"What are you doing with her?”
"Absolutely nothing,” I said innocently.
He scoffed.
"Is she still on our suspect list?”
"You're investigating the case. You tell me.”
"I'm keeping my mind open to all possibilities. But I think we've got better suspects. Randy Williams for one.”
"What was Mrs. Madison doing on your boat last night?”
"She came to see the show. Crash invited her back to the boat for the after-party. Wasn’t my idea.”
"I don't care whose idea it was. It's not a good look.”
“I’m just collecting data points.”
“Data points?” he replied with skepticism.
“The more I know about a suspect, the better I can evaluate their role, if any, in the crime.”
"Save it. You don’t need to know the color of her panties to solve this crime. I don't want either of you dipping your wicks into the former Mrs. Madison. You got me? I don't need the headache.”
"Rest assured, that is not going to happen.”
He laughed. "Just keep your wits about you, Wild.”
"Always," I replied.
The sheriff scoffed and ended the call.
I pulled myself out of bed. After I showered and went through my morning routine, I stumbled down to the galley and fixed something to eat. I knew we had a lot of stowaways on board, so I grilled pancakes, waffles, eggs, hash browns, and sizzled bacon. A big spread would cover just about everyone. The smell of hot coffee swirled.
Flynn was up bright and early, looking fully rested, even though I knew he wasn’t. He had a remarkable ability to remain positive, shrug off the past, and look at the world with the fresh eyes of a child every day. Part movie star, part shaman.
Jack rolled out of bed just in time to eat. With bleary eyes and tousled hair, he dished up a plate. We took our meals up to thesky deck, and Flynn said grace before we dug in. “Oh, Lord, we are grateful for this meal and the friends we share it with. We look forward to receiving all your future blessings. Amen.” With a wide smile, he said, “Let’s eat!”
We filled our bellies, soaking in the morning rays of amber light.
Flynn talked about the movie projects with excitement and wonder. It was that stage of the project where anything was possible. The time to dream, and dream big.
With full bellies, we headed to the Naval Air Station for the show. Gates opened at 9:00 AM, and the show started at 11:00 AM. The place was packed with young and old alike.
Warbirds gleamed on the tarmac—P-51 Mustangs with snarling teeth and buxom pinup queens, B-17 bombers, F4U Corsairs, FA-18 Hornets, and of course, Mickey Malibu’s famed Cessna 310. It was popular among smugglers back in the day. Fully restored and polished to perfection, the “Little Rascal” was the spitting image of the plane he had used to traffic tons of cocaine and cash for the Colombian cartels. It was a little surreal to see it sitting on the tarmac like that, knowing its history.
I wasn't sure if this was THE plane, or one he had fully restored. Either way, the majority of the crowd believed they were looking at the actual smuggling vehicle. Despite occupying the tarmac with some other heavy hitters, the “Little Rascal” drew as much attention as any other aircraft out there.
JD, Flynn, and I meandered around the magnificent works of art. The smell of metal, oil, and fuel lingered in the air. People snapped pictures and posed in front of the planes that would be in the air not long from now.
Flynn looked for Mickey, but couldn't find him anywhere.
There were vendor booths where you could buy snacks, T-shirts, and other memorabilia, including signed pictures of the pilots with their birds, coffee mugs, key chains, ball caps, coolers, sunglasses, and even lawn chairs. Every aspect of this event had been monetized to its fullest potential.
The show started right on time with the opening flag jump.
The crowd stood, removed their ball caps, and placed their hands across their hearts. Servicemen stood at attention.
