First Class Killing (6 page)

Tristan positioned the targets where he wanted them. When he came back, I was ready. I picked up the loaded weapon and donned my headphones. I waited until he put his on, then assumed my stance—feet shoulder-width apart, both hands on the pistol, arms straight in front.

“Single action first.” Tristan’s voice was clear, held close to my ear by the headphones, which were intriguingly designed to filter in all sound except explosive gunfire.

I pulled back the hammer until it caught and placed my finger gently on the trigger.
“Firing on the range!”
I yelled, waited a beat or two, and then squeezed.

The sound was muffled. The kick was not. The explosion drove my shoulder back and the barrel of the gun straight up. I peered through the lingering smoke and saw that I had missed the target completely. Judging from where the gun had ended up, the round had probably gone over the stand and lodged in the dirt and grass berm that formed the back perimeter of the range.

“Wow.”

“Keep firing,” he said. “You have to compensate for the extra kick. Aim lower this time than you would normally, and remember it’s all in the way you pull the trigger. Squeeze gently. Single action again.”

I cocked the hammer, moved my feet two inches farther apart, and settled in, trying to lower my center of gravity. I used the sight to aim below the target and squeezed off a round.

“There you go, love. That’s much better.”

I lowered the gun and felt a warm satisfaction rising. A large, round hole had appeared in the outermost ring of the target. I couldn’t wait to take my range test. There was nothing subjective about it. It was finite and measurable. There was a clear demarcation between passing and failing, and if I accomplished nothing else in this, my first official case, at least I could do that.

“Fire all the rounds,” he said. “Reload, and try it double action.”

The last four shots all hit the target, one actually close to where I’d aimed. I felt more comfortable with each shot, but knew I’d have to build up more arm and chest strength ever to feel truly comfortable with a large gun like a .44. Tristan had been encouraging exactly such a workout program all along, but I barely had enough time and energy to get my running in.

When the gun was empty, I found the release, opened the cylinder, emptied the spent casings, and reloaded. As I was doing that, Tristan was firing an automatic at a target that was twice the distance of mine. When the smoke had cleared, I could see he had fired six shots straight into the heart of his target.

We worked for another twenty minutes, or until I could no longer hold up the heavy weapon. Afterward, we sat at the table, and he showed me how to clean it. The sun, higher in the sky, had baked off the moisture from the day before and warmed the air to a pleasant temperature.

I wanted more information on Angel, but I was afraid of pushing too hard with Tristan. It was just so tempting. He was one great source of information. I decided to test the waters.

“I’m supposed to fly with Angel next week.” I used my most offhand tone.

“That’s too bad. Maybe you can swap off.” He was watching my hands as I worked with the gun. “No, here.” He took if from me and demonstrated. “It’s easier if you do it this way.”

“Do you think the management of this base is aware that there is a prostitution ring flourishing under their noses?”

“Most certainly. But our current management team is of the let-sleeping-dogs-lie tribe.”

“That seems like a dangerous position to take. What if they get caught? Management will look pretty clueless.”

“They won’t get caught.”

“Why not?”

“No one wants to catch them. Can you imagine the headline? ‘OrangeAir Shuts Down Flight Attendant Hooker Ring.’ Besides, they’re careful. It’s like I said yesterday, Miss DQ has made them much more discreet and low-key than they used to be.”

“I still don’t think that just because Angel has a condo at the Ritz, that means she’s a prostitute.”

“It’s not just her. It’s a pattern. These women all live lives they cannot possibly afford. They disappear on layovers, and they show up in the schedule where they have no business being. What else can they be doing?”

“Sightseeing?”

“In Wisconsin? Why would anyone swap onto a trip to Milwaukee three weeks running? It’s one thing to get stuck with that trip, but to go out of your way to get it when you have the seniority to avoid it? They end up in odd places at odd times. It’s because they need to be there to meet their dates. But that’s just my theory.”

“So, they must do a lot of swaps.”

“Tons, and those are all well organized, too.” He peered across the table at me. “Why are you so interested?”

“Curious. You’ve got to admit; it’s pretty fascinating. I’ve never met a hooker.”

“Are we going to have to do an intervention on you? Throw a blanket over you and whisk you off to Bermuda for deprogramming?”

“An intervention?”

“I don’t want you slipping over to the dark side. There’s so much money in being a hooker, and you’re so poor.”

“Do you think I want to be a hooker, Tristan?”

“I think you might have some sort of fascination with the whole bad girl thing. You being such a good girl and all.”

“Sometimes being good is boring.” I finished cleaning the .44 and put it in front of him for inspection.

“I’ve been bad,” he said, squinting down to check my handiwork, “and I’ve been good. Good is better.”

“You’ve been bad? I want to hear.”

“I’m not kidding about this.”

Something in his voice made me look up at him. His face, usually so mobile and animated, had turned in profile to all right angles and sharp corners—his nose, his chin, even his jaw line, which made a sharp turn where it hinged to his skull.

“You’re not serious. Do you think she’s going to convert me?”

“How do you think she got them all organized? Do you think they all just fell into line and happily started handing over a cut? Did you ever hear the name Robin Sevitch?”

“No.”

“She was a spitfire like DQ. One of the first girls to start hooking on the job. She made a lot of money, and when the new regime came in, she didn’t like it much. She said she’d rather turn everyone in than have to pay part of her fee to Angela. Guess what happened to her?”

I swallowed hard and felt a faint stirring in the pit of my stomach. “What?”

“She went to Omaha and never came back.”

“What happened?”

“Supposedly, she went out for a walk by herself along a deserted canal. They found her body with her head bashed in.”

“You think Angel did that?”

“Let me put it this way. She never had another single complaint from the rank and file.” He unzipped the case for the .44 and set the gun inside. “Stay away from Angela Velesco, Alexandra. She is one twisted sister.”

Chapter

7

T
HE SUN WAS HIGHER IN THE SKY AS
I
DROVE
back to the city, and I couldn’t find my sunglasses. The last time I’d had them was on a turnaround to Phoenix sometime last week, which meant they were buried in my suitcase, which was still sitting unpacked in the middle of my living room. That left me approaching the tollbooth for the Sumner Tunnel, fighting with my balky sun visor, digging for money, and juggling my cell phone all at once.

“Hold on, Harvey.”

“Wait, you cannot—”

“Hold on.”

I rolled down the window to greet the toll collector. “Good morning.” I got no response in exchange for my three bucks, but I did get passage back through to the city.

“Harvey, are you there?” He was. “Did you talk to Carl? Did we get the extra time?”

“I spoke to him yesterday afternoon. He will give us until a week from Monday.” His voice was in and out, but I was surprised we were connected at all, since I was in the tunnel under the harbor.

“Harvey, that’s only ten days.”

“He also gave me a warning. If he pays for the extra time, he wants to see results.”

“I don’t blame him. Listen, I just spent time with Tristan, and he gave me an idea for an analysis we can do that might help us identify the players.” I hit the brake and slowed to a stop behind the car stopped in front of me. “Dammit.”

“What is it?”

“One of the lanes in the tunnel is blocked.” I started inching the Durango into the other lane, hoping for a chance to shoot over. When I caught sight of a Miata in my rearview, I made my move. I almost didn’t hear its little horn bleating. Sometimes size was all that mattered.

“I am asking what is your idea?”

“Oh. Top swappers.”

“What does that mean?”

“Swaps, Harvey. Swapping. Trading trips among ourselves. Being able to manage your work schedule is part of the beauty of being a flight attendant. If the hookers are using their ability to swap to get on the trips with their dates or to get to the cities where their dates will meet them, then a high level of swapping might be a way to spot the hookers.”

“How would we identify the swaps?”

“We get a copy of the base schedule as it was bid and then a copy of the schedule that was actually flown over the past several months. We compare them and use the results to identify the top swappers.”

“Where am I to get the schedules?”

“Carl should be able to get you electronic versions of the as-bid and as-flown schedules. That would make it easier to work with the data. While you’re at it, ask him for a list of earnings for everyone at the base. I’d get last year’s and this year’s earnings to date.”

“Income versus lifestyle analysis,” he said, anticipating where I was going. “I can match salaries to asset purchases, estimate a cost of living, and see if they can afford what they have on their reported salaries.”

“Exactly what I was thinking. It should be easy, too. These women are not shy about spending money. They wear expensive jewelry, have second homes down on the Cape or on the Vineyard, and there is a lot of plastic surgery going on, which is not cheap.”

“Nor,” he said, like the accountant he was, “is it covered by health benefits.”

“Right.” I came up out of the tunnel and into the chaos of the Big Dig, the massive roadway rearrangement project designed to rationalize Boston’s interstate highway system and sink most of it underground. It was already years in the making and years from completion, which made it one of the world’s largest semipermanent construction sites. From a practical standpoint, they changed the detours almost every night, so you had to pay close attention if you didn’t want to end up in New Hampshire. I made the crossing successfully and headed toward my neighborhood.

“So, what do you think, Harvey?”

“It could work. It would be fast.”

“Your enthusiasm is killing me. I thought it was brilliant.”

“Alex, even if we do come up with a list of names, none of this necessarily proves anything.”

“You said it yourself. We’re not trying to convict them. We’re trying to scare them, which won’t be easy. The more we know about them, the better chance we have. There’s something else I think we should do.”

“What?”

“Look into an unsolved murder in Omaha. An OrangeAir flight attendant named Robin Sevitch got her head bashed in there. Tristan says Angel arranged it.”

“Dear Lord.”

“I know. It could be urban legend, but he implied she did it to send a message about who was in charge.”

“I will see what I can dig up.”

“Good.” I spotted a space on the street almost too late and had to throw it into reverse and barrel backward for half a block, a maneuver that required my full attention.

“Harvey, I have to go. I’m at the pharmacy.”

“The pharmacy? What is the matter? Are you sick?”

“Not sick,” I said, looking down at my smart linen pants and silk blouse. “Just dull and flat-chested. I’ll call you later.”

I heard my phone ringing through my closed door as I stepped off the elevator. The answering machine picked up as I fumbled my keys out and unlocked the dead bolt. I tried to hook the dry cleaning on the bedroom door-knob as I hurried past but missed and ended up with piles of OrangeAir uniforms and plastic sheathing on the floor.

“Hey, Shanahan, where the fuck are you? Too bad, because you’re gonna want to hear this. Anyway, call me when—”

It was Dan, and I had a matter of seconds before he hung up. I lunged toward the phone. “I’m here. I’m here, Dan. Don’t hang up.”

“What the fuck? Are you screening your calls?”

“I just walked in.” I dumped my bags on the counter and my backpack on the floor. One of the shopping bags fell over, spilling out my do-it-at-home hair color kit and a new bottle of fingernail polish. “What’s going on?”

“Ask and you shall receive.”

“You talked to our guy?”

“I had to hunt him down. He’s in Dubai on business. I got him on his cell phone.” That was one of the great things about Dan. Once he committed, you knew he wouldn’t stop until he came through for you. “He thought I was calling asking him for a job, but then I had to tell him no, I was calling about getting laid.”

“How did it go?”

“I sweated through my shirt and my suit jacket and had to take an hour after I hung up to go walk around on the ramp. I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to look this guy in the eye again.”

“I know this wasn’t easy, but did he give you anything?”

“He told me he would sponsor me, if I was interested.”

“Sponsor you?”

“It’s like a club. You don’t just call up and hire a hooker. It’s members only, and according to him, it’s harder to get into than the CIA. You have to fill out an application, and on this application you have to put the names and phone numbers of three active members who are willing to sponsor you.”

“Do they actually call them for references?”

“Sure as shit do. They pretend to be someone else, but they do a background check. A better one than we do, it sounds like.”

“What exactly are they checking for?”

“To make sure the guy is who he says he is and not a cop. If he checks out, he gets a temporary ID and password, which he uses until the first time he bangs one of them, the idea being a cop wouldn’t go that far. Once they do that, they get a permanent ID.”