Guidance to Death

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 2February 10

Saturday, 8:00 a.m.

It was one of those Saturday mornings that Frank Adams preferred to stay in bed longer than usual. The thermometer outside his window was dead on freezing, and rain fell in gray waves, coating everything, including the thermometer, in a thick icy glaze. The phone rang. He rolled over, thinking he wouldn’t answer. It would stop ringing after a while. It did. Then the phone rang once more. He threw the covers off him, wrapped a blanket over his shoulders, walked over to the thermostat, and slowly turned it up to a comfortable seventy degrees. The phone was still ringing. He picked up the handset and considered letting it drop back down.

“Uh, Mr. Adams? Is this Mr. Frank Adams?” The voice was female and had a note of desperation in it.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry to call you like this,” she said. “I know it’s Saturday morning—”

“I’m glad to know that you are aware of it,” Frank said, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice.

“I want to employ you, Mr. Adams, and Monday morning might be too late. Can I meet you somewhere?”

“What sort of employment? And who are you?”

“I don’t want to discuss it over the phone.”

“Of course, but it might save us both some time and trouble if you know that I don’t work as a security guard, and I definitely don’t do surveillance work.”

“I’m aware of your specialties, Mr. Adams. Where can we meet?”

“My office, in about two hours?”

“Fine.”

The phone went dead on the other end, and Frank Adams, Accident Investigative Consultant, carefully lowered the phone’s handset back into its cradle. Getting consulting work in his specialty had not always been this easy, especially when he first started out in this business. He did a few surveillance jobs back then to pay the rent for his office and apartment. His early retirement from the National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB) was just enough to keep him going.

He had enjoyed his work at NTSB and really did not want to retire at fifty-five years of age. He had put in thirty good years and was convinced that his work had saved lives.

NTSB was not, strictly speaking, a regulatory agency. Nevertheless, the principal responsibility of NTSB was to determine the probable cause of an aircraft accident and make regulatory recommendations to the FAA based on their findings. Industries subject to regulation learned many decades ago that they could alter the course of regulation through influence and pressure. Elected officials always needed money and friends. Industry officials often courted or befriended government employees who were sympathetic to industry.

Regulated industry also realized that it was much more efficient, less visible to the public, and cheaper to prevent or change proposed regulation before it got to the regulatory agency.

Frank had tolerated this “regulator capture” for years. However, on the last accident he worked on, his safety recommendations were again declined as not beneficial to public safety and cost prohibitive to the airline.

That was it for Frank. He put in for early retirement and as soon as the paperwork cleared and he had obtained the proper licensing, he opened an office as a private accident investigator.

Accident investigation work did not come easily, and the bills had to be paid so, he found work as a security guard for a couple of weeks in a department store until he saw an elderly woman of faded grandeur clumsily shoplifting lacy underwear. He went immediately to the staff locker room, tore off his oversized “rent a cop” suit, got back into his comfortable corduroy jacket, and left.

After that he found other unpleasant jobs to make ends meet. However, in the last few months, his business had improved. In addition to the recently acquired mortgage on his District apartment building, he could now afford his small office on K Street NW, and a part-time secretary. He was still driving a ten-year-old Chevy, though.

When the seemingly polar air in his apartment gradually reached the temperature underneath his blanket, he emerged from his cocoon. He took a quick shower, slipped on his bath robe, and wiped the condensation off the medicine cabinet mirror. Since his two-day stubble was wet and soft from the shower, he decided not to use shaving cream. He had never liked the messy, troublesome soap from the beginning of his adolescence. He took out his razor and for a moment did something that he had not done in twenty years: he looked carefully at his face in the mirror. His dark hair was showing sprinkles of grey. His hazel eyes, though still clear, were accented by small crow’s feet at the corners. His previously small nose looked slightly larger, and small, red veins were beginning to show in his cheeks. He remembered his doctor warning him about this if he continued to drink whiskey at his current rate.

After shaving he dressed, put on a tie and jacket along with polished dress shoes, and decided, if time permitted, he would grab breakfast in the lobby coffee shop of his office building before meeting his prospective client.

There wasn’t time. The battery in his Chevrolet had died peacefully during the night. After calling for a tow, he skipped and slipped on untreated patches of ice to the nearest subway station. The train was fifteen minutes late and smelled of overheated electrical equipment when it arrived. The car was empty except for a few stone-faced passengers who were unhappily on their way to Saturday jobs.

Walking the three blocks to his office was a glacial nightmare. Despite the occasional scatterings of sand and salt crystals, each step had to be carefully planned. Everything and everyone seemed to be moving at half speed, except for the motorized traffic roaring along as usual, heedless of the slick, black ice, dodging other vehicles and pedestrians with reckless agility.

A woman was waiting outside his office door. She was tall, in her early forties, and tastefully dressed. Frank detected the aroma of old money in her understated elegance.

“Mr. Adams?”

“Yes.”

The woman smiled hesitantly. Frank inserted his key card. Metal clicked and buzzers buzzed. He opened the door and motioned for her to go in.

The office was as cold as his apartment. His office was a rather simple affair. It had a carpeted reception area, a small conference room, and an even smaller private office. The expensive mahogany and leather furniture belied his tight budget. He’d picked it all up second hand from an attorney who was selling out before going to “Club Fed” for embezzlement. He turned up the thermostat, took off his coat and sat behind his desk, waving her to a chair in front of him. She drew her camel hair coat tighter around her neck and body.

“It should warm up quickly,” Frank said weakly. “What can I do for you, Miss . . .?”

“Before I tell you my name, I want to explain the situation. I’m speaking to you in total confidence, Mr. Adams.”

“Of course,” Frank said.

She paused, searching his face with her eyes, then resumed dispassionately as someone describing a familiar story.“You remember that airplane accident in Oxon Hill about a month ago?”

“Yes, I think there were three fatalities in that accident?”

“Yes. My husband Charles; Mark Asbury, another executive for the company; and the pilot, of course.”

“I am very sorry to hear it.” Frank said. She looked tearful for a moment, and her bottom lip quivered slightly. Then she said, “Yes, My husband. . .”

Frank waited for the woman to regain her composure.

“Yes. They were headed somewhere. Charles said it was for business, but he didn’t say where they were going or what the business was. It was the first time he did that,” she said, looking down at her hands. “He always told me everything.”

“It was a company plane?” Frank asked.

“Yes.” She said. “Charles was very proud of it.”

“So, what would you like me to do for you?” Frank asked carefully.

“I want you to investigate the accident.”

“Wouldn’t you rather wait for the determination of the National Transportation Safety Board before taking this step?”

“They won’t find anything. There wasn’t much left of the plane or anyone on board.”

“You would be amazed at what the NTSB can do,” Frank said. “But what do you think I can do?”

“My lawyer said you’re one of the best in your field and that you sometimes work as a consultant for the Safety Board in this type of case.”

“They haven’t called me on this one.”

“That’s what I mean. It probably looks like just another general aviation accident to them, but I don’t think that it was. I believe my husband was murdered. I want you to—”

“Why do you suspect that?” Frank interjected.

“Mostly intuition based on how he was acting before he left . . . that sort of thing.” She looked down at her hands again, wringing them in her lap.

Frank’s second impression of her was that she was educated, wealthy, and able to control her emotions. This is no neurotic nutjob widow, he thought.

“Just how was he acting?” Frank asked.

“Tense, nervous. He would leave, sometimes suddenly, and wouldn’t return for hours. In one sense, it was the way he usually acted when there was something important on his mind. But this was different.” She fidgeted with her small handbag. “You know,” she said, looking up at Frank, “I think I will have a cup of coffee, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure,” Frank said. He got up from his desk and walked over to a small rectangular table where a large metal coffee pot was set up and ready to serve. He poured a large cup of coffee into a mug. “Cream and sugar?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Just black, please.”

Frank handed her the cup of steaming hot coffee. She slowly took a couple of sips and closed her eyes. “God! That’s good!” she said. “Anyway, before my husband’s death, he seemed secretive and edgy. There were several phone calls that he took behind closed doors, but I could hear the strain in his voice. And when I asked him about it, he just ignored me.”

“How would you characterize your marriage? Mrs. . . . ?”

The woman shrugged. “I might as well tell you. My name is Helen Rawlson and my husband is, or was, Charles Rawlson. He was CEO at Amertex electronics. The company designs, tests and manufactures electronic flight instruments—something they call integrated guidance systems and avionics—that sort of thing. It’s highly competitive and cutting-edge stuff as they say.”

“It’s my father’s company, and—” Her voice grew stronger. “If you’re trying to ask me if my husband was having an affair, the answer is no.” There was a twinge of alarm in her voice. “Oh, he did have an occasional flirtation, but it never amounted to anything. Men like my husband often have women throwing themselves at them. But he was loyal, considerate, and wouldn’t deliberately do anything to hurt anyone. I know my husband,” she firmly asserted—or was it indignantly, Frank wondered.

“My specialty is aircraft accident investigation, not murder, Mrs. Rawlson.”

“I only want you to find the evidence, Mr. Adams. I know it’s there.”

“Have you spoken with anyone at the Safety Board about this?” Frank asked.

“Oh, yes. They’re all very nice and polite, but they don’t tell me anything.”

“What about the police?”

“They were at the scene, of course, but they’re letting the Board handle the investigation.”

“Do you know if your husband was having trouble at work? Did he have any enemies, any debts?”

“He probably had some enemies, but mostly of the jealous kind, nobody that he really hurt. We also had no major debts. Our home is paid for and so are our vehicles. Charles scrupulously avoided debt.”

Frank leaned forward on his elbows. His brow furrowed as he searched her eyes, looking for what she was not telling him.

“I’ll pay anything you ask,” she said. “I’ve tried elsewhere, but you’re the only person really qualified for this. I wouldn’t ask you to do anything dangerous or illegal, Mr. Adams.”

Frank wasn’t sure why he reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a contract. It was, after all, his line of work, and while he preferred working for companies or corporations, he didn’t have a rule against working for individuals. Mrs. Rawlson had a legitimate interest. Perhaps it was her obvious refinement, poise, intelligence, and the most beautiful dark blue eyes he had ever seen.

He handed her the papers, and she read them without changing her expression. She seemed accustomed to reading legal documents.

“This sounds straightforward enough, Mr. Adams, and I’m encouraged by your businesslike approach.”

She signed the papers, then wrote out a check. “Your retainer,” she said, proffering the deposit. “Is there anything else I can tell you?” she asked.

“Yes. You could make a list of your husband’s friends and people he had conflicts with in the past, what his interests were, what his financial and career concerns were—that type of thing. Anything you can remember about them.”

“I could write a book, Mr. Adams.”

“Please don’t. Just the important facts of his life, that’s all.”

“When would you like it?”

“By Tuesday at the latest.”

She sighed. “I’ll try.”

“Will you be in the area for the next few days, Mrs. Rawlson?”

“Yes, at home. I may have guests for the weekend.”

Frank slid a small memo pad across his desk in front of Mrs. Rawlson. “Would you leave a number where you can be reached most of the time?”

She jotted her phone number on the memo pad and handed it to him. “Is that all for now?” she asked. She seemed more confident, more like the lady of the house speaking to one of her servants.

“Yes,” Frank said, “I’ll call if there is a problem. If you have any further questions, you have my phone number.”

She smiled cordially. Frank returned it and offered his hand as they rose from their chairs.

“I won’t hesitate. Thank you again,” she said.

She moved gracefully like a runway model, as if she were always conscious of the striking parts of her figure. The camel hair coat, now draped casually over her shoulders, enhanced them.

After she left, he took out a microcassette recorder from his desk drawer and turned it on.

“Vickie, start a client file on a Mrs. Charles Rawlson. Date: February tenth, 1996, retained to investigate aircraft accident in which husband died. Suspects foul play. Find out what you can about her . . . you know, the standard form.”

He switched off the recorder and put it back into the drawer, then carefully put Mrs. Rawlson’s check into his shirt pocket.

The coffee shop was open, and Frank sat at his favorite table in the corner so he could see the doorway, a habit he had developed in the Army. Despite this, he was surprised by a voice nearby.

“What happened? Forget what day it was?”

Joan Kalen had been a waitress at the coffee shop for three years since Frank’s first visit to the place. She was somewhere in her sixties, her face betraying evidence of a botched face lift, with blonde hair that reached her shoulders. Her clear, gray eyes, however, were still bright and cheerful. She had an acting background in local theater and a little television work, so she enjoyed a little notoriety with her favorite customers.

“Darling,” Frank said, giving as good as he got, “I want you to get some new material. Then get yourself a new uniform and a new hairdo so that when I force myself out of bed, trudge through icy streets in the biting, cold wind just to come to this elite coffee shop, I might not recognize you.”

“You’re such a sweetheart, Frank. I would ask how your love life is, but I think I already know. Condolences.” She smiled.

“I’ll have what passes for coffee here and one of those brick doughnuts.”

She returned after a few minutes with Frank’s coffee and doughnut.

“Joan, do you know anything about a guy named Charles Rawlson?” Frank asked.

She placed his breakfast in the center of the table, along with a glass of water, splashing some onto the table. “Sorry, love. It’s a big town, you know. Ask me about the Kennedys, the Carters, or the Alexanders, and I can help you. But the Rawlsons? Sorry, no can do.”

“Who are the Alexanders?” Frank asked.

“Long story, sweetheart. Enjoy your breakfast. I’ve got work to do!”

For the time being, it wasn’t necessary to know about Mr. Rawlson. That would come later after he had seen the wreckage and talked with Joe Hunter. He finished the doughnut and coffee and left the money for Joan on the table along with the usual 20 percent tip.

When he got back to his office, Frank called the auto repair garage where he had most of the repair work done on his car. They always took his checks without a flicker of hesitation. They would put a battery in his car and have it ready by noon.

He leafed through his office phone book for Joe Hunter’s home number, dialed it, and waited.

“What?” Joe’s voice was thick with sleep and irritation. Joe had been a colleague at the National Transportation Safety Board and his assistant on many investigations.

“Won’t you be late for work, Joe?” teased Frank.

“What the hell? It’s Saturday morning! Have you looked outside?”

“I’m awfully sorry, Joe. I thought it was Monday. Really sorry.”

There was a long, heavy silence. Then Frank could hear muttering in the background.

“Jesst . . . ammuutit . . . sheeeat . . . tell him to . . . grrr . . . ssst . . . okay, Frank. What do you need?”

“Thanks, Joe. I appreciate it.”

“You always do, Frank. What is it?”

“A client wants me to investigate an accident that happened about a month ago in the Oxon Hill area.”

“Yeah, I know it. I’m working on it.”

“Where is the wreckage being held?”

“In a hangar next to Potomac Airfield. You know it?”

“I think so. Who’s running the operation?”

“A retired airline pilot named Alfred De Marco, operating out of a Quonset hut nearby.”

“Joe, I want to see the wreckage. How about calling De Marco for me?”

“Why?” Joe asked.

“I told you; I’m working on a private case.”

“Yeah, but for what? What are you interested in?”

“The woman thinks her husband might have been murdered.”

“Frank, we’ve gone over the wreckage. It’s clean.”

“And the probable cause?”

“You know I can’t discuss that with you now.”

“I just want a look, Joe. That’s all.”

There was another long silence. Joe sighed, then said, “All right, when do you want to see it?”

Frank glanced at his watch. “It’ll take about half an hour to get there. I have to get my car fixed . . . say around noon?”

“Anything else, friend?”

“Not at the moment. Are you going to be home tonight in case I want to stop by to share some of that twenty-five-year-old single malt?”

“You’re so polite, Frank. And really, very thoughtful and considerate. I simply can’t understand why you never remarried.”

“I may have a calling for the priesthood. Don’t want to mess that up.”

Explosive laughter on the other end for a few moments. “All right,” Joe snorted, “I’ll see you later, Reverend.”

Frank hung up and quickly jotted down De Marco’s name and number. A wave of hunger gurgled in his stomach. He hurriedly locked his office and took the elevator to the ground floor for a proper breakfast.