| |
“A particularly beautiful woman is a source of terror.” — Carl Jung
Sam
“I know who you are,” our female prisoner said.
I looked in the rearview mirror and was struck again at the unique color of Jade Stone’s eyes, which was almost no color at all. I wanted to say they were like ice, but they weren’t hard or cold. Even unwashed with no makeup, her looks could stun an unwary man and leave him goggle-eyed and stupid. And I’d put Marlon Boggs in the backseat with her.
“Hey, Marlon?” I said. “How you holdin’ up back there?”
“Fine, sir.”
Stone had been subdued through the out-processing, answering direct questions in monosyllables, keeping her eyes down. She seemed defeated more than anything else. The San Diego people wanted Stone’s coverall back, so I’d relented and uncuffed her long enough for the female deputy to escort her to the restroom to change. Stone now wore jeans and an oversize white T-shirt with a Nike swoosh and Just Do It! in blue.
I met her gaze in the mirror again. Being of pure heart, I failed to flinch at the eye contact. Knowing she’d killed a cop with a butcher knife helped keep my libido in check, as well.
Fresh-faced, with naturally arched brows and full lips outlining a generous mouth, Stone looked like the girl next door all the boys longed for. In a movie, she would be the tomboy who transforms into a teenage dream during a musical montage. She would come to the door on prom night, and some boy’s jaw would drop so hard, he would break his chin on the floor.
I looked back at the road. Why is it always the pretty ones who’re trouble?
“What do you think you know about me?” I asked her.
“You were in the news... When was it? Last year?” She paused, but I didn’t answer. “You were framed for killing a Senate candidate. April Fortney.”
“True,” I said. Thinking of April Fortney made me think of Rita Goldman, FBI Agent. Gone to New York to work on some task force, fighting terrorists or spies or terroristic spies. An unexpected pang of something like nostalgia poked me under the ribs.
“So you know about being framed,” Jade Stone said.
“Oh no.” I glanced up. “We’re not going there.”
“What?”
“Let me guess: You’re innocent. It’s all a setup. You really didn’t stab that cop in the throat with a kitchen knife—which had your prints on it—nor did you flee the scene of the crime, blah-blah-blah.”
“But—”
“Uh-uh. No way, sister. All you crooks are the same. None of you ever did a thing. It’s all a lie, a frame job. And you see me, the one guy in ten million who really was set up, and you think, ‘Geez, maybe he’ll be sympathetic and join my crusade to clear my name.’”
She winced, and I continued, “Well, bullshit, lady. Pardon my language, but that dog won’t hunt. Tell it to your lawyer, because I don’t give a damn.”
She wiped her face on her shoulder. Great. I’d terrorized a handcuffed female into tears. I felt like a big man.
The sign for Brown Field came up, and I slowed, putting on my blinker. It was after one in the afternoon. Depending on how fast the Junior Airman Boggs could get the rubber bands wound up on his toy plane, we could be in Dallas in six hours or less. Figure an hour to get Miss Congeniality downtown...
“Hey, Marlon, where’s a good place to eat by the Dallas County jail? With a tailwind, we could be at the table by eight.”
~~~
I IDLED IN THE PRIVATE terminal lounge with our prisoner while Marlon did pilot stuff. I’d draped my windbreaker over her cuffs, so it wasn’t obvious, but she drew a few stares from the males in the terminal. Looks or handcuffs? Or maybe good-looking woman in handcuffs?
The counter guy trundled in from the back room. He looked like the before picture in a lap band surgery commercial. A polo shirt tented over his prodigious belly, and a goatee fuzzed just below his lip. He spotted me in the lobby and said, “Is there a law enforcement convention in town, or what?”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
“Yesterday, we had an ATF guy come by. Said he was meeting another guy here.” He leaned on the counter and squinted through plastic-framed glasses at my prisoner. “You okay? You want some water or something?”
“ATF?” Stone asked in a weak voice. “What did he look like?”
The counter man frowned. “Uh... I don’t know. Medium height, black hair.”
I said to Stone, “What do you care what the ATF guy looked like?”
Her light-gray eyes flickered to me then back to the floor. She shook her head. Her Nordic complexion had drained to ghost white.
“Come on. I promise I won’t bite your head off.”
Another flicker, on and off. “John Bartlett is ATF,” she said in a tiny voice. “He wants me gone, out of the way. Tommy was his brother and his... They were into something together. Something crooked.”
“So you’re saying this Bartlett guy is the one that framed you for the murder of his brother?” I didn’t bother hiding my skepticism. “He killed his own brother to set you up.”
She rocked back and forth in her seat, her eyes fixed somewhere far off. “I... I—No, that’s...”
Marlon poked his head into the lobby. “We’re ready to go, Ranger.”
I watched Stone for a few more seconds, but she was done talking. I stood and stretched. “Let’s go, sister. Time to get bounced all over the air in a tiny tube of glue and balsa wood.”
Marlon lifted us into a clear blue sky lit with a brilliant, eye-watering sun. I sat in the passenger compartment, in a rear-facing seat directly behind Marlon. I put Stone in the forward-looking seat diagonally across the narrow fuselage, as far away from the door as I could get her.
I stretched my legs out and reclined to the backrest’s limit. The engines thrummed a healthy beat, no turbulence rocked the airframe, and Marlon said we had a strong tailwind pushing us home. My prisoner had lapsed into a thoughtful silence—not that she talked a lot anyway, but thankfully, she’d shut up about the ATF—and was staring through the porthole at the brown desert passing fifteen thousand feet below.
A peaceful trip so far, in and out without a hitch. As these things went, Jade Stone was a model prisoner. I’d taken a chance back at the terminal and uncuffed her long enough for her to go pee while I waited at the restroom door. She’d taken care of business and presented her freshly washed hands for the cuffs without a tiny bit of trouble. Except for that nonsense in the car about being framed, she’d been a joy compared to the average lunkheads I’d escorted to jail.
I shifted in my seat, looked out the window, then fiddled with the armrest. The twin-engine plane droned and vibrated happily along. The prisoner stared at her feet.
“Hey, Stone.” I waited until she looked at me. “What did you mean about the ATF guy, Bartlett, being into something crooked?”
“I thought you didn’t want to hear it.” Her tone bordered on sarcastic.
“When that guy mentioned ATF, you looked like you ate a bad plum. Color me stupid for asking, but I’m wondering what got you so spooked.”
Her mother-of-pearl eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I think I’ll wait until I have my attorney present before I answer any further questions.”
Women. They can hold a grudge forever, every single one. “Suit yourself. At least tell me about John Bartlett. Who is he?”
She paused long enough, I thought she wasn’t going to answer me. “Bartlett is a supervisory special agent with the Dallas field office of the ATF.”
“And Thomas Grace was his brother?”
“Half brother.”
“And you think Bartlett’s out to get you because he and his brother were into some crooked stuff.”
“I know they are. Were.”
“What kind of crooked stuff?” I asked, but it seemed Stone was done answering questions. She looked back out the window, giving me a chance to study her profile.
A five foot eight, she was tall for a woman and had an athlete’s body: slim legs, narrow waist, and modest curves. Stone was almost a total physical opposite from Rita Goldman, who could’ve best been described as “cute,” as long as her voice wasn’t on full volume.
The corners of my lips ticked up in a smile as I wondered what Rita would think of Ms. Jade Stone. Her Bronx squawk echoed in my head, “Oh my Gawd. Who left the toy box open? Barbie’s escaped.”
I snickered, and Stone snapped off a glare in my direction. “Sorry,” I said. “Not about you. Hey, Boggs!”
When Marlon leaned his head around the partition, I asked, “Did you give the aircraft a good preflight check?”
His serious face turned almost funereal. “Of course, sir.”
“Good. Thanks.”
“Uh, sir? Air traffic control is pushing us a little farther north of Phoenix than I originally planned.”
“What’s that mean for us?”
“An extra thirty minutes. Sorry, sir. I know you wanted to be on time for dinner.”
“Don’t worry about it, Trooper Boggs.” I leaned back and tilted my hat down over my eyes. “Wake me when we’re on the way down.”
~~~
Lee
“THEY’RE MOVING.”
“Good signal?” Lee Bragg asked.
“Strong and true.” Toby Glenn, the BATF helicopter pilot sent by Bartlett, studied the laptop screen and traced the GPS signal from the transponder Bragg had planted on the Cessna.
Late yesterday afternoon, once Bragg had finished working on the Texas DPS plane, he’d flown commercial to Phoenix and met Glenn at a motel on the outskirts of Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport.
After sleeping eight hours, Bragg drove to biggest sporting-goods store he could find and bought enough backpacking supplies to outfit a Boy Scout troop. He charged it on his government purchasing card, which had less oversight than a church bake sale, and packed it all back to the airport motel room.
Since the Texas cops wouldn’t go south from San Diego and risk crossing the border, the only route home they could take would come well within the range of BATF’s Bell 407 waiting for them at Sky Harbor. Then they would have a little rendezvous with electricity and C4.
“I just thought of something,” Glenn said. “That plane they’re flying? It has a ceiling about ten thousand feet higher than our bird.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Bragg told him. “All we have to do is get close enough to see the bang.”
Glenn nodded. “Good enough.”
“After that...” Bragg zipped his shiny new backpack closed and tested the weight. “I make sure they’re all dead.”
“You couldn’t just shoot ’em all when they land?”
“Kill a couple of cops and a woman at a crowded airport?”
“Just saying.” Glenn shrugged. “Seems like a lot of work. Lot of shit to go wrong.”
“Nothing’s going wrong. The fuel pump I rigged blows, the plane goes down somewhere nice and remote.” Bragg patted his weapon case. “We swoop in and seal the deal.”
Glenn chewed his lip and focused on the laptop. “We’d best get moving. Looks like they hit Arizona airspace.”