“Why do helicopters have something like this on them?” I asked.
“In the normal course of a day,” he said, “moist air gets inside the fuel tank. The tank is made of metal, right? So as the metal in the tank cools, the water in the air condenses and drops into the fuel. Because water is heavier than the fuel, the water then goes to the bottom of the tank.”
“If water is in your tank,” Travis said, “and it gets mixed in with your fuel, it causes problems. When you start up and try to run, your engines might not run smoothly — they might misfire.”
“So you open the valve and let the water drain out of the tank before you start up?” I asked.
“Right.”
“So if it hadn’t been raining, the Forest Service crew might have smelled all the fuel leaking out of the helicopters that night in the mountains?”
“Might have,” Stinger agreed. “But what could they have done about it anyway? The person who sabotaged those helicopters walked off with the drain plugs.”
“So the rangers couldn’t have refilled the tanks without replacements.”
“Right. The Forest Service and the cops have had metal detectors out, trying to find those plugs. I think whoever sabotaged them still has his souvenirs.”
“They’re small enough to carry in a pocket,” I said.
“Yes, they are. You find those drain plugs, you’ve got Parrish’s helper.”
Leonard was bouncing with excitement when he met Stinger and Travis. “Wait here, man, wait here!” He hurried over to one of the rooftop buildings. A few minutes later, the helicopter pad was illuminated by a series of lights set into the roof itself.
He strutted back, hiking his pants again. “I’ll show Irene where the switch is,” he said. “You can land in style.”
They thanked him, and stayed a few minutes more. Just before they took off, Leonard asked Travis, “How old are you?”
When Travis told him, his eyes widened, and he said, “Dude! Not much older than me.”
He stood watching the helicopter long after they had taken off. “Thinking of giving up law enforcement?” I asked.
“No way. Air patrol!” He looked around the roof and said, “They said they’re coming back tomorrow. I’m going to fix it so you can relax up here.” He smiled. “Jerry’s up here smoking all the time, so we’ll make a nonsmoking section.”
He showed me where the lights for the landing pad were, and then we walked back to the access door. I forced myself to look up at the Box. The window where I had seen the burglar was dark tonight.
“Too bad they didn’t catch him,” Leonard said, following my gaze.
“The burglar?”
“Parrish,” he said.
“Maybe he wasn’t there.”
“He was there,” he said authoritatively. “But don’t you worry — I’m not going to let him come into the Wrigley Building — no way.”
This from a guy who nearly shot me. But I thanked him, and then thanked him again a little later, when he sneaked us on to one of the executive-level floors and into the elevator.
Better yet, he let me on it again for the trip up to the roof on Friday. Nearly bursting with pride, he took me to “Cafe Kelly,” as he referred to a cluster of four plastic chairs and a metal table borrowed from the cafeteria. “Don’t worry, I got permission,” he said. “These were in storage by the kitchen. They were glad to have the room.” At his own expense, he had also purchased a cooler. He opened it to show me a six-pack of spring water.
“See? I even noticed your brand.” He nodded. “I’m a trained observer.”
“Leonard, this is very kind — but you didn’t need to go to all this effort.”
“Well, I like you. I like helping people. And maybe someday you might put in a good word about me, maybe have someone come by and meet me or something.”
I smiled. “Oh, so it’s a bribe to meet Frank.”
He protested quickly and vehemently, until I told him that I was just teasing.
“Oh.”
He still seemed offended. I made a big show of sitting in one of the chairs and opening a bottle of water and exclaiming over how great it was to have such a nice setup. He seemed pleased by all of this, and was soon back in his usual good humor. He heard the helicopter and turned on the landing pad lights, then stood entranced as the chopper blew dirt and dust all over Cafe Kelly. Afterward, he must have asked Travis a dozen times if the lights had helped him land “that baby.”
His radio crackled, and he knocked his plastic chair over standing up to answer it. “This is Unit One.”
“Unit One, this is Central,” Jerry’s voice said. “You ever going to give me a turn up there? I’m dying for a smoke.”
“You should quit that filthy habit,” he said, but excused himself and left.
I talked to Stinger and Travis for a while, learning that Travis had decided to buy the house he had looked at. He told me that he was taking Stinger to meet my eighty-year-old great-aunt, Mary Kelly. “She wants us to stay there for a few days.”
