Money to Burn

61

WE ENTERED THE HANGAR THROUGH THE MAINTENANCE OFFICE, AND Eric switched on the overhead lights.

At the end of a long private access road from the corporate training center, the WhiteSands heliport was one of two dozen heliports in Somerset County and one of about 365 statewide. Not all were equipped for nighttime landings and takeoffs, and some were little more than open space in a flat field of grass. As would be expected, the private facility at WhiteSands was equipped with far more amenities than it needed, including five separate hangars, each one large enough to accommodate a medium-size helicopter. We entered Hangar No. 3, which housed our ticket to escape-a pimped-out Sikorsky S76 that the head of WhiteSands’ Sovereign Fund Division “just had to have” after touring Malaysia in one with the sultan of Johor.

“Hello?” said Eric, his voice echoing as he called out.

The hangar was a gaping structure of corrugated steel, concrete block, and heavy, exposed metal beams. High-intensity lighting shone down from suspended luminaires, creating a ghostly pattern of perfectly round and evenly spaced pools of brightness across the polished concrete floor that surrounded the craft. Eric’s query had drawn no response-the hangar was completely still, no sign of anyone.

“I guess our pilot’s not here yet,” said Eric.

I walked toward the Sikorsky. It was Matterhorn white with dark blue and red accent stripes, and it looked almost new. Someone had expended untold hours of elbow grease on the wax finish. It was a habit I’d inherited from Papa, seeing an impressive piece of machinery and wondering not how much it cost or who the stuffed shirt was who got to use it, but rather, who was the average Joe who so proudly took care of it.

“Do you have his number?” I asked.

“Yeah,” said Eric, “let me give him a ring.”

He went back toward the office and dialed from the landline on the wall. I watched and listened as Eric left a message on the pilot’s voice mail.

“No answer?” I said as he returned.

“Uh-uh,” said Eric.

I glanced at Olivia. She had pretty much been a rock up until this point, but signs of stress were starting to show.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I’m getting a bad feeling,” she said.

“He’s only five minutes late,” said Eric. “I’m sure he’ll be here.”

“Try him again,” said Olivia. “Michael already lost his driver tonight. For a guy like Burn, pilots are no less expendable.”

Eric glanced at me, but I could hardly disagree.

“Wait a second,” he said, as he fumbled for the pilot’s business card in his wallet. “I dialed his office number. Let me try his cell.”

He went to the wall phone again and dialed.