Flying Too Close to the Sun George Jehn (best non fiction books of all time .txt) 📖

Once dressed in jeans and tee the cuffs went back on, even tighter. They drove both he and the young lady to the nearest NYPD precinct where David was booked and held, pending a bail hearing. Mary O’Rourke was released into her parents’ custody after they confirmed that she had run away and was fifteen years old.

At David’s court arraignment later that morning the magistrate set bail at one hundred thousand dollars on each of the two counts. His court-appointed attorney stated that he couldn’t come up with that amount so he was remanded to Riker’s Island. To the cops, no bail money meant he also probably had no involvement in the heist.

Leaving the courtroom, Morganthaler smiled for the first time in a long while. “At least that reprobate is off the streets.”

A cheery Daly suggested, “Let’s give him one more for the road.” He called David’s boss, informed him of the pending charges and that he was being held at Riker’s. The supervisor stated he would immediately be placed on unpaid leave pending the outcome. If convicted on any count or if he accepted a plea bargain, he would be terminated.

.     .     .

That part was easy, but the distinct whodunit smell remained, gnawing away at both cops. “What about Preis?” Morganthaler ruminated as they headed to their car.

“What about him?”

“The T and L sheets keep pointing to the flight. It’s the perfect connection, except so far it isn’t. But, I just can’t dismiss it completely. I wanna leave him on the suspect list even though the taps on his home phone haven’t turned up anything and although from what we know it would have been virtually impossible for him to carry it out alone. If he somehow arranged the heist without the other pilots’ knowledge maybe he’ll show his hand now? I’d also like to keep monitoring all his financial transactions until someone upstairs tells us otherwise. Not having a solid lead is making this very frustrating.”

“I agree. It’s like we’re running in a blind alley marathon. Go ahead with Preis,” an apathetic Daly informed him.

.     .     .

As the initial shock of Christina’s death gave way to guilt, it ripped at Juni’s gut like a searing blade. Recalling she had a young son living somewhere in Florida, although funds were extremely short he would get the kid’s address and somehow send some money. Although he’d returned to East Boston and attended a number of softball games, it turned out there wasn’t even a team called the Marauders. He also tried contacting Joey Martino, but his calls went unanswered. There wasn’t even a recording on the other end. Juni thought maybe Martino skipped town with their dough since the trail ended so abruptly. He quickly learned, however, that Joey had died from a massive coronary, leaving his old lady penniless. Who the hell had their money?

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

The money in Erik’s trunk was like an overwrought spouse constantly yakking at him and he was totally paranoid, driving a circuitous route, constantly checking his rearview mirror and quickly changing lanes to determine if he was being followed, but saw nothing. His part of this game had been played out and thus far he had won, but with far less grace than he would have liked. These emotions competed with even more depressing thoughts of Christina. While driving past Jersey City on Route 3 he spotted a deserted road off to the left and quickly pulled onto it, sped past a dilapidated wooden wharf protruding into the filthy waters of some unnamed river tributary and jammed on the brakes. There was no company here except for the hulks of derelict cars bleeding rust, unpainted vacant buildings and light brown swamp weeds swaying in unison with the wind. The sewer seemingly drained here, with the soil tainted like the money. His gas tank might be full, but his adrenaline tank read empty, so he got out and opened the trunk. While inspecting his cargo, he pondered tossing the bags into the filthy water. Would his icicles of misery also ebb away? That answer was, no, so instead he needed to plumb the past to bring the future into clearer focus, meaning coming clean with Carol. They would then decide how to spend it. He slammed the trunk closed and sped back onto the highway.

As he fought the narrow lanes of the Goethals Bridge, the weather changed. The windshield wipers brushed away the intermittent rain and New Jersey with its belching smokestacks. Back in New York he almost felt whole again, but was still burdened by the wave of sorrow passing through him like a powerful X-ray. They would no doubt bury Christina in her home town in Florida. Bury; such a final word for someone who was so young and full of life. He pictured the line of mourners at her graveside, no doubt led by her son. Attempting to soften these thoughts he purchased a single red rose from a roadside vendor and detoured under what felt like a cold and friendless sky to her place. As he rolled to a halt, the billowing curtains of the now-lifeless shell she had called home waved in the air, seemingly beckoning him to enter. But the sense of death in attendance ruled that out. He ducked under the yellow tape and inserted the rose into the screen, simultaneously almost feeling her torment invading every inch behind it. Time passes quickly and Erik would atone for what he had already wasted. Silent thoughts rolled off his lips and tears from his eyes flowed as a closing goodbye. There was no room in his conscience for Christina’s death as it was already crowded enough. How long would it be before a For Rent sign went up and a new saga began?

He forced himself to become all business and drove a circuitous route to his apartment, again checking for a tail. After ensuring there was no police stakeout, he dragged the