if that lady happens to be sole heir to a highly profitable airline, representing one of the fattest fortunes to grace the North Shore suburbs of Chicago, you can bet that the effort to find and fry the culprit will be intense. Why would anyone choose to jeopardize the contented fulfillment of his twilight years on the mere hunch that it might be worth his while? Would you?”

  “Of course not, but I’m not a murderer. Such people do exist, though, and they’re not all as logical as you. Maybe the guy’s dumb. It just seems that Helena Carter was murdered.”

  Manning tells him, “You don’t seem to have produced a body. You don’t seem to have come up with a suspect or even a reasonable motive. On the basis of what I do know—not what I think, or believe, or would like to believe, but know—I’m convinced that Helena Carter is alive.”

  “If you could prove it, you’d be a half-million dollars richer,” Daryl reminds him. “And I know just the man you could spend it on.”

  Manning ignores Daryl’s come-on, telling him, “The reward isn’t the only consideration. If I could prove that Helena Carter is alive, there’d be a Partridge Prize waiting for me next year.”

  “The coveted Brass Bird,” Daryl waxes rhapsodic, “investigative journalism’s highest award.” Then he beads Manning with a get-real stare. “If you could prove that she’s alive.”

  They are silent. Both have stated their positions, and it is clear that no convincing has been done.

  Daryl enjoys these encounters. He and Manning often engage in such banter, and the cagey sparring implies a sort of intimacy. It is not a physical intimacy—though Daryl has made it plain enough he would welcome the possibility—but simply a professional closeness. Daryl is a journalism student at Northwestern and, in spite of his flighty manner, is committed to making a career of it. He sees Manning as the Journal’s star reporter and constantly seeks ways to prove his own potential.

  The efforts have not gone unnoticed by Manning, who encourages the kid and treats him more like an equal than a gofer. In moments of honest introspection, Manning also recognizes that Daryl intrigues him. While he feels no particular attraction to Daryl, he admires the young man’s openness. Thirty-nine and still single, Manning wonders for a moment whether his next birthday might trigger something he doesn’t care to face.

  Suppressing these thoughts, he curls his lips into a little smile. “Well, enough of that.”

  Daryl mirrors Manning’s smile. He asks, “How old was she … is she?”

  “She just turned fifty-six,” says Manning. “She was forty-nine when she disappeared, a young widow, but most people think of her as elderly—guess it fits the image of a rich North Shore matron. Everything I’ve learned about her, though, paints a picture of a spry, spirited woman.”

  Daryl checks his watch and affects a lisp: “Speaking of spry and spirited, you’d better get your ass in gear. Gordon wanted to see you ten minutes ago.”

  Gordon Smith, the Journal’s managing editor, is not a man to be kept waiting. Manning sits bolt upright and snuffs out his cigarette, asking, “Why the hell didn’t you say so?”

  “Well, I did—just now.”

  Manning has already shrugged into his jacket. He tightens his tie as he trots down the aisle toward the newsroom’s front offices.

  The Journal’s previous managing editor opted for a late retirement; it was general consensus that he waited too long. Gordon Smith, as city editor, was heir apparent, so when the promotion finally came, it surprised no one.

  Smith has accepted the mantle of authority gracefully, but with little inner joy. Some years earlier, when he became city editor, he yearned for the creative involvement of a reporter. “Reporting is what newspaper work is all about,” he confided to his wife when she wondered aloud one night why his success had brought on a mild despondency. Now that he is managing editor, he misses the duties of city editor, and reporting seems all the more removed from his life.

  Nonetheless, he enjoys playing the role in which he now finds himself cast. He has acquired a wardrobe of three-piece suits, which he wears at all times. Arriving at his Journal office, he hangs up his jacket, unbuttons his vest, and rolls up the sleeves of his starched white shirt. He has become the picture of a “working editor” and once joked to Manning that he planned to get suspenders and arm garters.

  When Manning enters Smith’s office, though, he senses at once that there will be no joking today. The editor sits peering at a blank computer screen. His expression is sullen, his complexion ashen.

  “What’s the matter, Gordon?” Manning asks him, forgoing any small talk.

  “You know, Mark, it’s funny.” Smith vacantly motions for Manning to sit down. His gaze wanders out the window to the cool autumn sky arching over Lake Michigan. “You’d think it would be enough for a man to sit in his tower office, secure in the knowledge that he presides over the most respected news organization in the Midwest, leaving day-to-day reporting and editorial matters to the best staff in the business.” Smith’s voice, barely audible, trails off to nothing as he continues to study the sky.

  “Are you talking about Nathan Cain?” asks Manning, referring to the Journal’s publisher.

  “Who else?” Smith turns in his chair to face Manning across the desk. “Nathan has more drive and vision than any newsman I know. When he set up our foreign bureau in Ethiopia, lots of folks laughed at the idea—but now they’re picking up our wire stories covering the hostage crisis there. Say what you will about him, but Nathan is a ‘big picture’ kind of guy.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me. The Journal has never been stronger than it is right now with Cain at the helm. Hell, he is the Journal.”

  “Exactly,” says the editor, at last looking Manning in the eye, “and that’s what makes all of this so … sticky.”

  Apprehension colors Manning’s voice. “All of what, Gordon?”

  “All of this business about the Carter woman. You’ve once again drawn the conclusion in print that she’s alive, while the rest of the world seems convinced that she was murdered. Nathan feels that your position is an embarrassment to the paper. He must be taking some heat from h
is buddies.”

  “What buddies?”

  “Who knows? Probably the guys he rubs elbows with at United Way board meetings. Isn’t Josh Williams on that board?”

  “Ah, yes,” says Manning. “Josh Williams, publisher of the Post, happens to be married to Humphrey Hasting’s sister.”

  “Bingo.” Smith swallows hard, then exhales before continuing. “Whatever the reason, Nathan wants the Journal to fall in line. He wants you to reverse your position.”

  “I can’t do that, Gordon. I …”

  “Mark, I agree with you. I told him so. But he’s made up his mind.”

  “For God’s sake,” says Manning, exasperated, “why don’t you just edit my stories to fit whatever policy he wants?”

  “Why not, indeed. Or I could simply assign the story to someone else. I suggested that to Nathan, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He’s always had that odd streak—a perverse sense of gaming. He insists that the turnaround come from you personally.”

  “He can’t force me to write something I don’t believe.”

  “Of course not, but he can—and did—issue an ultimatum. Nathan Cain told me this morning that you are to reverse your Carter position in the next edition. If you don’t, and if Carter doesn’t reappear by New Year’s, you’re out of here. To make his wishes all the more compelling, he threatened that you’d never find work at another paper. As you’re well aware, he has the power to make good on that promise.”

  “But why?” asks Manning. “What’s behind his sudden interest in this story? Nathan Cain doesn’t strike me as the sort of man who’ll lose sleep over a bit of razzing from his colleagues.”

  “I don’t have any answers,” Smith tells him with a frustrated shrug. “Yes, Nathan’s orders seem groundless, and I tried to dissuade him, but my opinions don’t count—not this time. I’m just an overpaid messenger. And the message is: He calls the shots.”

  Stunned, Manning mumbles, “My entire adult life, I’ve struggled to build a reputation based on reason and integrity …”