Pilot Error (2 page)

"Listen, sweetheart, I don't know what your problem is—"

"I'm not your sweetheart!"

"—but I've had one hell of a day, and you're not making it any better. I was supposed to be here by one, but thanks to your rotten weather my plane didn't get on the ground until four, which was too late to... to do the things I came to do."

He didn't need to tell her anything about the weather. The entire summer had been unseasonably wet. That lack of sunshine had sharply curtailed all the local businesses, hers included, but she wasn't about to stand there and listen to some Yankee landlubber whine about it.

"Yeah, mate, sure." Her voice was laced with sarcasm. "I'm sorry you missed your parasailing lesson. Just move the car, okay? And we can both get on with things."

"Fine." He threw both hands up in the air in an eloquent nonverbal statement. "Whatever. I've got better things to do than argue about it."

Turning sharply, he stalked back to his rental car. Micki smiled in triumph, but his next words, thrown at her with a mocking gesture, stopped her cold.

"The spot's yours, sweetheart, but only because I'm a sucker for a woman in black leather."

Before she could find a retort to spit back, he was in the car and pulling it forward. The pig! The chauvinistic, slimy, despicable...

Seething, Micki shoved her bike the few feet it took to claim her victory, but it still felt like she had lost. Where did he get off calling her 'sweetheart?' He'd done everything but pat her on the butt, and nobody did that to Micki Jacinto.

Nobody.

Furious, she kicked down the bike's stand and glared after the interloper as he parked farther down the second row. She should just march over there and let him have a piece of Jacinto Temper, which, thanks to the turmoil of the day, was running on overload.

Reason prevailed even before she had taken the first step. She was a woman alone in a deserted parking lot and he outweighed her by fifty pounds. From her glimpse of his silhouette against the car's light, she was betting that all of that was solid muscle, too. This was not the time or place for confrontation. It'd be better to just let him think he had won, and not let on how much he'd gotten to her with his patronizing air. It wasn't the way she liked to do things, but she had learned the lessons instilled in her by her Air Force Colonel father very well—live to fight another day.

Jaw set, Micki collected up her helmet but lingered at her bike. No way was she walking away and deserting it when that wacko was still out there. Who knew what he'd do?

Scowling at her leather pants that were also scuffed and gritty from the slide across wet asphalt, she huffed a sigh of exasperation. The new ratty look was something she would have to live with, but that's why she wore the leathers, as protection against spills. Being prepared was half the battle; that was another valued lesson from dear old dad.

She tossed her gloves into her helmet and took them with her to the bar and grill's front entrance. One last glance at her opponent revealed that he too had left his car. He seemed as determined to avoid her as she was him, and was busy setting an even stride past the closed outdoor tiki bar toward the beach. Oblivious to her scrutiny, he left the sure footing of the boardwalk for loose sand, and then kept going until he reached the ocean's edge.

Micki paused at the juncture where the pavement turned either up to the bar or down to the boardwalk and the beach. Helmet under one arm, she shoved her free hand hard into her jacket pocket. What was the deal with that guy? All the beaches in the Florida Keys and he had to pick her spot to oust her from so he could walk in the sand?

Something inexplicable about him held her there, watching. Silhouetted against lightning torn storm clouds moving in, he stared out at the gathering squall, mimicking her with his hands shoved deep into his own pockets. Micki felt an unexpected pang of doubt. He looked as if he had completely forgotten her and their brief altercation. Something larger claimed his attention, something that might be grief akin to hers.

Micki frowned unwillingly. Maybe she'd made a mistake. It looked like she wasn't the only one with problems. Maybe she should go down and apologize. After all, if he wasn't from around here, then he couldn't know that parking place was traditionally reserved for her. Now that she'd cooled down a little, she could admit that. Maybe—

"Hey, Micki! What're you doing out here?"

Startled, she turned to see Dirk standing on the bar's front step, lit by the light above the main doors. He was a tall man, fortyish, with grey just beginning to show at his temples, handsome in a coarse sort of way. And her ex. Tonight, of all nights, she needed to remember that.

"I thought I heard your bike," Dirk said. Smile fading, he followed her lead and looked toward the beach. "What's so interesting?"

"Nothing." She tore her gaze from the silhouette on the sand. "I'm just coming in."

With that, she left the outsider to his thoughts. Dirk hovered at the door, watching her expectantly, and for some reason Micki was unwilling to tell him about what had just happened. He slipped his arm around her shoulders as she drew close and gave her a friendly squeeze, a move that only aggravated her sore spot.

Dirk didn't notice her grimace, but he did feel the grazed leather of her jacket. "Hey, what happened here?" he asked, lightly running his fingers over the abrasion. He dropped his arm from her shoulders to open the door, adopting an expression of real concern.

"Nothing," Micki said, not meeting Dirk's eyes as she moved past him into the club. "It's no big deal."

***

Clientele at
The Sandpiper
was light for a Thursday evening. Micki had expected it from the lack of cars in the parking lot, but it still disappointed her as she walked in. Being as casual as possible, she scanned the few patrons seated at tables overlooking the tiki bar and the shadowy beach, searching for new faces. Tourist Territory, as she and the guys referred to it, was noticeably empty.

It looked as if the rainy weather was still keeping all but the diehard vacationers home, and as the owner and operator of a one plane/one pilot scenic flight business, she depended on the influx of tourists to survive. In the past two weeks she'd only had three decent flying days, and one of those had just been a routine package run up to Miami. Her real meal ticket, the thing she depended on to put food on her table and keep her business aloft, was the tourist trade... and she had already taken every one of these tourists for their scenic tour of the Keys.

Dirk, who had followed her in, interrupted her morose thoughts. "Where were you? I stopped by your trailer after the memorial service but your bike was already gone."

"I needed some air." Micki still avoided his eyes. If anyone could tell she'd gone home after the service for a good long cry, then it would be him. Since showing up at
The Sandpiper
with red-rimmed eyes didn't fit the tough image she had spent years cultivating, she'd gone for her long, head-clearing bike ride first.

Dirk grunted, letting the topic slide in favor of the bar. "I was just getting us another round." He nodded toward the counter where a tray with four empty glasses rested.

Micki felt a sudden stab of grief. Four, not five.

Dirk's hand again found its way to her shoulder. It was the type of familiarity that these days he attempted only when he thought he could get away with it, like tonight. "What can I get you, Mick?"

Ignoring the faint undertone of concern, Micki took a step forward so that his hand slid away. "Scotch, thanks." Then, so it didn't seem as if she was accepting his offer to buy her a drink, she added, "I'll get the next round, okay?"

"Sure. Go on back, everyone's already there."

Nodding, Micki made her way toward a secluded table in back, where she was expected. She had made the journey dozens of times over the years, moving to that table to pass the hours with the circle of friends she considered her buddies and her peers.

Two of the three men seated there were also pilots. She had found this companionable flier's niche shortly after coming to the Keys, at the same time discovering that being a woman trying to fit in with a bunch of arrogant flyboys was definitely a liability. Micki had fought twice as hard and flown twice as good, just to prove herself their equal. Most of the time, they treated her as 'one of the guys.' Occasionally, they still reminded her that she was an attractive woman, usually after one too many drinks, or when they weren't dragging around a couple of Barbie beach babes on their arms.

They all looked up and nodded a somber greeting; the two helicopter pilots from the Marathon Coast Guard Group, still in their Dress Blue uniforms from the memorial service
,
and dark-skinned and leathery Tim Lewis, who ran a deep sea fish and dive charter boat for the tourists. Tim looked even more uncomfortable than Dirk in a shirt and tie, his suit coat hooked on the back of his chair, his tie pulled defiantly askew. The one aching difference, that Micki's gaze tried to ignore but was drawn to all the same, was Razor's conspicuously empty chair.

She hung her jacket on the closest chair back, and then put her helmet and gloves on the floor as she slid into her usual seat. Trying hard to accept that Razor, the kid brother she never had, would never again breeze in with a joke and a smile, she focused on the conversation in progress.

"All I'm sayin' is, Dirk better watch his six," Lieutenant Everett 'Tex' Mason drawled. His voice was pitched low to keep the conversation from Tourist Territory.

Surprised, Micki regarded the sandy-haired Texan. Her Australian accent a direct contrast to his heavy southwestern inflections, she asked, "How so? What's going on?"

The Coast Guard pilot shrugged. "Well, he's the grease monkey. Scuttlebutt is, he worked on Razor's helo just last week. If anyone's under suspicion it's gotta be him."

"Suspicion? Of what?" Micki glanced back at Dirk, watching him joke with Bert the bartender as he waited for their drinks.

She had met Dirk Jurgensen three years ago when he was new in town, and the chemistry between them had been spontaneous and electric. He was an ex-Marine pilot turned freelance mechanic; the man responsible for keeping Marathon's civilian and military aircraft in the sky. Their relationship had lasted almost a year and it was still easy for her to see why she had fallen in love with him.

Dirk was a good man. He would have done anything for her, anything except allow her to be herself. His possessiveness and controlling ways meant that everything became a bitter battle of independence. When he slammed her door that last morning, she never expected to see him again, but she hadn't counted on their mutual social circle throwing them together.

Whether it was the casual banter, the good times, or the simple companionship within the group she'd never really decided, but something improbable happened after she and Dirk broke up—they became friends. He was, perhaps, the only human being in the entire world who looked out for her interests, and so the implication that he was somehow involved in Razor's death was both preposterous... and unsettling.

Micki frowned. "You mean now they're saying Razor's crash was something other than pilot error? But they haven't been able to dredge the crash site yet, have they?" Unsure, she glanced at the other Coast Guard pilot for explanation. "You're kidding, right? You don't really think Dirk...?"

"Dunno, Mick," said Jake 'Padre' Pastorelli, deadpan. "But you should never trust these tall, dark and silent types."

"Yeah," Tex added, "next thing you know we'll have some hotshot JAG investigator down here, snooping about."

"JAG?" Tim asked.

"The Judge Advocate General," Tex told the civilian boat captain. "They're the military version of those shyster lawyers who make a living out of nailing people's butts to the wall." A cocky flyboy grin crept across his face as he turned back to Micki and changed tack. "What you need, darlin', is to start hanging around better company."

Micki knew flirting when she heard it. Tex had been trying to get into her bed ever since she'd kicked Dirk out of it, albeit not real seriously considering all the women she'd been introduced to as his significant other. Despite the rough and tough
I'm-as-good-as-any-man
exterior the world saw, Micki had to admit that a little male recognition sometimes really made her day.

Sometimes, but not tonight. Tonight there was an undercurrent of grief among them that even a seasoned boat captain like Tim was having a hard time navigating. They had lost one of their own, and all this reverting to macho habits because they didn't want to, or know how to, deal with it wasn't fooling anyone. What she had just heard was a pick-up line designed to catch her off guard, and it had nearly succeeded.

"Better company? You mean with the short, blond, blabbermouth types." She tempered the retort with a friendly smile. "Like yourself, huh, Tex?"

Padre chuckled. Even Tim Lewis joined in.

Tex feigned hurt. "Darlin', you wound me."

"I'll do more than wound you if you don't quit calling me that." Leaning across the table, she punched him on the arm. "You're drunk," she concluded.

"Not that drunk," Tex said, eyebrows twitching meaningfully.

Feigning a scowl, Micki turned her attention away from the table, in time to watch a dark-haired man saunter through
The Sandpiper's
front door. It was, she realized as an involuntary flush shot up to her cheeks, the stranger from the parking lot.