Flight Dreams Read online

  Smith doesn’t mince words. “Integrity isn’t worth shit if you wind up losing your job—a job you’re supposedly good at.”

  Manning thinks for a moment, but only a moment, before asking, “He doesn’t leave me much choice, does he?”

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  “Then I’d better get to work and find Helena Carter.”

  Manning rises to leave, but pauses. With a feeble smile, he turns to ask his editor, “Did you think I’d knuckle under?”

  “I hoped not, but I didn’t know. Cain was sure you’d give in, but the ultimatum is no bluff. Having taken up the gauntlet, you’ve got to deliver.”

  “I know that, Gordon. I’ll try not to disappoint you.”

  “Good luck, Mark.”

  Friday, October 2

  MANNING GLANCES AT THE Roman numerals on his watch. It’s nearly noon. Twenty-four hours have passed since Gordon Smith delivered their publisher’s ultimatum, and Manning has wasted no time setting up a lunch date with Roxanne Exner, a lawyer—one of many—who deals with the Carter estate. He needs her help.

  Michigan Avenue is already swamped with office workers who have sneaked out to enjoy the weather. Manning jostles through the crowd along the fashionable boulevard, then turns onto the shadowed side street that leads to his favorite Armenian restaurant, quickening his pace against a chilly east wind that blows from the lake.

  He ducks under the tentlike awning and in through the door, his nostrils drinking in the warm smells of garlic, grape leaves, and sesame. Pausing a moment while his eyes adjust to the near-darkness of the cramped dining room, he notices Roxanne waving her fingers at him from one of the deeply coved booths.

  “I’m surprised you’re here already,” he says while sliding in next to her.

  She leans toward him, offering her cheek for a kiss, which Manning delivers. She tells him, “I don’t normally lunch this early, if at all. But your call sounded rather desperate, and—as you know—I enjoy your company. I had to reschedule a few meetings, so it seems that you’re indebted to me.” She flashes him a sly smile, lifting her Scotch and soda in a perfunctory toast.

  Manning now notices that his usual vodka on the rocks already sits before him. They touch glasses, then sip. He tells her, “For a pushy broad, you’re awfully alluring.”

  She has to think about that one. She reflexively bristles at the mention of “broad,” but she likes “pushy,” and “alluring” is a bonus. On balance, she takes it as a compliment.

  While she analyzes his comment, Manning studies Roxanne. They have slept together once—or was it twice? A few years younger than Manning, about thirty-five, she is single, stylish, undeniably attractive. She’s a climber, a talented attorney who was recently named partner at one of the city’s more prestigious firms. She occasionally provides tips or legal advice for Manning’s stories. She is a friend.

  Roxanne spreads a copy of the morning Post on the table in a pool of light cast by a Moroccan-style lantern overhead. She jabs at a story with her index finger. “Did you see this latest crap?” she asks Manning. “I’ve read more substantial reporting in school papers.”

  “Predictable,” he answers.

  “Just listen to this headline: POLICE APATHY PLAGUES CARTER CASE. Then in italic: Will Public Ever Know Whole Story? Byline, naturally: Humphrey Hasting. Opening paragraph: ‘Deputy Chicago police superintendent Earl Murphy admitted in an exclusive interview with the Post that lack of incriminating evidence has hampered police efforts to find missing airline heiress Helena Carter’s murderer. When asked what direction renewed efforts might take in this case, Murphy revealed that the department is currently consulting with a number of psychics and clairvoyants who have been flown to Chicago to help locate the body. The long-overdue measure is undoubtedly meant to appease a frustrated citizenry, increasingly weary of the investigative bungling that has characterized this case…’”

  Disgusted, Roxanne pushes the tabloid across the table and lets it flutter to the floor. “Mark, this pompous ass is just beating the bushes for a headline.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir, Roxanne—I know he’s a hack. But he does have a knack for stirring people up, and that makes him dangerous.”

  “And powerful. My God, now he’s got the Chicago police squirming. What’s their interest in this case? Carter disappeared in Bluff Shores.”

  “The Chicago Archdiocese stands to inherit nearly a hundred million dollars, remember, so you can bet that Archbishop Benedict has made a few phone calls to some folks in high places. Besides, the suburban police don’t have the resources to mount a credible investigation. The FBI was called in at one point, but they got out fast because no one could prove that money—or a corpse—had crossed state lines. The question of jurisdiction has put a tricky knot in this case, but the underlying problem is lack of evidence.”

  “Lack of evidence is your handicap too, Mark. If you have nothing to go on, what makes you think you can find the old gal in time to save your job?”

  “I’m not at all sure I can, but I wasn’t left with much choice—I have to try. Will you help me?”

  She reaches over their menus to pat his hand. “Of course,” she tells him in a mock-soothing tone. Then, coolly, “I honestly think you’re barking up the wrong tree, but if you’re determined to make a martyr of yourself…”

  “Look, Roxanne.” He’s annoyed. “I have no intention of sacrificing myself—whether to journalistic integrity or to the public’s ‘right to know.’ I’m in this mess because the alternative is untenable. I’d appreciate your help.”

  She nods, all business now. “I understand, Mark. I’ve brought my files, and I see you’ve brought some too. What have you got?”

  He spreads several manila folders on the table. “These are from the Journal’s morgue. They contain clippings of every story we’ve run about Helena Carter, as well as every photo we’ve shot of her. It’s all dated on the back. I’m surprised there’s so much—not only my own stories from the last seven years, but also a heap of material from before her disappearance.” He stops short, noticing something in one of the folders.

  “What’ve you got?” asks Roxanne, nosing across the table.

  Manning lifts a picture from one of the older files and shows it to her. It was shot at a formal banquet in a ballroom at the Drake, years before Helena disappeared, while her husband, Ridgely Carter, was still alive. They gaze up from their table, and between them stands a stiff figure of a man with a forced smile, a hand perched squarely on each of the Carters’ shoulders.

  Roxanne looks at Manning with a blank expression that asks, So what?

  He tells her, “That dapper, wooden gent posing in the background is none other than Nathan Cain.”

  “God,” says Roxanne, taking the photo to examine it more closely, “the man who gave you this morning’s ultimatum actually knew the Carters.”

  “I’m sure it’s just a coincidence—Cain knows everyone in Chicago social circles—but still, the connection helps explain his interest in this story. What has me baffled, though, is why his interest is so sudden and intense. Nearly seven years have passed since the woman disappeared, I’ve written reams about the case, and Cain has never said boo … till today.”

  In a voice laced with mock suspicion, Roxanne says, “He’s up to his eyeballs in this, Mark. You’ve got three months to get the dirt, so start digging.” Laughing, she hands him the photo, then comments, “I’m surprised there’s such a thick file on the mystery woman.”

  Manning explains, “Obviously, she was something of a socialite, but she also enjoyed a measure of fame among cat-people as a top-ranked breeder.”

  “Really? What kind of cats?”

  “Some rare breed,” Manning replies, riffling through a pile of photos. “Here we are. Abyssinian cats. Look at this one—really a magnificent animal, something like a little cougar.”

  “My, yes,” Roxanne agrees. “Elegant.”

  “I’m driving up to Bluff Shor
es next week to interview Carter’s sister, Margaret O’Connor. I haven’t talked to her since the disappearance. She lives at the estate and looks after the cats. Maybe there’s an angle there.”

  “Are there any color photos of the cats?”

  “I think I saw one—must have been from the Sunday magazine. Here it is.” Manning shows Roxanne a picture of the heiress posing with a ruddy-colored cat next to a towering trophy declaring the animal a quad-grand champion. Helena Carter beams a victorious smile; the cat gazes, bored, directly at the camera. “How about that? Carter’s hair matches the cat’s. She must have dyed it that goofy red.”

  Roxanne peers at the photo. She shakes her head. “That’s not red dye, Mark. It’s a natural rinse that comes from a plant or an herb or something. Been around for centuries. It’s called henna.”

  “Whatever. And as long as I’m up at the estate, I also want to talk to Arthur Mendel, the houseman.”

  “What for? If you’re so convinced that Carter is alive, why waste your time with suspected ‘murderers’?”

  Manning explains, “Even though there is no known evidence of murder, if I’m to prove that the woman is alive, I must first satisfy myself that any possible suspects had no involvement in her disappearance. It’s a lot of grunt work. Truth is, I should have done it long ago.”

  “But you weren’t sufficiently motivated till this morning, right?”

  “Right.” He laughs. “Are you getting hungry?”

  Roxanne orders another drink, deciding to lunch on appetizers—hummus and raw kibbe. Manning has a lamb-and-couscous dish. During their meal, Roxanne brings Manning up to date on some accounting matters relating to the Carter estate, and they agree to meet again at her office.

  Roxanne says, “As long as you have your appointment book out—are you free next Friday, a week from tonight?”

  “Wide open,” says Manning, perusing his calendar, in which he has marked each date with a running countdown of the days remaining till New Year’s—a reminder that the clock is now steadily ticking toward his deadline. “My social life has been less than a whirl of late.”

  “Then do pencil me in. I’ll have an out-of-town houseguest, an artist friend from college, and I’m throwing a fabboo cocktail party to introduce him to my crowd.”

  “Him?”

  “Yes, Mark. He’s a friend. The party’s at my place—anytime after eight.”

  “I’ll be there,” Manning assures her, marking the date not in pencil, but in ink. Pausing a moment, he asks, “You’re sure this guy isn’t more than a ‘friend’?”

  “Don’t I wish!”

  The same afternoon, across the street from the Journal’s offices on an upper floor of the Post building, Humphrey Hasting waits to see Josh Williams, the Post’s publisher. A flamboyant dresser, Hasting fusses with his bow tie—one of many that he always wears—a sartorial curiosity that accentuates his girth. At forty-nine, he has never married; to his considerable advantage, his sister, Ruth, has married Josh Williams.

  Hasting fills an upholstered tub chair next to the secretary’s desk outside his brother-in-law’s office. Waiting impatiently, he sits with crossed legs, revealing tufts of black hair on white shins. Finding this position uncomfortable, he plants both feet on the carpet and leans back in the chair, staring tensely forward with a hand draped just above each knee. Ten fingers bounce in a random pattern on the burgundy polyester stretched tight around his legs—legs that make the secretary think of four links of sausage, two extending over the edge of the chair, two more dropping to the floor.

  The woman is busy transcribing something from an earphone plugged in somewhere under her hair. The tapping of her fingers on the keyboard stops for a moment as she pauses to take a quick drag from the cigarette perched on a nearby ashtray.

  “Would you put that damned thing out?” snaps Hasting while plucking several long gray pet-hairs from his slacks. “If you have no consideration for your own lungs, you might at least have a modicum of consideration for mine.” He stares severely at the woman, thinking, Modicum. Good word. Haven’t used it in a while.

  “Sorry, Mr. Hasting,” she says, extinguishing the cigarette.

  “That’s better,” he sniffs, fluttering both hands to shoo smoke from his breathing space.

  An electronic warble sounds from the secretary’s phone. Taking the call, she tells Hasting, “Mr. Williams will see you now. Please go right in.”

  He gives her a curt nod that says, It’s about time.

  Hasting wears reading glasses with half-frames that hold crescent-shaped lenses. They look absurdly petite at the end of his bulbous nose. He removes them with a flourish, rising from his chair. The chair gives a creak of relief as he crosses the room toward Josh Williams’s inner office. Hasting swings the door open and stands over the threshold, one foot poised in front of the other, brandishing his glasses like a lorgnette. “Good morning, Josh,” he says bouncily, as if they were old pals meeting for a golf game.

  “Morning, Hump,” says Williams with a suspicious chuckle as he waves the man into the room.

  Hasting inwardly fumes at the mention of his hated nickname, smiling too politely while closing the door. He walks to the desk and sits before Williams. His slacks whimper against the chair’s leather seat as he settles in.

  Williams is in the process of lighting his pipe, chosen from the collection displayed in racks on a credenza behind him. “Now what’s this you need to see me about?” The pipe wobbles in his clenched teeth as he speaks. He strikes a hefty wooden match and, holding it over the bowl of the pipe, sucks furiously, his cheeks collapsing in rhythm with the bulging of his eyes. Sparks leap from the bowl as the tobacco crackles within.

  “Well, Josh,” says Hasting, replacing his glasses, “it’s about the Carter woman.”

  “Yeah?” says the publisher. He’s on his second match now and having no more success than with the first. He blows it out and flings it into a large ashtray in front of Hasting. The match twitches and curls, still smoking, smelling of sulfur. “What about her?” he asks, lighting a third.

  “I think we should formulate some policy regarding this paper’s position on the Helena Carter story.”

  “Whata-ya mean, ‘position’?” He has the pipe going now—feebly, but it’s lit.

  “Josh, we have to take a stand,” says Hasting, punctuating each word with delicate jabs at his knee.

  “You don’t take a stand, Hump, on a missing-person case. You just report the facts.”

  “But there haven’t been any facts lately.”

  “What are we supposed to do—make some up?”

  “Josh.” He pauses, preparing to explain something very simple. “By taking a modicum of journalistic liberty, we could very well influence the outcome of this case.” He cocks his head as if to ask, Don’t you see?

  Josh Williams sits back in his chair, fingers his pipe, thinking, then exhales. A cloud of aromatic blue smoke escapes from his teeth; two jets of it shoot down from his nostrils.

  Williams has just turned sixty. He’s spent most of his professional life at the Post, inching his way through the ranks the way journalists used to, the way they did it when Chicago had four thriving dailies. He’s seen the Post through those years when it held its own as a respectable morning tabloid—before the era of its new owners, before the time when circulation and advertising were the sole concerns of upper management. He sits now with both elbows propped on the arms of his chair, still sucking his pipe. He thinks of retirement—only five years away. “Okay, Hump,” he says quietly. “Let’s have it. What are you driving at?” His pipe has gone out.

  “Don’t be so morose,” says Hasting, too cheery. “I’m not driving at anything. It’s just that I was talking to Ruth …”

  “I thought so,” says Williams through a loud laugh. He still exhales smoke while talking, though the pipe has been dead for some time.

  “Ruth and I were thinking,” Hasting continues, coughing primly, “that the public de
serves some answers. After all, this thing’s been going on now for—how long?—five, six years—”

  “Seven,” Williams interrupts. He can’t resist adding, “Don’t you read the Journal?”

  “Seven, whatever,” Hasting acknowledges the correction. “Anyway, people deserve some information. A nice old lady can’t just be wiped out while the police sit on their hands. This sort of atrocity shouldn’t be allowed in a free and prosperous society. My God, there are possible suspects—the houseman, Arthur Mendel, for instance, used to manage the stables at the Carter estate, and you’re surely aware of the shady company those people keep. So what are the police waiting for? When do we get some action? When will the public’s yearning for justice be satisfied?” He leans forward for a dramatic pause, then says softly, “You know when, Josh? When we do something about it.”

  “And how do you propose to do something about it?” asks Williams, digging in his pipe with a tool resembling a flat nail.

  “We start stirring the waters. We keep the case constantly in the public eye, right on page one. Leave no stone unturned. Get our readers ready for blood, screaming for police action. Then”—he leans forward confidentially—“perhaps a few well-timed editorials demanding that a suspect be brought to trial. I’ll take care of the reporting, Josh, then your boys can take over with the editorials.”

  “Reporting? What reporting, Hump? The case is at a standstill.” Williams’s pipe will not be revived. He turns it upside down and bangs it on the ashtray in front of Hasting. A small chunk of charred matter flies from the pipe and lands on Hasting’s upper leg.

  Hasting flicks the cinder off his slacks with his index finger, noticing that it has fused several fibers of the synthetic fabric into a hard tiny bead. The cinder lands near his foot, so he grinds it into the carpet, eyeing with satisfaction the smeared streak of black that trails his shoe.

  He tells Williams, “Perhaps ‘reporting’ isn’t exactly the right word. Something more like—shall we say?—informed commentary. The public can’t tell the difference. Don’t get me wrong; I’m well aware that it’s our professional duty to serve the public. This just happens to be the most expedient means of fulfilling that obligation.”