Mile High Death Read online

  Mile-High

  DEATH

  A Tess Winnett Novella

  Leslie Wolfe

  Contents

  Contents

  Flight

  Body

  Married

  Autopsy

  Myra

  Anger

  Interview

  Mile High

  Suspect

  Meeting

  Richard

  Move

  Tarmac

  Thank You!

  Connect with Me!

  Preview: Dawn Girl

  Preview: Love, Lies and Murder

  Preview: Las Vegas Girl

  About the Author

  Books by Leslie Wolfe

  Flight

  Her heart swelled as she stepped on the heated tarmac. She almost didn’t look at the cabbie, while the old and disapproving crab handed her the wheelie with the laptop bag affixed on top. His watery eyes shifted from her beaming smile to her slim figure and then to the slick Gulfstream G650ER waiting with the cabin door open. The sight of the business jet brought out a scoff, followed shortly by a clucking of his tongue, none of which he made the tiniest effort to disguise.

  Her smile withered just a tiny bit. She hated being judged by anyone, more so by this cog in the transportation machine, someone who, if he didn’t watch it, risked forfeiting his tip.

  “Anything wrong?” she asked, ready to give him a piece of her mind in a tone he’d remember for a while, even if it seemed he’d already started grappling with senility.

  He just scoffed again and extended his hand, anticipating payment for his service. She obliged, shaking her head slowly, and deciding she wasn’t going to let him ruin her mood. Who did he think he was, judging her like that? How did he know that jet wasn’t hers to begin with?

  She breathed with ease the moment he drove off, leaving her alone on the tarmac, wheelie handle in hand, only some forty yards from the idling plane.

  Her beaming smile returned in full force.

  She couldn’t believe what was happening to her. Experiences like these never happened to girls from Rapid City, Iowa. Only yesterday, after yet another endless sales presentation conducted under the fierce eyes of her boss and the initially indifferent looks of the client, she’d thought she’d have to return to Miami crammed in an economy seat by her boss’s side, enduring crappy conversation, spiced with occasional lewdness and permanent halitosis.

  But no . . . a late-night delivery of flowers and champagne, delivered in white gloves straight to her hotel room, had accompanied a handwritten note on luscious white cardstock.

  “Experience life my way,” the note read, and she mused over each letter, breathing in the words that brought butterflies to her stomach.

  The white-gloved man waited respectfully by the door, and when she looked up from the note, he delivered his instructions.

  She was invited to fly home to Miami in Richard’s personal jet, departing from the Houston Executive Airport at noon, or whenever she’d like. Due to concerns for his privacy and to keep the media vampires at bay, she was kindly asked to wear a hat and sunglasses on her way to the airport and refrain from speaking to anyone about the invitation. Mr. Sanford would be delighted to share Miss Lambert’s company. He was also regretful he could not join her for dinner that night. Nevertheless, he had made arrangements for her and would be thrilled if she would say yes.

  She couldn’t find words; her throat, constricted by emotion, barely allowed her to nod and utter her approval. Then she quickly grabbed her purse and checked her looks in the mirror.

  Enchanted, she followed the young man downstairs to the restaurant, stepping quickly and quietly on her stilettos, the sound of her heels smothered by the plush carpeting of the luxury hotel. She was surprised that Brad, her boss, had sprung for such a nice stay; probably he’d matched their travel budget with the size of the prospect he was trying to impress.

  The man held the door for her as she entered Mastro’s Steakhouse, an exquisite culinary landmark she didn’t have a travel budget for. It didn’t seem to matter, when she was led directly by a smiling hostess to an entire area that had been cordoned off, keeping curious guests at bay.

  A single table was set on an impeccable, white damask cloth, a white rose in a tall, crystal vase marking its center. Another card leaned against the thin, tall cylinder.

  “Myra, have dinner with me,” the card read, “at least in spirit if not in person. Until tomorrow, we can only dream.”

  Her moist eyes lingered on the letters spelling her name. He had a way with words, she had to admit. He was unparalleled at making a girl feel special, and she’d almost forgotten she’d overheard Richard order three dozen roses for his wife as a wedding anniversary gift. Okay, so he wasn’t going to be hers forever; he was married. Bummer . . . but still.

  She stopped reminiscing and filled her lungs with the hot and humid air, loaded with hints of jet fuel and exhaust, and the scent of sweltering asphalt under the summer sun. She approached the jet, wondering how the trip would be like. How Richard would be.

  She was ten yards from the plane’s door when he appeared at the top of the steps, as breathtaking as she remembered him from yesterday’s excruciating overview of Southeast Chemical and Paper product offering and special terms for high-volume contracts.

  There was a ruggedness to his handsome features, an intensity in his eyes that brought butterflies to her stomach, anticipating the moment he’d touch her skin, leaving searing traces where his fingers would wander. When their eyes met, a spark traveled through her entire body and stretched her lips in an excited smile. She playfully tilted her head to the side and stopped, waiting for him to close the distance.

  As he did, his eyes tensed, while traveling her body from head to toe and back. He lingered a little where the hem of her tight skirt touched her thighs, then found the curves of her full breasts, where the silk of her white blouse exposed her tan skin.

  Without a word, he grabbed the handle of her wheelie, his eyes locked with hers, intense, a sense of dire urgency conveyed in the directness of the gaze, so dire it prickled her skin with goosebumps and brought a flicker of a frown to her forehead.

  She followed him, nevertheless, her hand melting in his firm grip, letting him lead her aboard the idling aircraft.

  “Where would you like me to sit?” she asked, finding herself flustered and hesitant all of a sudden, an unfamiliar feeling for her. She’d always been brave, unyielding, determined. That’s how she made it out of Iowa and had built a life for herself in Miami, as an account executive for a Fortune 500 company. But this man had a perplexing effect on her. She seemed to be subdued entirely to his will, as if she’d lost the ability to think for herself somewhere between the flower and champagne delivery last night and the solo dinner that had followed.

  He closed the aircraft door and locked it, then laughed, turning to face her. He grabbed her hand with a playful smile that didn’t reach his tense, dark eyes.

  “It’s just the two of us, so, wherever you like.”

  She swallowed, feeling wary, as a chill traveled down her spine.

  “How about the pilot?” she asked.

  “You’re looking at him,” he replied, his low voice eager, the same urgency coming across in the way the words were spoken. “Why don’t you join me in the cockpit?”

  Her full-bloom smile returned, while her uneasiness dissipated. She’d never seen the inside of a jet’s cockpit before.

  She followed his lead and took a seat by his side. He fastened her seatbelt, his hands brushing against her body and sending waves of excitement through her heated skin. He helped her put on her headset, his fingers getting caught in her long, wavy hair. Not by accident, she was sure, and the tho
ught of that brought another round of butterflies, just as he was getting cleared for takeoff by the Houston Executive Airport tower.

  “You’ve completely ruined commercial flying for me,” she said playfully. “How will I ever be able to do my job, flying economy at least two times a week?”

  He just grinned, looking at her for a long, loaded moment. Then he refocused on his controls, flying the plane without a word. Tension had tightly clenched his jaws, muscles knotting under his skin. She wondered why. There was something off about him, his reactions to seeing her, to her being there with him, in that tight space, all alone with him in the sky.

  He touched a few controls, and then released the buckle of his seatbelt.

  “Autopilot’s on, and we’re free to move around the cabin,” he said, his voice a bit colder than she’d heard him speak to her in her dreams.

  She followed him toward the back of the plane and managed to smile when he offered her a glass of champagne.

  She dipped her lips in the chilled liquid. “How long is the flight?”

  He abandoned his glass on the small table and touched her hair. “Long enough,” he replied with a waning smile. He took the glass from her hand and led her to the back of the plane, her hand numb in his tight grip. When he stopped and looked at her, his gaze chilled the blood in her veins. His eyes were cold, dark, and lusting with an intensity she hadn’t seen before. For a brief and illogical moment, she thought of screaming and running away, but who would hear her, and where would she go?

  Somehow, between yesterday’s magic and today’s reality, her dream had turned into a nightmare.

  She forced her lungs to draw air and her hands to stop shaking.

  He opened the door to a rear compartment that had been lushly decorated as an inflight bedroom and led her inside, his grip on her hand just as merciless, his gaze intensifying with unspoken menace.

  She tried to pull back, but he easily held her in place, not releasing her wrist. The corners of his mouth flickered with a smirk as his left hand gently caressed her long, dark hair, softly playing with the curls, while his eyes drilled into hers.

  “Please,” she whimpered, too scared to think straight. “I—”

  He grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled down forcefully, forcing her head back. Then he ripped her blouse off with a quick gesture, leaning over her with a grin of lustful and merciless anticipation.

  She screamed until her lungs were empty of air, then drew breath and let out another shriek, her wails covered by the jet engines and his laughter.

  “You and I are going to have so much fun, my darling Gen,” he said, undoing his zipper. “You’ll finally get what you really want.”

  Stunned, she stared into his deathly eyes. “My name’s not—”

  He slapped her hard across the face. He licked his lips as he watched her eyes tear up and the blood stain her swollen mouth. He tasted that bit of redness while his hands traveled lower on her body, unyielding.

  “Oh, my darling, darling Gen,” he whispered in her ear, his voice menacing, an evil foreboding that chilled her to the bone. “I’ve been dreaming of this moment since the day I met you.”

  Against all reason, she screamed.

  Body

  Tess approached the cordoned-off area with a raised eyebrow and muttered oaths, quickly making her way past the emergency vehicles with the flashers on, through dozens of onlookers and media people frantic to get a quote or a shot of the victim, anything to fuel the masses’ lust for blood and sensation. A couple of news helicopters were circling the area, always hungry buzzards eager for some fodder.

  “Agent Winnett,” a familiar voice called from the crowd. “Tess!”

  She stopped and turned, searching the crowd for the face that went with that voice.

  “Mr. Rusch,” she acknowledged the man holding a microphone with a local TV station’s logo. “You’ve moved up in the world, I see. You switched from investigative journalism to the world of fake and scandalous drama,” she added, unable to refrain from smiling.

  “A man’s gotta eat,” he replied unfazed. “But my heart is and always will be in investigative journalism,” he added, lowering the foam-padded microphone. “Which is why I have to ask, what’s going on here?”

  She touched his shoulder briefly in a gesture of camaraderie. They went back years, and on occasions, he’d proven helpful and a good resource to have by her side. “I’ll tell you everything I know so far.” She paused, giving him time to start his camera, while a glint of amusement lit her eyes. “I woke up, had my coffee, and got called to assist with a new investigation.”

  “Wait . . . What? That’s it?”

  “I just got here, Mr. Rusch. And I’m not psychic.”

  Deflated, the man lowered his camera and ran a weary hand against his receding hairline. “I thought you were down with calling me Brandt.”

  “Okay, Brandt, but I still don’t have anything else to share. Now, will you please excuse me?” She walked away quickly, waving off the approaching horde of frustrated journalists.

  Tess flashed her FBI badge, and the Collier County deputy posted by the perimeter lifted the yellow tape with a quick head nod. She slowed her pace, allowing herself time to take in the details.

  A wide section of the Naples beach had been cordoned off, keeping all tourists at bay. A few yards from the shore, a Coast Guard vessel had dropped anchor, and several Coasties were getting ready to bring a body to shore. Waist deep in clear, turquoise waters, Doc Rizza instructed them in a loud, slightly raspy voice.

  Tess put her hand up to shield her eyes from the piercing sun. In the distance, bright red Coast Guard helicopters were flying in a search pattern. If she squinted hard, to the point of tearing up, she could make out several WaveRunners searching the waters, also in a search pattern.

  There was another vessel at anchor, as close to shore as it could possibly reach, a fifty-foot yacht with two people onboard and an incessantly barking retriever pacing the deck. The woman had wrapped herself in a blanket, despite the afternoon heat, and the man stood by her side in a protective stance, as if the Coast Guard and all the law enforcement swarming on the beach were a dire and immediate threat to their lives.

  “Hey,” she heard a man say, “thanks for coming.”

  She shook the hand extended and then hugged the Palm Beach County detective. “Boy, did you wake up on the wrong side of the peninsula today or what?” she asked, stepping back and looking at him with scrutinizing eyes. He’d aged a little more since she’d last seen him, maybe added a couple more pounds around his waistline, but he was the same old Gary Michowsky she knew well. Driven, cunning, and overall, one hell of a cop. But stubborn as a mule.

  “Nah,” he replied. “We were all called in to lend a hand with the search. But the moment I heard what they found, I knew I had to bring you in.”

  “And the local sheriff is okay with that?”

  “More than okay. Elections are up in less than a month. The last thing he wants is an unsolved murder case to bring his numbers down. He’s only got a few years left until retirement, you know. He’d gladly fork this over to Palm Beach if he could.”

  She chuckled. “Yeah, like that’s going to happen.”

  “Right,” Michowsky replied.

  “So, talk to me. Why am I here?”

  “Remember a few years ago, when you told me you only needed one victim to see that it was the work of a serial killer?”

  She nodded. “Sometimes you can see the signs of that psychopathology from the first victim who is found. It’s apparent in the manner of death, in the killer’s ritual. But usually, there are more than one. We rarely have the luck to catch serial killers before they kill for the second time. If we only have one, it means we haven’t found the others yet.”

  Michowsky scratched his buzz-cut hair. “Well, I believe this vic fits the bill.”

  “Have you seen the body?” Tess asked, seeing how the stretcher was being unloaded from the Coast Guard v
essel, a forty-five-foot lifeboat. “When?”

  “They heloed us over to the site, a hundred and fifty miles out,” he replied.

  “And CGIS didn’t claim jurisdiction either?” she asked, furrowing her brow. Last thing she needed was a territorial fight with the Coast Guard Investigative Service or another agency. That would go extremely well with her boss, Special Agent in Charge Pearson.

  “No,” Michowsky replied calmly. “I made a strong argument, and they agreed to hand it over to you. And me, by association,” he added, with a trace of excitement in his voice.

  She laughed quietly, her eyes still riveted to the stretcher that was being slowly carried to shore on the shoulders of several Coasties. “What was that argument, if I may ask?”

  “That they’re not equipped to handle this case. I presumed they’ve never seen a case like this, and they had to agree.”

  Doc Rizza had reached dry land and directed the men to set the stretcher on the sand, a few feet from where the gentle waves washed ashore.

  She started walking toward Doc Rizza, and Michowsky followed. “What are they still looking for?” Tess asked, pointing at the Coast Guard helicopters, barely visible in the distance.

  “Any witness, anyone who could’ve seen or heard anything.”

  “And those two found the body, I’m assuming?” she asked, shifting her gaze toward the yacht. “Wait, don’t tell me, their dog barked at something in the water?”

  “Exactly,” Michowsky replied. “The woman unloaded her lunch the moment she saw the floater.”

  “She contaminated whatever evidence was left?”

  He nodded. “Yup. Barfed all over the vic.”

  “Great . . . just great. How far out there were they?”

  “One hundred and fifty-two miles, due west.”

  “That far, huh?”

  She kneeled next to the stretcher and greeted Doc Rizza with a quick smile. If time had been merciless with anyone in the past few months, that was the coroner. She knew he’d been struggling since his wife had passed, choosing to spend his nights at the morgue instead of his empty house, and opting for liquids instead of solids for dinner. She found herself staring at him for a good couple of seconds while making a mental note to visit him one day when they were not on a case.