Mathers looked up from his computer. “I know we don’t care about Philadelphia anymore,” he said slowly, “but it sounds like shit just got real.”
Windermere and Stevens swapped glances. “Define ‘shit getting real,’” said Windermere.
“Nobody knows the whole story yet,” Mathers said, reading from his computer, “but there was a shooting in a downtown apartment this afternoon. Somebody’s penthouse got invaded.”
“Deaths?”
Mathers nodded. “Next-door neighbor,” he said. “Shot in the chest. Sounds like he was an innocent bystander, though. Police think the real target got away.”
“How do they figure?”
“Penthouse 1604 was broken into. There were signs of a struggle. The man who lived in the penthouse escaped, as did the shooter.”
Stevens caught Windermere’s eye. She shrugged. “Who owns the condo?” he asked Mathers. “Who’s the target?”
“Unknown target,” said Mathers. “Condo’s owned by a corporation called Kodiak Shore, but the neighbors say it was a young man living there.” He turned to Windermere. “Description sounds a hell of a lot like O’Brien.”
“Anybody see the shooter?”
Mathers shook his head. “No.”
Windermere didn’t say anything for a moment. Then she turned to Stevens. “O’Brien muffed the job. Killswitch came up there to fire him?”
“Could be,” said Stevens. “Kind of a quick turnaround, though.”
“Either way, we need to be over there,” Mathers said, standing. “No way we sit around chasing needles in these manifests now that O’Brien’s on the run.” He looked at Windermere. “Right?”
Stevens surveyed the office. “I’m not so sure,” he said.
“What the hell do you mean?”
Stevens looked up. Found Mathers glaring at him, fire in his eyes. “Listen,” he said, “we get up to Philadelphia six hours from now if we’re lucky. That puts us six hours behind O’Brien and Killswitch. We’ve spent this whole investigation playing catch-up. Only way we take them down is if we get ahead.”
“So okay, Kirk,” said Windermere, “how do you propose we get ahead?”
Stevens looked at the stack of passenger manifests. Sat back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, trying to work out a shortcut. “What other flights left around the same time as the Philadelphia flight Sunday afternoon?” he said.
“Hundreds,” said Windermere. “You saw the airport.”
“I mean within an hour or two, tops. Killswitch likes to get his assets out immediately after the kill. Ramirez died around two in the afternoon. That means the killers probably flew out between three-thirty and five, right?”
Windermere glanced at Mathers. Mathers sighed. “If you say so.”
“So narrow it down,” said Stevens. “What are we working with?”
Windermere picked up a printout. “Dallas, Los Angeles, Houston, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Philadelphia, Charlotte—”
“Charlotte,” said Stevens. “Oneida Ware said Killswitch’s Cadillac had North Carolina plates. Wendell Gray disappeared from Atlanta shortly after Killswitch was in Miami. He could have swung through and picked up Gray on the way home.”
Mathers frowned. “Kind of tenuous, isn’t it?”
“Maybe,” said Stevens. “Let me see the Charlotte manifest.”
Windermere handed over the stack of paper. Stevens read through it. Windermere’s FAA buddy had included arrival information for every passenger on the list. Now Stevens scanned the page, looking for a pattern. Found what he was looking for near the bottom.
“Gardham,” he said. “There it is.”
Windermere looked at him. “You sure?”
“The OneShot guy mentioned somebody named Gardham had put in a major order for ammunition. Now here’s a Gardham, Thomas, in the manifest. Flew in from Charlotte Sunday morning, accompanied by one David Gilmour. Both flew out on the afternoon flight. That’s a hell of a quick turnaround.”
“Few hours,” said Windermere. “Just enough time to kill Julio Ramirez.”
“I’m guessing Gardham is probably Killswitch himself,” Stevens said. “He came to Vegas with Wendell Gray in person.”
“And then flew back to Charlotte once Ramirez was dead. Just like he bailed out O’Brien in Miami.”
Stevens grinned. “Exactly.”