Flight Dreams Read Free Page A

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