Mile High Death Page 8

  He pressed a button on his phone, and his assistant’s voice came to life within seconds. “Yes, Mr. Sanford?”

  “Lindsey, could you bring me a large duffel bag?”

  “Right away, sir.”

  While waiting for the duffel bag, one last thing remained: deciding where to go. A place that didn’t extradite; that was a no-brainer. A warm place, because he loved the sun. A place where girls were sexy and feisty. A place where the local drug market would be willing to pay at least fifty cents on the dollar for his plane and thus ensure his carefree future.

  He hated the thought of living in Africa, so that was off the list. Several European countries also refused to extradite, but life wasn’t that great there, and neither was Russia or Ukraine. Venezuela popped into his mind; he could live like a king there, protected by his own army of mercenaries, but what kind of life would that be? That left few choices; a couple of Arab countries, like the United Arab Emirates or Saudi Arabia, but his sexual preferences would probably get him killed there in the shortest of time. The Maldives had excellent beaches, but he liked his women a certain way and the locals didn’t fit the bill.

  So, Venezuela it was going to be. His Gulfstream would make a fine addition to some drug lord’s fleet, or maybe he’d start using it himself to haul product here and there. The girls were hot and willing, all fiery brunettes who always wanted to please men like him.

  He called and ordered the jet fueled and ready in thirty minutes. From Miami, Venezuela was a quick flight over Cuba due south, only a couple of brief hours.

  Lindsey delivered the requested duffel bag, standing in the doorway. To her obvious surprise, Richard sent her away before she could notice the pile of cash on his desk. He packed the duffel bag full of cash and still had to shove a couple of bundles in his pockets. From the top right drawer of his mahogany desk, he took his loaded handgun, an H&K P7, and tucked it inside his belt, after checking the ammo. Then he took his passport and gave his office one last look, his eyes lingering over the jet photo collection.

  He had the digital photos on his phone. He could print them again.

  And there would be other Brittanys.

  And maybe, with the right connections, the Geneva problem could be eventually solved, even from a distance. He needed to learn to live vicariously through another where his wife was concerned. He’d make sure her death would be long, pained, and memorable.

  He grabbed the heavy duffel bag and left the office in a hurried gait.

  “I’ll be in Houston for the afternoon,” he told Lindsey, like he always did.

  “Yes, sir,” she acknowledged with a smile.

  He took the elevator down and checked the lobby before proceeding. No sign of the cops, but his wife was there, defiant, a smirk on her lips the moment their eyes locked. Darkness engulfed his mind and sparked a fire in his groin.

  He was being offered another chance. Fate was finally smiling on him.

  Without thinking, he rushed to her and grabbed her arm. “Gen, I was just coming to get you,” he said in a low voice. “It’s your father. He collapsed in his Houston office.”

  Geneva’s hand instantly covered her mouth, while tears sprung from her eyes. “Oh, no . . . Is he—?”

  “Come on, I have the jet waiting for us,” he said, rushing toward the entrance, where Lindsey already had his Porsche waiting.

  He didn’t dare look back to see if she followed him; she had to. It was his last chance, his only chance. She had to come.

  Geneva opened the passenger door at the same time he got behind the wheel, probably too distraught to notice the glint of excitement in his eyes.

  Soon, it would be just the two of them in the air, his dream come true.

  Then Venezuela, and a brand-new life of freedom and pleasure.

  13

  Tarmac

  “Let’s go over what we know,” Tess said, raising her voice the way she normally did when her words had to carry over the blaring sirens of Michowsky’s SUV.

  They’d been called to appear in front of the judge, the old prune refusing to sign the warrant presented by Donovan. Afraid to upset the third richest man in the state of Florida, His Honor had requested their appearance to argue the facts in support of the warrant request.

  “ATC confirmed that Sanford took off three days ago from Houston Intercontinental, but Houston Executive Airport has him landing shortly thereafter, only to take off again at twelve thirty P.M. Which means he could’ve made the stop to hide his tracks and create the perfect alibi.”

  “Sleight of hand,” Tess replied. “He gives everyone the big airport alibi, while he picks up his victims at Houston Executive, unknown and unseen.”

  “Exactly. We know now, the cab company confirmed, that Myra was dropped at Houston Executive, not Intercontinental. The cabbie’s log said, ‘Airport,’ but the cab company pulled the GPS logs.”

  “Donovan is running backgrounds on all missing persons reports in both Houston and Miami,” Tess said, sounding a little tense. “No results yet.”

  Michowsky’s phone rang, and he took the call with a press on a steering wheel button.

  “He’s on the move,” the caller announced.

  Michowsky had placed two plainclothes cops at Sanford Wilkes to keep tabs on Richard Sanford.

  “Alone?” Tess asked.

  “No, with the missus,” the cop said.

  “Stay on him like fleas on a pound dog,” Michowsky said.

  “Copy that,” the man said, then the call ended.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Tess said.

  Sanford wasn’t the kind of man to keep his scheduled meetings while waiting on the cops to catch up with him. He wasn’t going to go down without a fight, without trying to run. He must’ve had an escape plan all along, and it probably involved the damn company jet.

  She knew hers would, if she were in his place.

  The one question she couldn’t answer was, why flee with his wife? That was the wrench in her understanding of his logic, the one fact that potentially changed everything. The two socialites weren’t particularly famous for their closely knit marriage; quite the opposite, as Tess was learning from a quick internet search on her phone. There had been instances in which Geneva Wilkes had famously insulted her husband in public, the insult exacerbated dramatically and publicized in the tabloids.

  Also known as a trigger, the event that fueled a psychopath’s unraveling, his desire to kill, was usually victims who resembled the object of the psychopath’s rage.

  She pulled up a photo of Geneva Wilkes on her phone, then whistled.

  “What?” Michowsky asked.

  “His wife,” Tess replied, “is an older version of Myra. Same hair, eyes, oval face.” She pressed her lips together, thinking. She had to give Donovan the physiognomy characteristics; it was a safe bet this new information would help with narrowing the unsub’s victim list. “Turn around,” she said.

  “Now?” Michowsky reacted.

  “Yes, now,” she replied. “Once he gets on that plane, we won’t see him again. If we look really hard, we’ll find Geneva Wilkes floating or sinking somewhere in the Gulf, in about two hours when he’s finished with her. She’s been his trigger all along, fueling his rage.”

  Michowsky slammed on the brakes and pulled a wheel-screeching 180, then floored it, heading to Miami International.

  Michowsky’s phone rang again, just as Tess was about to dial the Miami International ATC.

  “We’re at the airport, but we can’t pursue anymore, not without prejudice,” the cop announced. “They had private card access to the VIP tarmac, where their plane is already waiting, engines running. Unless I break down the gate and shut down the entire airport—”

  “Get that gate open,” Michowsky shouted. “Now, damn it!”

  “Ten-four,” the cop replied and ended the call.

  “Unbelievable,” Michowsky swore under his breath.

  Tess dialed the Miami International ATC an
d requested to speak with the shift supervisor, the same man she’d spoken with only an hour earlier, the one who had confirmed the landing times for the most recent Sanford jet flights.

  “Mr. McRay, Agent Winnett here with the FBI,” she announced. “You have the Sanford corporate jet on the tarmac, correct?”

  “Yes, it just filed a flight plan for Houston, requesting immediate departure. He’s cleared.”

  “You’ll have to revoke that clearance and ground the plane,” she said. “It’s a matter of life and death.”

  A short moment of silence, then McRay replied, “I’m afraid I can’t do that without due process, Agent Winnett. We can’t just ground planes like that. Not anymore. The times have changed.”

  “But you can delay their departure, can’t you?”

  “Um, I guess I could do that, yes, ma’am.”

  When they pulled up at the VIP gate, the two cops were talking with three airport security personnel. By their body language and the closed tarmac gate, it wasn’t going too well. Beyond that gate and almost entirely hidden behind the terminal, the Sanford jet was slowly rolling.

  “Damn son of a bitch,” she muttered, and started dialing the ATC, but McRay’s call came in first.

  “They’re not cleared, but they’re rolling anyway,” he announced. “There’s nothing I can do at this point, Agent Winnett. It’s in your hands now.”

  She ended the call with an angry tap on the red button, then said, “Bust though the damn gate, M. Let’s catch the bastard.”

  Michowsky pulled back then floored it, ignoring the shouting coming from airport security. “Hold on,” he warned, a second before the impact. “Airbags will deploy.”

  She held on tightly, forcing her head against the headrest as Michowsky plowed through the reinforced gate. The SUV swerved and jumped off its wheels as the airbags deployed, blinding them for a moment. Powder from the airbags filled the cabin, suffocating her and stinging her eyes.

  Tess rolled down her window and batted the deflating airbags until she had an unobstructed view of the tarmac through the cracked windshield.

  “The damn thing is gaining speed,” Tess shouted.

  Michowsky held the wheel with white-knuckled hands, heading straight for the jet on the empty taxiway. They started gaining on it, not by much, but enough to put the jet within firing range.

  Tess pulled out her Sig and cocked it, then took aim at the departing jet, leaning through the open window.

  “What are you doing?” Michowsky reacted. “You’ll blow the damn thing to smithereens.”

  “Aiming for the wheels, M. Just go steady and take me as close as you can.”

  Her voice was calm as she replied, but she felt the sweat lining her palms. Missing her intended target by just a little bit could make the bullet hit the fuel tanks or one of the engines, and the jet could explode, killing Richard Sanford and Geneva Wilkes.

  She breathed in, exhaled half the air in her lungs, then held her breath, and fired. The first bullet hit one of the right wheels, instantly deflating it, sending pieces of torn tire at them. The jet continued though, the second wheel still holding the plane level.

  “I can’t go any faster,” Michowsky announced.

  The jet was still on the taxiway, but it was accelerating as if getting ready for takeoff. It was probably Sanford’s intention to take off from the taxiway, not planning to make his way to the runway anymore.

  She looked at Michowsky’s speedometer and groaned. They were already going 145 miles per hour, which meant the Gulfstream could essentially lift off at any time.

  She breathed in again, steadying herself, and remembered the words of her firing range instructor. “Slow is fast,” the man had taught her. And since then, she hadn’t missed too many shots.

  She aimed for the second wheel on the right gear assembly. She exhaled halfway, held her breath, and fired. This time, the pierced tire exploded, and the jet veered suddenly, crossing over into the next taxiway and coming to a stop with roaring reversed engines.

  “Whoa,” Michowsky said, barely avoiding the wing of the turning plane.

  They pulled near the Gulfstream’s closed door and took positions close to it, weapons drawn. The other two cops caught up with them and took their positions behind the open doors of their unmarked vehicle.

  For a few long moments, nothing happened.

  “You can’t stay on that plane forever, Sanford,” Winnett shouted.

  Another long moment of silence, while the jet’s engines were idling. The smell of burned rubber and jet fuel filled the hot, midday air.

  Then the plane’s door opened, the steps hitting the asphalt. She didn’t see Sanford at first; then he appeared, holding his wife by the throat in an armlock and pressing a gun to her head. She was choking, grasping at his arm with feeble, flailing hands.

  “I’ll kill her, you know I will,” Sanford shouted.

  “And you’ll fry for it,” Tess announced calmly. “You’re not going anywhere but jail, and you know it. This is the end of the line, Sanford. You’re permanently grounded.”

  “I’ll fry anyway, won’t I?”

  “You don’t have to,” Tess replied. “Look, I’ll trade you,” she offered, holding her weapon in the air, then slowly holstering it. “Her life for mine, and the promise you won’t fry.”

  She kept her hands in the air, waiting for his decision.

  “Winnett, what the hell?” Michowsky said under his breath. “Don’t do this. We have SWAT on the way. They’ll put a bullet through his head, and we all get to go home for dinner tonight.”

  “I know what I’m doing, M,” she whispered, not taking her eyes off of Sanford. “I need to know.”

  “What?”

  “Who the others were, and how many.”

  “All right,” Sanford replied, shoving Geneva down the aircraft steps and training his gun on Tess. “Get up here.”

  Geneva tumbled and fell, screaming as she hit the ground. Sanford grinned, a flicker of mad excitement in his eyes seeing her hurt.

  One of the cops helped Geneva get up and limp out of the way. When she was safely away, Tess slowly approached the plane, careful to put herself between Michowsky’s weapon and Sanford’s body. She couldn’t allow him to die before answering a few questions.

  Once she reached the top of the stairs, he grabbed her arm and forced her inside. His eyes were dark, the tension in his face turning his muscles into knots that danced under his skin.

  “How many were there, Sanford?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied calmly, his body language showing no signs of deception.

  Psychopaths rarely showed the same adrenaline-fueled signs of deception that other people did, because they don’t feel guilt, remorse, or the fear of being caught. To them, truth or lie is the same, a series of words they speak with the purpose of reaching a certain goal.

  “I believe eighteen, but I’m not sure if you had the time to hang the photo taken after Myra’s flight,” Tess added.

  “Why would I tell you anything?” he asked, shoving the barrel of his gun in the side of her throat. She choked and coughed, then replied, “So you don’t fry. That’s your only chance. Full cooperation with me, and we won’t treat you as a maximum risk detainee.”

  “I’d still be locked up, wouldn’t I?” he said. “No deal.”

  She groaned and forced herself to smile, looking in his blood-lusting eyes. “I thought you were smarter than that, Mr. Sanford.”

  “Talk,” he commanded coldly.

  “People like you, I mean, people with means like yours, could arrange for a prisoner breakout during transport to or from the courthouse. Then another private plane can remove you out of the country within hours. We’d never catch up with you. But for that, you’d want to be classified a certain way. If we classify you as capital offender, you get max security and that jail break won’t happen.”

  She could see the wheels turning in his mind. The gun’s pressure
against her neck had decreased, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, invigorated.

  Hope, no matter how unrealistic and crazy, was a powerful weapon.

  “Oh, and you’d need a trustworthy helper, someone who wouldn’t hesitate to break the law for you,” she added, pausing for a beat. “Someone like the man who cleans up for you. The one who took care of Myra’s cabbie,” she ventured, shooting in the dark and from the hip.

  Myra’s cabbie having a stroke seemed a little too convenient for her taste, and she was willing to bet there was more to it than just the man’s age and drinking habits. The timing of that stroke had been too perfect.

  Sanford didn’t flinch and didn’t push back in any way.

  “Do you think he’ll break you out of jail if you pay him well?” she pushed.

  He nodded. “What do you want in return?”

  “The names of all the girls you killed,” Tess replied coldly. “That’s to make me look good to my boss,” she added, afraid he might back out of the deal if she seemed too zealous. “And some cash for me, enough to secure my future. Say, ten million?”

  He nodded again. “Five now, five when I break out of jail,” he said.

  “Deal,” Tess replied. “Write down those names, then let’s get out of here.”

  He unzipped the duffel bag, leaving his gun on a table across the aisle. He pulled out a notepad and a pen and started writing names. He wrote and wrote, the list much longer than eighteen or nineteen.

  “How many?” Tess asked, almost whispering, her voice strangled in horror. His calm demeanor made it worse; his complete lack of emotion when it came to the lives he took was too hard to stomach, even for her, even if she knew the reason for it.

  “Twenty-seven,” he replied, pushing the piece of paper her way. “Since this one,” he added, underlining one of the names, “I had someone help me clean up. Witnesses and such. So, there are more names, but you only wanted the girls. My girls.”