False Convictions

False Convictions by Tim Green

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Authors: Tim Green
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hung up and waited. It was almost three when the billionaire came out of the offices and got into a silver Range Rover.
     Jake started his engine and followed. As they headed west on the Thruway, Jake figured Graham was heading for the airport.
     He called a contact at the FAA in Washington and used a favor to track down the location and flight plan of Graham’s private
     jet.
    “Victor Tango seven-seven-nine,” his man said, “owned by Robert Graham. Landed in Rochester at oh-six oh-seven this morning.
     Let’s see… scheduled to depart from Rochester to PLS at fifteen hundred.”
    “That’s—”
    “In three minutes,” his man said.
    “He can’t make it,” Jake said.
    “Maybe he’s not going.”
    “Maybe they’ll take off late?”
    “Could be.”
    “What’s PLS, anyway?” Jake asked.
    “Ah, I think one of those islands in the Caribbean, you want me to tell you which one?”
    “Just call me if it takes off, will you?”
    “Sure.”
    Jake hung up and gripped the wheel, knowing the track would go cold if he couldn’t follow Graham and wondering how he could
     get permission from his executive producer to do it, anyway. His next call went to Don Wall, an old friend in the FBI, who
     answered his cell phone in a whisper.
    “Bad time?” Jake asked.
    “Stakeout,” Wall said. “Bored out of my mind, but there’s an old lady upstairs who’s got nothing better to do than listen
     at the air vent, so I got to keep it down. What’s up?”
    “How up are you on your organized crime trading cards?” Jake asked, wrinkling his brow as Graham’s Range Rover kept going
     west on the Thruway, past the exit he should have taken north to the airport.
    “Colombian, Russian, Vietnamese, Albanian, or Italian?” Wall asked, the sound of some kind of shell cracking in the background
     before he began to crunch into the phone.
    “Italian, for sure,” Jake said. “Guy named Massimo.”
    “To the max,” Wall said. “That’s what it means.”
    “Heard of anyone?”
    “No, but that doesn’t mean so much,” Wall said. “I’ve been on this fucking Al Qaeda thing for the last nine months and all
     I’ve seen is some douche bag from Iowa growing a beard. Let me make a call. My old partner is in Philly working some heroin
     angle and I swear the only reason he’s on it is because the shit is coming in from Afghanistan. I got to tell you, it’s got
     to be good to be an American criminal these days. You ought to do a story on that.”
    “Maybe I am,” Jake said, weaving in and out of the traffic to avoid being boxed in by a tractor trailer as Graham picked up
     his speed. “Meantime, would you see if you can get anything on an Italian gangster from Buffalo whose name is Massimo?”
    “I’ll get back to you.”
    Jake thanked him and clicked over to another incoming call.
    “It’s up,” his FAA man said.
    “Thanks,” Jake said. “You don’t know when it’s coming back, do you?”
    “No return flight plan filed yet.”
    Jake thanked him again, hung up, and settled in, pleased that whoever Graham was going to meet, he wasn’t flying to get there.
    “Buffalo,” Jake said to himself as they passed the only exit Graham would have taken if he was going south to Pennsylvania.
     “Lots of Italians there. No sense in flying.”
    He wondered briefly who was inside Graham’s jet, but it could be anyone for a million different reasons. When the Range Rover
     slowed down and got off the Thruway at the exit for the express to downtown Buffalo, Jake nodded to himself. But before reaching
     the center of the city, Graham got off the expressway and headed through a run-down industrial area toward the river. Empty
     weed-ridden lots and crumbling brick buildings surrounded a towering yellow brick cereal factory still belching smoke. The
     rich smell of yeast and baking wheat filled Jake’s nostrils as he followed Graham over a steel trestle that lay like a sleeping
     giant across the river’s span. Grain

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