The Last Good Girl (30 page)

Maybe this wouldn't be so bad, actually. In Venezuela, he could do whatever he wanted,
be
whoever he wanted. He could be anonymous. He'd have the sort of freedom he'd never experienced before.

He imagined some of the things he could do. Dangerous, exciting things. He thought of the women he could do these things to. How they would scream. The superhot flight attendant brought him another scotch and he smiled at her.

This could actually be a good thing. He was finally being unleashed.

A
nna and Sam sped down the streets of Detroit, headed to Tower. Sam drove while Anna clutched the indictment and new arrest warrant. The grand jury had come through and indicted Dylan. Now she just had to get him arrested before Dylan's attorney appealed the new warrant—although she thought it less likely that the district judge would overrule a grand jury's decision. Four government sedans followed behind Sam's Durango. If Dylan wasn't at the frat, they would spread out over campus looking for him.

Anna's phone rang: an unknown caller. Today was not a day to let unknown callers go to voice mail.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Miss Curtis? This is Kenny Carter from the general counsel's office of Delta Airlines.”

“Oh, hi, Kenny,” she said. They'd spoken earlier today, when she subpoenaed the airline to get a copy of Dylan's ticket to Venezuela. “What's up?”

“Well, you told me to call you if there were any developments. And there has been a new development. A change was made to Dylan Highsmith's ticket. Instead of leaving tomorrow, the ticket was changed for him to leave today.”

“Today?” Her heartbeat quickened. “When?”

“Six
P.M.
from Gate A-36.”

She looked at the clock. It read 5:51.

She turned to Sam and grabbed the armrest. She knew how Sam drove. “Turn the car around and head to the airport. Dylan's on a plane.”

“Shit,” Sam said. She flicked on lights and sirens, yanked the wheel dead left, and careened over the grassy median. The four unmarked cars behind her put on their lights, and followed. Sam got on the highway and sped up to Michigan's 70 mph speed limit, then past it, until they were going 97 mph. Anna held the armrest with her right hand while she pressed the phone to her ear with the left.

“Can you stop the plane from taking off?” she asked Kenny. “I don't think we'll make it there by six.”

“Do you have a valid arrest warrant and the FAA paperwork requesting to detain the plane?”

“I have a warrant. I don't have the FAA forms. I wasn't expecting to need to detain a plane tonight.”

“Send me the warrant. I'll see if I can pull some strings to just get it delayed. But you'd better hurry. I'm in Atlanta, and I can make some calls, but I don't have a lot of pull in terms of what's going on at Terminal A at Detroit Metro Airport.”

“I'll see if I can get someone there as soon as possible,” Anna said.

Sam was silent and focused as she raced the car down the highway. The scenery sped by in a blur. Other cars, going 70, seemed to be standing still. While Sam drove, Anna made phone calls. She asked Nikki to send the warrant to Delta and start the FAA forms, although by the time the forms were filled out, they'd probably be moot. It was 5:58. She called a friend named Eric Gallun, who worked at TSA.

“Hey, Gallun, can you send some ICE agents to Gate A-36 right now? We need to pull a guy off a plane.” She explained the situation. “And do you know someone at the Detroit airport who can get me and an FBI agent in through security, fast?”

“I can,” he said. “I'll meet you at Terminal A.”

By the time Sam brought the SUV to a stop in front of Terminal A, at 6:05, Eric was waiting at the doors. They left the car by the curb and ran through the airport, click-clacking down the marble corridors. People in Starbucks craned to watch them run. Eric rushed them through security, and they kept sprinting toward Gate 36. Anna's lungs felt like they were going to burst.

When they reached the gate, at 6:10
P.M.
, her heart dropped. Several ICE agents stood by the door. But there was no plane. It had already left. They were too late.

She put her hands on her knees, heaving and coughing, and tried to catch her breath. When she finally did, she used it to curse.

She looked up and saw a plane outside taxiing toward them. She straightened and watched as it pulled right up to the jetway for Gate 36. “That's your flight,” Eric said.

Anna said, “We owe you a drink.”

They showed the ICE agents a picture of Dylan, then walked down the jetway and got on the plane. The flight attendants looked at them with open curiosity.

The first-class passengers sat in cushiony leather recliners, giving them annoyed looks over champagne glasses. Anna saw an older couple, several businessmen, and a Detroit Pistons star. Dylan was not there.

The ICE agents went back through business class and then into coach. They scanned every row, then shook their heads. He wasn't there either. The sinking feeling returned to Anna's stomach.

She spoke to one of the flight attendants working first class. “The handsome young man with the brown hair,” she said. “Do you know where he went?”

The flight attendant nodded and pointed to the first-class bathroom. Sam banged on the door. There was no response.

“Dylan Highsmith,” Sam called “This is the FBI. We have a warrant for your arrest. Please step out of the bathroom with your hands up.”

Silence.

“Can you unlock the door?” Anna asked

The flight attendant nodded and pulled a key out of a bin. She fitted it into the keyhole and fiddled around with it, while Anna imagined what Dylan might be doing. Could he possibly be armed? Had he hurt himself? Anna saw Sam's thumb flick open the strap on her holster.

The flight attendant unlocked the bathroom door and scooted to the side. Sam yanked it open.

Dylan stood, fully clothed, facing the toilet. He looked over his shoulder at them. “Excuse me? I'm pissing!” He reached to flush. Sam grabbed him before he could. She hauled him out of the bathroom and shoved him face-first against the first-class closet. His cheek flattened against the wall. “Dylan Highsmith, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent . . .”

As Sam read his rights, Anna glanced into the toilet. A Ziploc bag filled with white pills sat in the blue liquid. Each pill was stamped with
ROCHE 2.
He'd been taking a stash of Rohypnol to Venezuela.

N
ow that they had Dylan, Cooper was missing. Not really missing, Anna thought as she tried his number again. But she was officially worried. She hadn't been able to reach him since the body had been excavated from the elevator shaft. She tried Jody again.

“It's the weirdest thing,” Jody said. “Grady texted me that Cooper's at his house.”

“Grady's house? Why?”

“I have no idea.”

“Have you ever been there?”

“No. You know me. I've been taking it slow.”

Anna called Grady.

“Yeah,” Grady said. “Coop's here.”

She exhaled. “Is he okay?”

“Uh . . . hard to say. Why don't you come over?”

She followed Google maps to Grady's house, then stared at it in wonder. It was a modern glass palace on the banks of Orchard Lake. Grady was a bartender.

He answered the door, wearing a crisp white polo shirt from which his multitude of tattoos peeked.

“Do you live here alone?” Anna asked.

“Yep,” Grady said.

“How?”

“I made some good investments. Come on in; your boyfriend's back here.”

Grady led Anna through his airy house, all decorated in white, stone, and metal. It had a gorgeous view of the lake. Anna texted Jody:
Your baby's daddy is either a drug dealer or a secret hedge fund manager.
As they got nearer the back, Anna heard a thudding sound coming from outside. She followed Grady to the back patio, which had a lovely fire pit and pool. Beyond that, Cooper was chopping at a tree that had fallen in Grady's backyard.

He wore jeans and a Red Wings T-shirt, which was dark around the collar with sweat. He raised an ax above his head and brought it down in a smooth, powerful motion. A piece of wood flew from the downed tree. He did it again, then again.

“What is going on?” Anna asked.

Grady shrugged. “He asked if I had an ax.”

Anna called, “Coop!”

He glanced up, squinted into the lights of the house, then kept chopping wood. She walked out, past the pool, through a fence. When she got near, she saw that the ax wasn't moving in the smooth arc it appeared from afar. It was erratic and shaky. So was he. A bottle of Jack Daniel's, almost empty, rested in the grass.

“Cooper Bolden, you stop that right now,” she said. “You are drunk.”

He stopped midswing and held the ax by his side. She stared at him as he swayed back and forth. She'd lived with him for eight months. He had the occasional beer. She'd never seen him intoxicated. She fought the urge to turn and run back into the house.

“Put that ax down,” she said.

He opened his fingers and let it fall to the grass.

She went over and took his hand. It was hot and shaky. “Come on. Let's get you inside.”

He nodded obediently and picked up the whiskey bottle as they walked. He took the last swig and staggered with her to the patio, where he sank down into a lawn chair. She tried to get him up, to go inside, but he was unmovable. “I'm too sweaty to go in,” he said, spreading his long body out on the long chair. The empty bottle clattered to the flagstones.

She went inside and got several blankets from Grady, then went back out and laid the blankets on top of Cooper. She pulled another lawn chair next to him and climbed in under the covers.

“I've never seen you like this before,” Anna said softly. “It—it kind of scares me.”

He reached out an unsteady hand and tucked a strand of hair gently behind her ear. His voice was hoarse. “I'd never hurt you.”

“I know,” she said. “It's just—ever since I was kid, the sight of a really drunk man makes me nervous.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Was it the body in the elevator shaft?” Anna asked. “Your PTSD?”

“Yeah.” Cooper nodded, then shook his head, then closed his eyes. “And the little girl.”

“Hm? What little girl?”

“On the phone.”

“Olivia?”

“You love her.” His words bled together.

“Yes. Very much.”

“I can't give you that.”

“Believe me,” she said, laughing, “I'm not in the market for another potential stepdaughter. It was hard enough to win that one over.”

“I can't give you any.” His bloodshot blue eyes met hers. “Any kids. At all.”

“Why not?”

He waved a hand downward. “When the IED took my leg, it took that too.”

She rocked back. “But. But you can—I mean, you can
totally
—in bed.”

“Yeah. They say I'm lucky.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “I'm glad you enjoy it.”

“I really do.”

She reached over and brushed a lock of dark hair off his forehead. He kept his eyes on hers as she kept stroking his hair. They lay facing each other without talking for a long time. The night was still and windless.

“I know it's what you want,” he said quietly. “I can see it. When you hold Leigh. The way you look at that baby. The way you talk to Olivia. You need to be a mother.”

She nodded. Her throat was tight.

“You deserve the sort of life I can't give you. Do you know who can?”

She whispered, “Don't.”

“Jack Bailey can.”

“Shh.”

“That's why I'm breaking up with you.”

“You're not breaking up with anyone.” She swatted him. “You can't even get out of this lawn chair.”

“True.” He smiled, then frowned. “But tomorrow I will. And I swear, Anna. It's over. You need to pack your stuff. And get on with your life.”

“Shh. We'll talk in the morning.”

She lay her head on his chest. He stroked her back softly. Tears streamed sideways down her face. She hoped he couldn't feel his T-shirt growing damp under her cheek. But he did. He reached up and brushed a tear off her cheek.

“I'm so sorry, Coop,” she said. “You don't deserve this.”

“Nah, I'm lucky. For a little while, I got to be next to you. To me, that's the best place on earth. It's been a gift.”

He kissed her forehead. She lay there under the quilts, listening to his heart beat under her ear. Its steadiness was hypnotic. Her tears stopped coming. She was lulled by the warmth of his body and the sound of water lapping on the shore. Her eyelids drifted down, fluttered open, drifted down again. The sky was full of stars.

When she woke up the next morning, he was gone.

T
he detention decision at Dylan's arraignment should have been a slam dunk. He'd been fleeing to Venezuela at the time he was arrested. What could be a more obvious flight risk?

But Dylan's defense attorney tried to focus the attention away from his client and onto problems with the government's tactics. And he had more to work with than usual.

Anna sat at the prosecution table in the marble-lined courtroom in Detroit's federal courthouse. She wore a black skirt suit and sensible pumps, the uniform of the female prosecutor. She used all her mental willpower to focus on the argument and not her conversation with Cooper the night before. She'd tried calling him twice this morning and had gotten no answer.

Sam sat at her side. Dylan wore an orange jumpsuit and handcuffs, which was a fantastic relief to see. If Sam and Anna hadn't made it to the plane, he might be sitting poolside drinking a piña colada right now, trying to decide which girl's margarita to drug.