No Time To Run (Legal Thriller Featuring Michael Collins, Book 1) (30 page)

“
That’s correct,” Michael said. “I’m not interested in waiting in lines at the border.”

“
Si
,” Chavarro said. “Private.” Then, he lowered his voice. “Where do you want to go?”

Michael started to answer, and then paused. If ever there was a chance to truly escape, this was it. Anywhere he wanted to go, this man could take him.

“
I go to Cuba,” Chavarro said. “Columbia, Virgin Islands, Chile,” he continued. “From there we can arrange a flight to Europe or Asia on a larger plane.”

“
No.” Michael shook his head. “New York. I want to go to New York.”

Chavarro nodded. “A more difficult trip.”

“
I understand.” Michael reached inside his green knapsack and handed Chavarro fifty thousand dollars in cash. “Down payment for the gas.”  

CHAPTER SIXTY

Shortly after Michael sat down in one of the cabin’s eight leather seats, Chavarro came out of the Gulfstream G 550’s cockpit.

“
Almost ready to go.” He walked down the aisle holding a pair of folded gray pants, matching shirt, and baseball cap. “I’ll let you know when we’re twenty minutes away from Key West International.”

Chavarro handed the pants, shirt, and hat to Michael.

“
Customs requires us to stop at the first available airport once we cross the border to get inspected.” He looked down at the clothes. “I need you to change before we land. A man from the ground crew will wheel the stairs up to the plane and come on board. After he comes inside, leave and walk around the outside of the airplane, inspecting it, you know. I need it to look good for the security cameras and the men watching in the tower.” He paused. “The Immigration and Customs Agent will come on board, we’ll talk, he’ll take a look around and then leave.”

“
What about the real ground crew?”

Chavarro dismissed the question.

“
We do a lot of business in Florida, senor,” he said. “I know the ground crew and the agent that works this airport well. When the agent leaves, just come back inside and we’ll finish the trip. Should get in before the storm hits.” He smiled and patted Michael on the shoulder. It was as if he made this trip every day, which he probably did.

“
I’ll have a certificate that we already went through customs, so that won’t be an issue in New York. We’ll land and you can go.”

Chavarro turned, and began walking back to the cockpit. Along the way he pointed to the airplane’s minibar.

“
Help yourself to whatever. The business center in the back also has a phone and computer with internet access, if you need it.”

“
Thanks.”

“
You paid for it, senor,” Chavarro said.

###

When the plane leveled off, Michael took out the paperback novel that he had shoved in his knapsack, but the novel wasn’t to read.

He unfastened his seatbelt, and walked to the business center in the back of the plane. The “business center” was actually just a standard desk stocked with office supplies, a computer and a phone.

Michael checked his watch, and figured that he had about forty minutes before arriving in Key West. Plenty of time. Michael turned on the computer, waited for it to boot, and then logged onto the internet.

“
All right, Professor, let’s see who you are.” Michael opened the book, and turned to the back page of the novel where the Professor’s name was written. He typed DWIGHT K
E
IEFFER into the search engine. He got hundreds of hits; none of them relevant. Then he tried a different approach.

Michael typed the name in, again, but placed quotes around it, and then added “New York City.” He pressed enter, and this time only twenty-five webpages popped up on the screen.

Michael scrolled down the list and then stopped: Guardian Security and Investigations, L.L.C.

The name was familiar. Michael remembered it from billing statements he had submitted to the court while still an associate at the firm. Wabash, Kramer & Moore used Guardian Security. Sometimes the work was official, but more often it was off-book, meaning that the information was sought, but no questions would be asked and no records would exist.

Guardian Security was filled with former FBI, New York cops, and even ex-CIA.

Michael clicked on the link, and up came a listing of Guardian’s investigators and a brief biography. Halfway down the list, there was the Professor’s name – Dwight K
e
ieffer: Fifteen-year veteran of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, White Collar Crime Unit, specializes in asset and background searches, corporate investigations, civil litigation, executive protection, electronic surveillance, and missing person investigations. Mr. K
e
iffer was an honors graduate of Penn State and held a masters degree in psychology from Wake Forest University.

Michael got out of his seat, pacing as the pieces started to fall into place. For the first time, Michael felt his odds of survival increase and the scope of conflict narrow.

He should have known that, as Big Stan said, Mario Deti doesn’t send frickin’ greeting cards. And, if not Deti – if Deti was just a cover story, a myth – then Lowell Moore was one of the few who had the resources. Plus Moore had the connection to K
e
iffer. But why?

Greed was the first thing to pop into Michael’s head. Nothing ever seemed like it was enough for Lowell Moore. The firm could never be too big. He could never have too many awards on his wall or wins under his belt, and he could never have enough money. But this all seemed like too big of a risk for just extra cash. There had to be more.

Michael picked up the phone and dialed information.

“
I need the number for Taylor Goss & Associates in New York please.” He waited, and then a computerized voice recited the number. Michael pressed the pound key to be patched through. Then a click, and the phone rang.

“
Goss & Associates.”

“
Yes,” Michael said. “I need to talk to Taylor Goss right away, it’s an emergency.”

“
And you are?”

“
A potential client.”

“
And your name?”

“
That’s not important. Get him on the line.”

The receptionist hesitated.

“
I’m sorry he’s in court right now, can I take a message?”

Michael rolled his eyes. It was the oldest excuse in the book.

“
I know that he isn’t in court, so just get him.” Michael paced the cabin. The phone pressed hard to his ear. “It’s regarding Andie Larone. Tell him that.”

“
Please hold.” An instrumental version of the song “Sexual Healing” by Marvin Gaye piped through the line.

Then, “This is Taylor Goss, may I help you?”

“
It’s me.”

“
And who might that ‘me’ be?”

“
Your co-counsel in the Larone matter.”

Goss didn’t say anything at first.

“
Wait.” Michael heard Goss set the phone receiver down on his desk, and then the sound of the door to his office close shut. A few seconds later, he was back on the line. “I’m obligated to advise you that it’s in your best interest to turn yourself in. Understand?”

“
For now that’s not happening, but thanks for the tip.”

“
You know I can’t represent you,” Goss said. “So what do you want?”

“
Has Andie entered into the deal yet?” There was silence. “Just tell me if she entered into the deal.”

“
No,” Goss said, “but she will.”

“
You have to give me a few days. Things are happening that I can’t get into, but I think I understand – ”

“
I’m not waiting,” Goss said. “It’s not in my client’s interest to wait for you.”

“
It is in her interest,” Michael said. “I’m going to prove she’s innocent.”

“
How?”

Michael didn’t have an answer just yet.

“
I’m working on it.”

“
Tell me what you plan to do,” Goss said. “I can’t just ask her to wait because you tell her to. I need more.”

“
Ask her.”

“
No.” Goss was getting impatient. “I’m not even going to tell her we spoke. She’s confused right now, and this would only make it worse.”

“
You have to.”

“
Goodbye, Michael,” he said. “And don’t call here anymore. I can’t help you.” 

CHAPTER SIXTY ONE

As the plane’s wheels touched down, Michael looked up from his notepad. On it, he had drawn a timeline, starting with the Joshua Krane murder and ending with the discovery of the Professor’s identity and his connection with Lowell Moore. He thought about gaps in the timeline and missing information, questions that still needed answers.

He needed an event, a trigger. Greed couldn’t be characterized as an event. Greed was just an emotion, and it was far too simple of an explanation.

The plane jerked to a stop, and then began taxiing to the end of Hoboken Airfield, a private airstrip on a patch of drained wetlands about a quarter-mile from the New York Giants’ football stadium.

Chavarro’s voice filled the cabin via the airplane’s intercom system. He gave a summary of the trip, miles and average speed. Then he reported the current time and outside temperature, followed by a warning about a storm coming in that night.

Great, Michael thought. Another jacket to buy.

The engines whirred down to a stop, and Michael saw a ground crew start to scurry around the plane through the window. Above them, the sky was a solid gray wall, punctuated by a few black birds circling near the top.

Chavarro opened the cockpit door.

“
You’re all set, senor.” He walked down the aisle toward Michael. “After I get fuel, I’m heading back.”

“
Thanks.” Michael extended his hand and the two men shook. “I assume there are cabs outside.”

“
The charter service called a limousine,” Chavarro said. “He’ll take you where you want to go.”

“
Appreciate that.” Michael took a final look out the window, and then shoved the notepad into his knapsack. He slung the knapsack over his shoulder and stood.

Chavarro led Michael down the aisle toward the door.

He grabbed the large lever on the airplane’s door, and then pulled it down as two large bolts were lifted up and the door opened.

Cold air rushed into the cabin, and Michael paused. It wasn’t, however, the frozen gust or the raw smell of coming snow that made him stop. He realized that his timeline of events had been too narrow. His analysis started too late.

“
Everything all right?”

Michael looked at him. “
Maltow
.”

“
Pardon me, senor?”

“
Maltow
.” Michael repeated it with a broad smile, knowing that the name made no sense to the pilot. “
Maltow
was the trigger,” he said. “Just need to find out why.”

CHAPTER SIXTY TWO

Michael didn’t take the limousine that the pilot had arranged for him. He wanted anonymity, and he didn’t accept favors from strangers, at least not anymore. Michael walked past the suited chauffeur standing next to the black GMC Suburban, and waved at one of the yellow taxis waiting across the street.

The taxi pulled around, picked him up, and within thirty minutes they had arrived at the sleek W Times Square hotel. It was the hotel where Michael and Kermit had moved after the Professor trashed their room at the Helmsley. Michael didn’t know whether Kermit had changed hotels or not, but since the room was still under Michael’s name and more importantly, still secured with Michael’s credit card, he figured that Kermit was still there.

Michael rode the elevator up to the twenty-second floor and got out. He walked down the hall, and removed the unreturned key card from his wallet.

“
Here we go.” Michael slid the key through the magnetic card reader. A small, red light turned to green, and Michael opened the door. A foul odor escaped into the hallway. It was a combination of incense, pot, stale pizza, sweat, body odor, and permanent magic markers.

The shades in the room had been drawn closed and every available surface was adorned with tiny white candles. The sound of Coltrane filled the room.

“
Kermit.” Michael proceeded around random articles of clothing, fast food containers, and dozens of empty cans of Red Bull Energy Drink. “Kermit.” Then Michael saw him.

Kermit hung upside down in the bathroom doorway with black magic markers in each hand. He was buck naked except for the pair of gravity boots that suspended him above the floor and the tin foil wrapped around his head.