Loitering With Intent (18 page)

Do you remember how he paid his bill? I mean, did he have medical insurance?

I don't know; that's not my department.

Where was the knife wound?

He was raked across the ribs on the left side. The ribs protected the internal organs.

How long was the cut?

Perhaps twelve centimeters.

That's what, fi ve inches?

A bit less.

Can you find out if he had insurance and, if not, how he paid his bill?

Yes,
she said. She picked up a phone, called the hospital's billing department and spoke for a couple of minutes, then hung up.

He didn't have medical insurance,
she said. He paid with his American Express card. The cashier remembered it, because it was black, and she had never seen one before.

A black American Express card? That's the one you have to spend a lot of money to get, isn't it?

I think so; I've never seen one. Why are you interested in this?

Idle curiosity. Did Evan Keating have a beard?

No, he was clean-shaven. There was a girl with him, I r emember very pretty.

Stone's cell phone buzzed on his belt. Hello?

It's Tommy; Dino and I are on the way to the airport. Paul DePoo called, and the guy with the red Cessna is there, waiting for them to get it out of the hangar.

I'll be right with you,
Stone said, and he hung up. Annika, are you ready?

She presented herself in an outfit that showed off her long legs and considerable cleavage. I am ready,
she said. STON E M A D E I T to the airport in record time. Annika, do you mind waiting in the lounge for a few minutes? I have to do this.

All right,
she said, and she went inside. Stone followed her, then found Tommy and Dino in Paul DePoo's offi ce.

The guy's in the waiting room,
Tommy said. Did you notice him?

No, I wasn't looking for him, I guess.

And he's getting impatient,
Paul added.

Give us a one-minute head start,
Tommy said to Paul. We'll wait for him in the hangar.

The three of them hotfooted it to the hangar, where a lineman with a tow was just clearing the doors with the red Cessna.

Okay,
Tommy said, let's just be looking at the airplane, until he gets close enough to talk to. Dino, are you carrying?

Yep,
Dino said.

Nope,
Stone said.

Then stay behind us, Stone, and let me do the talking.

He's coming,
Dino said, pretending to inspect the airplane, and I don't believe it, but he's got the gun case slung over his shoulder.

The man approached. As the counter woman had said, he was medium everything, and his yellow baseball cap was his only distinguishing feature. Can I help you gentlemen?
he asked, unslinging the gun case and setting down a leather duffel.

We were just admiring your airplane,
Tommy said. Are you Frank Harmon?

No,
the man replied, Frank Harmon is the man I bought the airplane from. I'm Jim Vernon.

Tommy showed him a badge. May I see some I. D., Mr. Vernon?

The man looked slowly around the group. For what purpose?

For the purpose of identifying you,
Tommy replied. Please don't make me ask you again.

The man dug out a wallet and handed Tommy a driver's license. Stone watched him like a hawk, expecting trouble. Tommy looked carefully at both sides of the license. Is this your current address, Mr. Vernon?

Yes, it is.

Do you have any documentation for the airplane with your name on it?

I have a bill of sale in the backseat,
Vernon replied. I'll get it for you.
He unlocked the pilot-side door.

Allow me,
Dino said, stepping between Vernon and the airplane. He reached into the rear seat and brought out the aluminum briefcase. Heavy, Dino said, weighing it in his hand. Shall I open it for you?

That's all right,
the man said. I'll do it. It has a combination lock.

Why don't you give Lieutenant Bacchetti the combination and let him open it?
Tommy said. We'd feel more comfortable.

Again, Vernon looked at the three strangers. It's one-two-three, he said.

Dino spun the combination on the two locks and opened the case.

Stone leaned forward and looked over Dino's shoulder. There were some papers in the case, and Dino lifted them to reveal half a dozen camera lenses underneath.

Vernon took the papers from Dino and handed Tommy one of them. That's the bill of sale,
he said. Harmon's phone number is on it, if you'd like to call him. The FAA is a little slow in issuing new registrations.

Tommy looked the document over. Mind if we have a look in the gun case?
he asked.

What is this?
Vernon asked. Some kind of drug thing?

If you wouldn't mind,
Dino said, relieving him of the case. I assume the combination is the same.
He set the case on the ground and opened it. Inside were three fl y-fishing rods and reels.

I'm down here for the bonefishing,
Vernon said, not running drugs. You want to search the airplane?

Thank you,
Tommy said, and he and Dino began looking inside the cabin.

Beautiful airplane,
Stone said.

Thanks,
Vernon replied, watching the cops work.

I used to own one, but it wasn't as nice as this.

Frank Harmon does nothing but restore old airplanes,
Vernon said. He does good work.

Tommy closed the airplane door and approached Vernon. Thank you,
he said. Now may I have a look in your duffel?

There's a handgun in there,
Vernon said. And I'm licensed to carry it.
He handed over the duffel.

Dino and Stone gathered around to watch Tommy go through the bag.

Well, look what we've got here,
Tommy said, holding up a rifl e barrel and a silencer. Mr. Vernon, he said, you're under arrest.

The three men turned to look at him, but Jim Vernon was gone.

Over there,
Stone said, pointing. Vernon hit the chain-link fence with a foot, grabbed the top and vaulted over it. He hit the ground on the other side and ran like a frightened deer. Tommy, Stone and Dino began to run. They reached the fence.

Give me a leg up,
Tommy said, then go get your car.

Stone and Dino tossed Tommy over the fence, then ran for the parking lot.

Chapter 39

AN N I K A WA S ST A N D I N G at the watercooler, sipping from a cup, when Stone grabbed her arm and hurried out the door.

He ran,
Stone explained.

Do we have to run, too?
she asked.

We just drive,
Stone said. He, Annika and Dino got into the rental car, then they drove to the main road, turned right and drove along the beach.

Why do you think he went this way?
Dino asked.

Look at all the people and cars,
Stone replied, driving slowly.

It's camoufl age.

They made their way along the beach, and when they saw Tommy, Stone and Dino got out.

Any sign of him?
Stone asked. He heard police whoopers in the distance, approaching.

Nope, but help is on the way. He's got to be in this beach crowd somewhere. You stick with me.

A couple of squad cars screeched to a halt, and Tommy gave them Vernon's description and dispatched them in different directions. Stone happened to look back toward the airport. Hang on , Tommy!
he shouted. You're not going to need the help.
He pointed at the red Cessna, climbing, then turning north.

The son of a bitch doubled back!
Tommy cried.

Call the tower and see if he filed a flight plan,
Stone said. Tommy had to call information for the number, but he got connected and asked his questions. He hung up. No flight plan. They don't even know his tail number; he took off without contacting the tower. Also, he didn't have his transponder on.

That means air traffic control can only track him as a primary target, which is harder,
Stone said. Call Paul DePoo. He'll have the tail number from when Vernon checked in, and he'll probably have a credit card number for his fuel.

Tommy called, spoke to DePoo, then hung up. I've got the tail number, but he paid cash for his fuel.

Then call the state police,
Stone said. They must have aircraft that can start looking for him. But first call the Navy base. They're ATC for the area. See if they have a course and altitude for him; that will make the search easier.

After several minutes of trying to get the right number, Tommy finally got a controller on the line. He's headed due north, and he leveled off at eight thousand feet, Tommy said. Then they lost him.

Eight thousand is the best-speed altitude for that airplane, and he probably has a stiff tailwind. He can do 155 knots true airspeed, and with, say, 20 knots of wind he can reach the mainland in half an hour or so. Ask the state police to try and alert as many South Florida airports as they can, especially Fort Lauderdale, where Vernon says he's from.

Tommy got the state police on the line and talked for several minutes. Finally, he hung up, looking discouraged. They've got only one aircraft available, and it's in Orlando, but they're sending it south.

He'll be on the ground somewhere by then,
Stone said. Best thing is for your department to start calling airports and see if anybody spots him. Then at least you'll know what city you're looking for him in.

I expect he took his duffel with him,
Tommy said, so we don't have the rifle. All in all, I'd say this is a total disaster.

JIM VE R N O N DE S C E N DE D to 1,000 feet over the water, then crossed the mainland coast, flying over the Everglades. He tapped a code into the GPS for a location he had defined by longitude and latitude, then he set up an instrument approach he had defined as well, then he set the autopilot for the approach. Soon he was flying along a line that was an extension of the runway centerline, watching the GPS c ount down the miles. When he was three miles out, he spotted the clearing. Nobody would spot it who didn't know where it was. He brought back the throttle and began his fi nal descent. He landed softly on the grass and taxied the airplane back toward the cabin he had built there. Next to the cabin he had erected a ramada, which amounted to poles and a roof, a hangar without sides, which would make it impossible to spot the red airplane from the air. Once under the ramada, he spun the airplane around and shut down the engine.

He walked over to where a dozen 55-gallon steel drums sat, picked up the hose attached to one of them and refueled the airplane, using a hand pump. Best to have a full load of fuel if he needed to get out of there in a hurry.

He went into the cabin, switched on the generator and the TV and opened a can of chili for lunch, then he sat down and watched a news channel while he ate. Then it came.

South Florida airports have been alerted by the state police to be on the lookout for a small airplane, described as a red Cessna 182. The pilot, whose name is Jim Vernon, is alleged to be a hired killer who shot and wounded a man in Key West two days ago.

That was it. As long as he didn't land the airplane at a South Florida airport, they'd never find him. The rest of the country was his oyster, but he wasn't ready to leave Florida just yet. He burned all his Vernon identification in the woodstove, then opened a small safe hidden under the floorboards and took out a packet of I . D. S. He selected a driver's license and cards with a new name, Thomas Sutherland, and put the wallet in his pocket. He was cleaning up after his lunch when his cell phone rang. It was a throwaway, with no GPS chip, so he had no qualms about using it. Yes?

Are you aware that the man you were sent to deal with is still active?
a voice said.

I am. I'll have to make another attempt.

The person who issued the contract has canceled it,
the voice said. You can keep the first payment, but it's over. Is there any reason to believe the police know who you are?

None,
he replied. I've taken care of that.

I have another assignment for you, in the Northeast. Can you depart immediately? It pays better than the last one, and I already have the fi rst half.

I can't leave until tonight,
he replied. The airplane is hot in Florida. I'll change the registration number this afternoon and get started after dark.

Good. Here are your instructions.

He wrote down all the information.