Chapter Thirty Six

 

Jordan picked up after the third ring. He was comfortably lounging in a king-sized bed in room 305 of the Holiday Inn where the meeting had taken place earlier that day. He had decided to stay in Chicago for the weekend and enjoy the sites of the city.

“Mr. Scott. This is Johnny Hobson. You may recall I gave you a ride home after Mr. Rutledge’s funeral.”

“I’ll never forget it.” Jordan turned off the TV.

“Do you remember our discussion regarding the tampering with Mr. Rutledge’s brakes?”

“Very well.”

“Well, Mr. Scott, I’m afraid I have some bad news,” he continued. “It concerns our friend Dirk Johnston. He’s had, uh , his brakes were, uh . . . I’ll just tell you straight. The same folks who killed Wilbur have just killed Dirk.”

“But that’s impossible. I was just with him in a meeting here in Chicago not more than an hour ago.”

“He was just killed there in a car crash,” Johnny said. “There are some things about this company you are working for that you may not be aware of, and this information is directly related to the deaths of Wilbur and Dirk.

“This company seems to be responsible for a lot of dead people,” Jordan said.

“That wouldn’t surprise me,” Johnny said. “I need to be brief, so please listen. Your company is actually run by three individuals. Their names are Winston Arnold, Kent Nestor, and Wakefield Trotter. They are the controlling partners in a conglomeration of business organized under an umbrella corporation called Arnett Holdings. Arnett Holdings controls numerous subsidiaries that are airline service related such as fueling, maintenance, flight training, aircraft leasing, computer equipment leasing, and also a construction company. Consolidated Airlines is fundamentally run to provide lucrative contracts to these subsidiaries. Management positions at these subsidiaries are staffed almost exclusively by retiring CIA agents. These three guys are former CIA managers from the Vietnam War. They ran a significant part of the Air America operations. When the war ended they brought their expertise and a huge amount of cash back to the states and started an air charter operation. They were extremely well connected politically, and received an inordinate amount of no-bid government contract work. They were also directly involved in the White House travel office scandal several years ago.”

Jordan was very interested in what he was hearing.

“Due to their political connections, they were able to get a scheduled passenger certificate with much less scrutiny than is usually required for an airline management team. The guys you think are running the airline are just mouthpieces for the Arnett trio. They actually manipulate the profits of Consolidated by raising and lowering the fees their subsidiaries charge the airline. Controlling their fuel costs is a bit more complicated. They get their fuel exclusively from a Southeast Asian subsidiary, Arnett Petroleum. They know in advance where the airline stock price is going, and have made a fortune buying and selling futures contracts on the stock.”

“But that’s extremely illegal,” Jordan said.

“Only if you get caught,” Johnny said. “And these guys are very good at not getting caught. They buy and sell their stuff through offshore accounts, as well as European and Asian accounts. They knew Wilbur would be upset when the cause of the crash was traced back to their shoddy management practices, so they had him killed. I don’t know what Dirk was up to, but he was either getting close to uncovering their secrets, or perhaps they were sending a message to someone else. At any rate Dirk told me he was working with you and some others in an internal crash investigation. I was not willing to tell him what I’ve told you today, because it would have meant the end of my business. When Consolidated moved on to scheduled passenger service, they left all their charter work to a small group of independent operators like me. Without going into detail as to why, I’ve decided to get out of the business and basically disappear. That’s why I’m telling you all of this. Hopefully it will give you some help in your investigation. I don’t know what your group is planning, but I will tell there is no way you can get to these guys directly. The only way to hurt them is to go after their money, and that means the airline. It’s the goose that lays the golden eggs for all their other businesses. I gotta go now. Any questions about what I’ve told you so far?”

“No. I think I can take it from here.”

“By the way, I suggest you give the Chicago police department a call, and let them know that Dirk was the occupant of the vehicle that crashed and burned a few blocks east of Midway airport today,” Johnny said. “Based on what I know about the way he was killed, it may be almost impossible to identify his body.” Johnny hung up the phone.

Jordan sat on the edge of the bed in silence. It was all starting to make sense, the signs on the entrance to the company headquarters, the frequent changing of his computer equipment, and most of all the reluctance of Willie to listen to Gail when she tried to implement new training methods at the airline. He felt confident these new pieces of the puzzle were all that was needed for Mr. Bankhead to successfully sue the management of Consolidated Airlines for negligence.

He picked up the phone and called Wayne.

“What’s up Jordan?” Wayne saw Jordan’s name on his cell phone caller ID.

“Dirk is dead.”

“How do you know . . . I mean how did it happen . . . when . . .”

“Today. A car wreck. Well not really a wreck,” Jordan explained. “He was murdered, but it was made to look like an accident. I’ve just had a phone call from a very reliable source as to the cause of his death, but even more startling is the information I have about the people who are really running this airline.” He then went on to divulge all of the information Johnny had entrusted him with.

“This is a bittersweet story,” Wayne replied with sorrow in his voice. “I hadn’t seen Dirk in over twenty years, but I’ve grown quite fond of him these last few weeks. But this information blows the case for liability against the airline wide open. I can’t wait to get these guys in a court room. Not only for my client’s sake, but for Dirk, Gail, captain Jakyll, and all the passengers injured on that flight.”

“Don’t get your hopes up about connecting these three guys to this company and the crash. Johnny seemed very confident that they were untouchable. As I told you, he said the best way to get at them was to go after the company.”

“Oh, I’m gonna do that all right. I hate to tell you this for both your and Gail’s sake, but when I’m done with this litigation, I feel quite confident Consolidated Airlines will cease to exist.”

“We are prepared for that eventuality.” Jordan ended his call. As he did, Gail emerged from the bathroom shower with a towel wrapped around her waist, and another draped strategically around her neck, concealing her breasts.

“Who was that?”

“Come over here.” Jordan patted the bedspread beside him. “I’ve got some bad news, I’m afraid.”

Jordan then picked up the phone and dialed 911 as Gail plopped down on the bed beside him. When the operator answered, he informed her that the occupant of the car fire was Dirk Johnston. As soon as the police dispatcher relayed this information to the crime scene investigators, every TV and radio station in Chicago heard the information over the police radio scanners at their respective news operations desks. The fact that the victim was one of their own only added to the sensationalism of the story. In less than half an hour, the car that served as the final resting place of Dirk Johnston was surrounded by mobile news vans, their satellite dish antennas protruding precariously into the air. The images of reporters standing with microphones propped in front of their chins, with the charred remains of Dirk’s rental car serving as a backdrop, was the lead story on the network evening news.

 

Marvella Jackson returned home from work to her immaculately clean townhouse in a rather trendy downtown section of Charlotte. She prided herself on the fact that she owned her home free and clear. She removed her uniform, slipped on a robe and comfortable slippers, poured two fingers of Makers Mark bourbon in a glass, and sat down in front of her TV. She clicked the on button of the remote control and saw the image of a reporter at what appeared to be the scene of a car wreck.

“Lawd child, I see these people all day long,” she thought as she changed the channel. But it was to no avail. Every local station in Charlotte was preempting normal programming with live coverage from Chicago of the car crash.

“Damn,” she protested. “I don’t need anymore of this today.”

She was about to turn off the TV when she heard the reporter on the screen utter the words “local TV news reporter Dirk Johnston.” Marvella gulped down the rest of her bourbon, sat the glass on the table, turned up the volume, and leaned forward to focus her attention on the TV screen. After confirming her worst fears were true, she turned off the TV, leaned back, and stared at the ceiling. She closed her eyes and offered a prayer for the soul of Dirk Johnston. She then reached for her phone, and as instructed by Dirk earlier that day, called Wayne Bankhead and asked him to call Larry Mansk.