“Then let’s do it; we’ll sleep later.”
STON E A N D DIN O walked into Island City Flying Service, the fixed base operator for private aircraft at Key West International. Stone could see his own airplane through the window. They found Paul DePoo, who ran the place, and introduced themselves.
“What can I do for you?” DePoo asked.
“Can I see a list of all the private airplanes that’ve landed here in the past twenty-four hours?” Stone asked.
DePoo handed him a clipboard that held two sheets of paper.
“That’s yesterday’s landings,” he said. “We haven’t had anything today yet; it’s still early.”
Stone looked through the list slowly, eliminating the jets and big twins.
“What are you looking for?”
“One guy in a light aircraft, probably a single, some luggage, maybe something like a shotgun case.”
“Nobody comes to Key West to hunt,” DePoo said.
“Then a shotgun or rifle case would make him stand out, wouldn’t it?”
DePoo picked up a phone and punched in an extension. “You see 1 43
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anybody come in here from an airplane yesterday carrying something like a rifle or shotgun case?” He laughed. “You’re kidding!
What’s the tail number?” He jotted something down and hung up.
“How about that? There was such a guy.” He ran a finger down the list on the clipboard. “There’s his tail number; he’s one Ted Larson, from Fort Lauderdale.”
Stone looked at the clipboard. “Can you access the FAA list of registered aircraft from your computer?”
“Sure,” DePoo said. He went to the website and typed in the tail number. “Cessna 182 RG, 1984 vintage, registered to a Frank G. Harmon, Sarasota.”
“Can we take a look at it?” Stone asked.
DePoo looked at the clipboard. “We hangared it for him, come on.” He got up and led Stone and Dino out of the building and across the tarmac to a big hangar containing half a dozen airplanes of different types.
“That’s it,” Dino said, pointing to a red Cessna parked in a corner, behind two other airplanes. The three men approached the airplane.
“Nice paint,” DePoo said. “Couldn’t be more than a year old.”
Stone looked in the pilot’s window. “Nice interior, too—all leather. Hey, nice panel!”
“Glass cockpit,” DePoo said. “You don’t see that on old Cessnas. This guy has spent a hundred and fifty grand on a twenty-fi ve-year old airplane.”
“Yeah,” Stone said, “but even if he stripped it and replaced the engine and everything else, he probably only has two-fifty or three hundred in it, and a new one would cost, what, double that?”
“About that,” DePoo said.
“Does your clipboard say when he plans to leave?”
“Ten o’clock this morning.”
Dino was looking through the window into the rear seat. “Have a look at this,” he said.
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