Mile High Death Page 7

  Soon enough, none of that would matter. After Geneva would mysteriously disappear while he had an unbeatable alibi, he could request a DNA test for the child and oust him as the bastard that he was. That would probably kill his father on the spot, but that was nothing if not added incentive.

  His plan had many moving parts and had to be executed with precision. But all he could do while he waited for the right moment was obsess over it, because thinking about only one thing the entire time could be called nothing else. He saw himself taking off with that vile, blood-sucking bitch onboard, and as soon as the autopilot was set, he’d join her in the cabin. At that point, she’d still believe there was a pilot onboard, that they weren’t alone, and she’d be relaxed, selfishly absorbed by some magazine, not dignifying him with one look.

  Then he’d walk over to her and grab a fistful of her hair with a quick gesture. She’d scream and—

  “Mr. Sanford?” a voice interrupted his chain of thought, bringing him back to the present.

  Frustrated to the point of cursing out loud, he snapped. “What?”

  “Would you like to see anything else, sir?” the man asked, standing in front of a huge screen, looking like a pot-bellied idiot with that laser pointer in his hand.

  Forcefully dragged back to reality, he realized he was still in a meeting. The screen displayed one slide bearing the vendor’s logo and the word, “Questions?” in a black font. Helpful as fuck.

  He frowned, trying to remember what the meeting was about. Instead, his eyes found the presenter’s assistant seated across the glass table, smiling pleasantly with impeccable white teeth. Her visitor access pass had her name in block letters: Brittany.

  Well, hello Brittany.

  He pretended to check something in his printed materials but used the opportunity to study the woman’s long legs, the fine tattoo that resembled a chain wrapped around her left ankle, the way her feet arched in her high-heeled sandals, her perfectly pedicured toes.

  Then he looked at her smiling face again, at her perfect skin surrounded by shiny, chestnut waves of long, luscious hair. His demons yanked him away from reality again, as he imagined his fingers running through those sleek strands and twisting them tightly, until she couldn’t move her head anymore, until she dropped powerless at his feet.

  “I believe I’ve seen enough,” he said calmly. “We’re ready to proceed.”

  He stood, and the rest of those in attendance happily followed suit. The meeting was adjourned, and everyone’s good spirits filled the room with small talk and laughter.

  Filled with anticipation anxiety, he shook the presenter’s hand, asking casually, “So, where are you guys staying?”

  “At the Astoria,” the man replied, smiling widely.

  He searched the woman’s eyes and found them eager, inviting.

  11

  Richard

  “How would you like to have the entire Houston regional bureau deploy on premises to assist with our investigation?” Tess shouted at the SUV’s media system. On the other end of the airwaves was the head of security of The Oak Post Hotel, the man responsible for withheld information, delayed surveillance videos, and vague answers, and that was just for starters. The hotel staff had been soft-blocking their investigation the whole time, a practical demonstration of passive-aggressive behavior.

  Michowsky was weaving through lighter traffic on the way to Sanford Wilkes Enterprises, but Tess wanted to have a few more answers before interviewing a man who’d probably lawyer up before they finished walking through the door.

  Only static came through the media center’s speakers.

  “Mr. Hawkins,” Tess said, “let me make it very clear. Either you deliver all the answers we’re looking for, or the Houston FBI will be at your door in twenty minutes to get those answers. What will it be?”

  “Okay, Agent Winnett, what do you need to know?” Hawkins’s voice sounded resigned, his pitch low and muffled, almost a whisper. He was probably breaking hotel procedure by cooperating with her without a warrant.

  “I need to know everything Myra Lambert did in the twenty-four hours before her death, and she spent most of that time in your hotel.”

  The sound of rustling papers, then Hawkins’s voice again. “She checked out at eleven forty-five A.M., then took a cab. We have the cab’s number from our video surveillance; I’ve already sent that to the detective.”

  Tess glanced at Michowsky, who nodded.

  “Did anyone visit her room?”

  “No,” Hawkins replied. “My people checked every minute of surveillance on that floor. She had no visitors, and no calls were logged on the room landline.”

  “What about this mysterious dinner we heard about?”

  Silence dropped heavy, amplifying the static on the line.

  “Yes, there was a private dinner for which an entire section of the restaurant was reserved.”

  “Who ate there?” Tess asked, a little irritated she had to extract information from Hawkins with such difficulty.

  “We believe it could’ve been Myra Lambert.”

  “You believe?” Tess mocked him. “You’re not sure?”

  “We only have cameras in the ceiling at the steakhouse, and there’s an entire section of hallway that’s not covered. So, yes, it could’ve been her. Similar hair, same dress color, not much else is visible in the restaurant, but after the dinner guest left the premises, we have Ms. Lambert returning to her hotel room a few minutes later. It’s a strong possibility it was her.”

  “Did you show the waitstaff her photo to make sure?”

  “We did not,” he replied cautiously. “Our mandate is different here; I hope you understand. We serve our clients and their needs, not anyone else.”

  “Who paid for this fancy dinner?”

  Tess thought she heard the man sigh.

  “We don’t know, Agent Winnett, I’m sorry.”

  “How can you not know?” she blurted, frustrated with the distance, with the impossibility of doing the legwork herself. It was like trying to grasp at a glass window . . . nothing stuck.

  “The deal was paid for in cash with very specific instructions. The client wasn’t someone we’ve seen before.”

  “I’ll need a photo of this client,” she requested, then paused for a moment, thinking. “Mr. Hawkins, I believe there’s a reason why you’re being elusive with me, and I hope you don’t cross the line to where I can slap an obstruction of justice charge on you. It’s not something I want to do, but I will if I have to.”

  “We respect the privacy of our clients,” he replied quickly. “And we gladly cooperate with law enforcement. After all, Ms. Lambert was our client, and we have a vested interest in catching her killer and bringing him to justice.”

  “Yeah . . . I bet you do,” Tess replied, then ended the call.

  “Anonymous dinner reservations, paid for in cash?” Michowsky asked as soon as the call ended, then honked at a careless driver who’d cut into his lane. “Who does that?”

  “Someone who’s covering his tracks and plans well ahead of time.”

  A chime warned Tess she had a new message, and before she could read it, a second chime was heard. The first message was the photo of the man who’d booked the restaurant. A grainy, low resolution image showed him carrying a silver briefcase, probably filled with cash. Tess had hoped it would be Richard Sanford, but this was a younger man. Thin, dressed in jeans, a hoodie, and a ballcap, and wearing sunglasses indoors. The surveillance shot wasn’t worth much; the mysterious man had made sure of that. Even Donovan’s top-notch facial recognition software would fail to identify him; only a small section of his face was visible.

  The second text message was yet another blow to their investigation. Donovan had tracked down the cabbie who transported Myra Lambert from the hotel, but he was in the Intensive Care Unit at Houston Methodist, hooked on life support and not expected to recover. He’d suffered a massive stroke the night before.

  “Sheesh,” Michowsky
said, after Tess delivered both messages. “We’re not catching any breaks, are we?”

  “Maybe we will catch one now,” she replied, looking thoughtfully at the tall building that bore the Sanford Wilkes logo.

  Moments later, they were invited into Richard Sanford’s office. It was large and well lit, with floor-to-ceiling windows that faced the Atlantic Ocean, letting the sunshine in. Lushly decorated with modern art and furniture, with mahogany accents and LED lighting, it was a setting that belonged on the pages of architecture and design magazines. But the one piece of décor that caught Tess’s attention was a series of eighteen photos of the same jet, the logoed company Gulfstream, taken at different times of day and in different locations, all from the tarmac. The images were neatly framed and arranged on the wall in two rows, one row of ten images, the second row of only eight images, as if incomplete.

  She touched Michowsky’s sleeve in passing as she approached the photos, to draw his attention, then studied them for a moment, although Sanford was waiting, standing impatiently behind his desk.

  “What can I do for you, Agent, um, Winnett?” Sanford asked, a hint of irritation in his voice. “I have a meeting in about ten minutes.”

  She turned to face him and scrutinized his strong, masculine features, looking for signs of emotion, of fear. There weren’t any. A slight furrow in his brow, maybe because they’d imposed on his busy day.

  “I’m not sure if you’re aware, but Myra Lambert, the Southeast Chemical and Paper project manager you met three days ago, has been found dead. Murdered.”

  “Oh,” he reacted, his frown deepening as he shoved his hands in his pockets. He walked toward them, closing about half the distance. “I had no idea. I’m very sorry to hear that. What happened?”

  “We’re still investigating,” Tess replied coldly. “But you were one of the last people to see Ms. Lambert alive. What can you tell us about the meeting you were in with the Southeast team?”

  She continued to study his face, now closer, a little intrigued with the total lack of emotional response to the news she had delivered. With most people, news of someone’s death triggers an emotion of sorts, an empathic response, a reaction to being reminded of one’s mortality. But not with Richard Sanford; his face remained the same, relaxed, a little impatient, completely detached, uncaring.

  She’d seen this type of behavior a few times before, but only in true psychopaths. Their minds don’t carry the burden of fear or empathy and can remain calm, lucid, and focused under the direst circumstances.

  He maintained casual eye contact, not trying too hard, not averting his eyes either. When he replied, his voice was steady and matter-of-fact.

  “The meetings were quick and to the point, and we signed the deal. I don’t particularly remember Ms. Lambert and can’t recall if I spoke to her or not. I do a lot of these engagements, I’m afraid. After a while, they all blend together.”

  “I can relate,” Tess replied, feigning sympathetic understanding. “Anything you can recall would be greatly appreciated.”

  “Well, that’s about it,” he added with a shrug. “I flew back home that day and never spoke with Ms. Lambert or any other Southeast people since. My assistant handles any correspondence they might’ve sent.”

  “When did you leave Houston, Mr. Sanford?”

  “Right after the onboarding session with the vendor. I like to pack in my meetings in the early morning, so I can handle the urgent business of the day in both locations. It’s a short flight.”

  “Do you remember what time it was when you flew back?” Michowsky asked.

  “I was at the airport by nine forty-five and took off right away, so I’d say ten.”

  Tess and Michowsky exchanged a quick glance. Myra Lambert had checked out of the hotel almost two hours later after Sanford had left Houston. Their strongest lead seemed to have a solid alibi. But was it real?

  “If you need a more accurate answer, you can always check with the tower. I flew out of Intercontinental. They have the flight plan and all,” he replied casually. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m already late for my next meeting.”

  He firmly shook their hands while maintaining good eye contact, then left them in the care of his assistant, a long-legged blonde in a gray business suit, the skirt only one inch longer than the jacket. She escorted them to the lobby without asking any questions, her professional smile seeming permanently etched on her lips.

  “He fits the bill,” Tess said, as soon as they climbed into Michowsky’s SUV.

  “Only he’s got an ironclad alibi,” Michowsky replied, visibly frustrated. “He was in the air at the time Myra checked out of her hotel.”

  Tess grinned. “Exactly,” she replied. “He was in the air. But where?”

  Michowsky glanced at her. “I’ll be damned,” he reacted. “What if he landed elsewhere and picked Myra up?”

  “Or he could’ve said he left at ten and lied, but we have to speak with ATC at the Houston airport to verify that. Air traffic control has a log of all departures, arrivals, and flight plans. Miami should have a record of when he landed, what time that was.”

  “I didn’t get the killer vibe from him,” Michowsky said. “He’s a cold-hearted bastard, that vibe was loud and clear, but do you see him as the man who could’ve raped and killed Myra?”

  Tess paused for a long moment, going through the facts, validating the feeling in her gut.

  “Did you notice the collection of plane photos on the wall?” Tess replied. “It’s the same aircraft, over and over again, different settings, different times of day. It’s always from the tarmac, never in flight, and not professionally taken. They seemed like phone photos to me.”

  “And? Maybe the man really loves his plane.”

  “I’m willing to bet these photos are the souvenirs he keeps after each murder.”

  “Nah . . . can’t be. How many were there? Eighteen?”

  “Yup,” Tess replied. “Arranged as if he knows he will add more. And I’m afraid today’s visit might’ve spooked him. We need to get a warrant for that plane really quickly. I promise you we’ll find Myra’s DNA all over that cabin.”

  “Who do you think will issue that warrant? No judge in their right mind will risk antagonizing the Sanfords without a ton of evidence.”

  “That’s why we have to start with the ATC. I’ll ask the shift supervisor, if he were to kill someone like Myra was killed, how would he do it? Because I promise you, M, this is our unsub. I don’t know how he pulled it off, how he picked her up without being seen, or how he got the cabin door to open mid-flight, but I know it in my gut, just like I know he killed many other women before Myra. Seventeen, to be exact.”

  “How come he was never connected to the missing persons cases before? Any analyst looking at victimology would’ve spotted Sanford as the point of convergence, common to all their backgrounds.”

  “We found a body, which changed things,” Tess replied. “If Myra would’ve been a missing person, the investigation would’ve been handled differently. We would’ve mapped her last twenty-four hours, but being she was seen departing the hotel by herself after the Sanford meeting, we would’ve probably never looked at Sanford. We would’ve had no reason to look at other missing persons cases fitting Myra’s profile. I’ll ask Donovan to do a search and see how many open missing persons cases can be linked to Sanford, even if remotely.”

  They drove in silence for a long moment.

  “I wonder if he knows we’re on to him,” Michowsky said.

  “Oh, believe me, he knows,” Tess replied. “And he’ll make his move. We have to hurry.”

  12

  Move

  His smile froze and turned into a grimace of rage the moment the door closed behind the two cops.

  How the hell had they found Myra? How? It wasn’t supposed to happen, not in a million years. It had never happened before. He’d gone to extreme lengths to make sure of that. He’d dropped her almost two hundred miles from the shore,
when the tides receded, so the currents would be carrying her farther away. She was bleeding and a fresh kill, shark bait ready to be preyed on. There wasn’t a single vessel in sight, not for many miles. He knew, because he checked. He always checked.

  None of the others were found, so why Myra? What were the odds of that?

  He stood perfectly still, weighing his options.

  They were close . . . if they’d got to him already, soon his entire system would unravel. How soon before they’d figure out some of his flights were significantly longer than others? How long before they interviewed his maintenance crew, to find out that sometimes he demanded full fuel tanks for relatively short flights?

  And how long before they convinced a judge to issue a warrant to search his plane? They’d find everything they needed to lock him up forever. There had to be DNA from every girl he’d taken up there. For sure they’d find Myra’s.

  But what if he took off and never looked back?

  He clenched his fists, ready to punch a hole in the wall to soothe his anger, but even that could be construed as evidence against him, so it was better to keep cool. Strangely enough, under the circumstances, the thing that infuriated him the most was the thought of Brittany, her long, sleek hair and the way it curled around her shoulders just like Geneva’s, her inviting eyes, her bright smile. He could never take her now, just like he couldn’t dream of taking Geneva anymore. No . . . if he ran away, that was it, end of story, and the bitch from hell would reign over his legacy undisturbed, sharing Sanford wealth with her bastard son. He’d be ostracized to some far land from where he could never return.

  There would be other Brittanys where he was going, but no Geneva. The thought of leaving her behind to live and thrive unpunished burned him inside, his entire body revolting at the thought.

  Chugging down bile, he decided even his wife wasn’t worth the risk of spending the rest of his life in jail. With his difficult decision finally made, he opened the safe, hidden behind a massive painting on the wall, and started removing ten-thousand-dollar bundles, piling them on his desk. He’d stashed away a small fortune over the years, knowing the risks he was taking, knowing a day like this would eventually come.