First Class Killing (17 page)

Aaron Sayer was twenty-eight years old. In his starched white shirt and suspenders, he looked like a baby titan of industry. He was single, had graduated from Columbia Law School, owned a condo in the Back Bay not far from my place, and was a member of the University Club, where he liked to play squash and swim. If he was my date, I was in trouble. So far, the only threat we could make would be to call and tell the partners at his law firm that he had hired a prostitute. They would probably promote him.

He was doing this thing with his cell phone, flipping it open and shut with one hand as he squinted through the porthole window.

“Good afternoon. I’m Alex, and I’ll be serving you today. Welcome ab—”

“Gin and tonic. Light on the tonic, and toss in a lime. Not a twist. A slice.” He did the whole thing without breaking rhythm on the phone flipping and without looking at me.

“Certainly. Would you care for—”

“Nothing to eat.” At some point, he hit upon the idea of using his cell phone as a communication device. He covered one of the buttons with his thumb and pressed. “Just keep the GTs coming.”

He put the phone to his ear, and I was thinking what an annoying little prick he was, when he turned his head and I saw something curious. The eyelashes at the corner of his left eye were damp and clumped together, the way they get when a teardrop has rolled by. His face was drawn and pale, and he looked like a man, a boy, really, who had lost something important. Girlfriend…best friend…the firm’s biggest client. When I looked more closely, his eyes hinted at a deeper reservoir of feeling than I would have given him credit for. He reminded me of my brother, which gave me a great big reason to hope he wasn’t my guy.

“Is there anything I can get for you? Would you like an aspirin? A glass of water before we take off?”

“No.” He closed the phone quietly and turned toward the window. Whoever he had called had not answered. “No, thank you.”

The second of my mystery men was seated in 4B. His name was Malcolm Bryce, and when I pulled up next to him to take his order, he actually looked up from his paper and acknowledged my presence.

“How are you?” he asked, and I could have sworn by the intense way he looked at me that he really wanted to know.

“I’m good, thank you, and welcome aboard. Would you like a snack after we take off, Mr. Bryce?”

“I’ll pass, but thank you. Are you new on this flight? I haven’t seen you before.”

“It’s my first time working this flight.”

He was in his early to mid-forties. He had a widow’s peak and wore his almost-black hair pushed off his face as if the sheer abundance of it were a nuisance. His eyes were a pale, elusive shade of green set off nicely by the deep jade color of his shirt. He was excitingly handsome and, at least on paper, my top pick for the man who had purchased my services for the evening.

He was a sports agent, which put him in the company of severely wealthy, high-profile athletes who lived the life of the rich, famous, and indulged. It also made him easy to Google. He had his own profile on the Internet. He was good at his job, which made him respected and loathed in equal measure, depending on who was asked. Wealthy in his own right, he was also a super-duper frequent flier. Malcolm Bryce fit the profile of Angel’s clients perfectly, and the longer I looked into those intelligent green eyes, the more I hoped he wasn’t the guy, because all I could think about was how that richly woven shirt lay across his chest and what it might be like to slip a hand underneath. I thought I might be getting some vibes from him, too, but I had to shake it off. I was working.

“How about something to drink after we take off, Mr. Bryce?”

“Call me Malcolm, and I’ll have whatever you recommend in the way of a nice red wine.”

“I’ll check the wine cellar and see what I can come up with.”

His easy grin revealed a row of perfectly charming, slightly imperfect teeth. I checked for a wedding band—none—and reserved the right to come back and hit on him later if he wasn’t the guy.

My interactions with the two men in the bulkhead row, Dr. Dal Pressman in the window seat and Curt Guransky on the aisle, were dull by comparison. They ordered beers to drink and pasta salad to eat and otherwise seemed to have absolutely nothing in common. Dr. Pressman was thin and wispy and typed his computer keys very quickly with smooth, manicured nails. According to Harvey, he was a reasonably prominent business ethics professor at a reasonably prestigious university in town. Harvey had been most impressed by some of his articles. He was also married. If it turned out that he was my date, I looked forward to the philosophical discussion that would ensue.

Mr. Guransky was chubby and abrupt and bored-looking. He was a thirty-eight-year-old divorced chiropractor with his own practice and not much else. The split with his wife had cleaned him out and left him living in a rented apartment in Waltham. So far, Harvey had been frustrated in his search for dirt on this guy. He was easily the least-attractive candidate and the one who got me thinking about what it would be like to do this thing for real.

When I got to the galley to prepare for takeoff, I looked back at my four potentials. I pictured their bodies under their clothes and all the different ways they could feel—soft, bony, hairy, taut, smooth, sweaty, dry, and oily. I looked at their faces and their hands and thought about what it would be like to have one of them touch me in the most intimate way. The idea brought forth so many disruptive images and feelings I barely noticed the two passengers hustling onboard as I closed the door. But when I did my final walk-through, it was impossible not to notice that both of them had settled into first-class seats, one next to the baby titan and the other next to the eighty-two-year-old man.

I went back to the galley, tossed the cups I’d collected in the vicinity of the trash, and missed. This was exactly what I didn’t need, and one of the things Harvey had worried about. Last-minute upgrades. Wild cards about which we knew absolutely nothing.

With the door shut and taxiing under way, I couldn’t call him. I would have to try him on the Airfone once we were at altitude, always a dicey proposition. Half the time, I couldn’t make the damn thing work. I didn’t like this. Nope, I didn’t like it at all, and if Harvey knew about it, he would hate it.

I strapped myself into the jumpseat and stared out at the only two passengers I could see from where I was: Dr. Pressman and the chiropractor. The doctor was reading a journal. The chiropractor was tossing goldfish crackers into his mouth. I was partway to a good sulk when the answer came to me. The only reason we had researched all of them was that we didn’t know which guy it was. If I could get my date to raise his hand and identify himself, problem solved. If it turned out to be one of the wild cards, I would call Harvey and give him the name. If it was one of the original four, we were already set.

By the time we were airborne and I was released to the galley, I had a plan.

I fixed the kid’s “double GTs” with an extra slice of lime and put a couple of Advils on the side. I poured Malcolm’s red wine, opened the two beers, and got a scotch and water, orange juice, and club soda for the other passengers. While the almonds were heating, I found a pen in the pocket of my apron, smoothed out six cocktail napkins, and wrote the password on each:
Saturn.

When they were ready, I gathered the nuts, picked up the tray, and emerged into the den of possibilities. I served the passengers in the sequence I’d taken the orders. The baby titan was asleep. One of the wild cards, a guy named Leland Cole, was in the window seat next to him. He was reasonably young but seemed determined to discourage anyone from thinking so. His lightweight short-sleeved shirt was buttoned one button too high and was made of the same lightweight suburban madras plaid my father used to wear to barbecue in the backyard. When I put the marked napkin in front of him, he handed it right back.

“May I have one that’s not been used?”

“Of course.” Cross him off the list.

Malcolm didn’t even notice the napkin I placed on his tray. He was busy looking at me. I set his drink down and served the woman next to him her orange juice.

I dropped the other two marked napkins in front of the bulkhead boys. Dr. Ethics didn’t even look up from his screen. The chiropractor saw that his napkin had something written on it and flipped it over, apparently eager to get his pudgy fingers around his beer.

No sooner had I returned to the galley then I turned to find Malcolm, hands in his pockets, relaxed against the coat closet. I was disappointed but not surprised. I stacked some cups that didn’t need stacking. “The seat belt sign is still on,” I said. “You’re in violation of about twelve different FAA regulations.”

“You wouldn’t turn me in, would you?”

“I’d be taking a risk not to. There could be an inspector onboard.”

He gave me a look that made me believe the risk might have been worth it. He was clearly the kind of man who didn’t have much use for rules.

“Would you be available to join me for a drink this evening in Chicago?”

I stared at him. He was disarmingly flushed and a little nervous. He was obviously flirting, yet he offered no password. What was I to make of this?

“Well…that depends.”

“On what?”

“It’s possible I will be otherwise engaged this evening.”

“Is that true, or are you giving me the brush-off?”

I lowered my voice. “I’m not brushing you off. I’m waiting for verification.”

“Verification?”

When he said it back to me, I realized what an odd choice of words that must have seemed if he wasn’t the guy. Maybe he wasn’t. That would be nice. “I’m waiting to hear back from a friend. We’re supposed to get together tonight. Otherwise, I would love to get a drink with you.”

He grinned. “Do you mind if I check back with you later, then?”

“Please do. I expect to hear something soon.”

After he’d gone back to his seat, the cockpit called to say they were hungry. I was setting up their trays when I heard the curtains rattle behind me and felt a hand on my butt.

“Hey—”

I whipped around, expecting that Malcolm had finally made his move. Instead, I found myself eye to eye with the pudgy chiropractor. He didn’t look bored anymore. He held his empty beer glass in the hand he wasn’t using to grope me.

“Just sampling the merchandise. So far, I like what I see.”

He set the glass down and started to reach for me again. I grabbed his wrist. “I’m not exactly on the clock right now. Not yours, anyway.”

His blue eyes danced in his raspberry soufflé face as he leaned in close enough for me to smell his deodorant. “You like it rough, right?” He let out a low groan that might have been aiming for sexy but sounded as if he had sciatica. “That’s what I asked for.”

I squeezed his wrist, roughly, and moved close enough that my knee brushed the inside of his thigh. Not a lot of tone going on there. “You can’t get rough enough for me, baby. What’s the code word?”

“Mercury.”

The correct response sent my heart pinging around in my chest like a copper BB in a tin can. I had successfully connected, a realization that both excited and terrified me. I couldn’t wait to get him out of my space.

“Go back to your seat. I’ll bring you another beer.”

“Nine o’clock,” he said. “Seven Oaks Hotel. Call before you come up.”

After he disappeared behind the curtain, I picked up the Airfone and dialed up Harvey. I crossed my fingers that the call would go through. When it did, he picked up quickly.

“It’s the chiropractor.”

“Oh, dear. I still have not heard back from my contacts. I believe we are short of the critical facts we need for him.”

“We have several hours yet. I’m not meeting him until nine o’clock. I’m sure you can come up with something by then.”

“Is everything all right?” he asked. “You sound—”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? We can call this off.”

I took a deep breath and tried to let my heartbeats space out. “Thanks for worrying, but I’m okay. I’ll call you after we land.” As I was hanging up, the toilet flushed, and my date for the evening emerged, gut first, tugging at his pants. About then is when what he said really started to sink in. He wanted rough sex.

Please, Harvey, please, come up with something good.

Malcolm took my rejection cheerfully. I wished he’d been a little less cheerful. Once I knew he hadn’t tried to buy me for the evening, I had spent time talking to him—maybe flirting was more like it—throughout the service and after, mostly to keep from having to look at the chiropractor in 3E. Every time I looked his way, he seemed to be leering back at me.

We landed routinely, and as the passengers filed out, I stood at the door to bid them adieu and ask them to fly us again sometime. Malcolm slipped me his business card as he deplaned, which I tucked into a safe place. The baby titan dragged himself off, still looking distraught and listless. He did thank me for the Advil. My date went by with a wink that might not have seemed lewd to a casual observer.

I was gathering my own things, getting ready to leave, when my colleagues from coach started to filter up from the back. One of them, Monica, tapped me on the shoulder as she went by.

“I need to talk to you,” she said. “Meet me out front.”

Monica’s name was as much as I knew about her. Besides one point late in the flight, when she’d come forward foraging for snacks, we hadn’t spoken except to introduce ourselves. She didn’t look happy when I approached, and I wondered if I had screwed something up again without even knowing it.

“We’re switching,” she said.

“Switching what?”

“We’re swapping dates.”

For about five seconds, I had the luxury of not completely absorbing the meaning of what she’d said. But then confusion gave way to understanding, which turned immediately to the highest state of alarm, and as she stared back at me and it all started clicking into place, I wondered why I had never come across her name or her face in my investigation.

“No. No way.” I worked hard to keep my voice from turning shrill. “I’m not swapping dates with you.”