The light changed, and she was on the homestretch at last. She just hoped she got there in time.
The man walking across the apron looked innocuous enough, Matt thought. Small, dark, ordinary. Wearing the Florida uniform of shorts and a polo shirt. Carrying nothing except a large soft drink in a paper cup.
Passing him on the street, Matt would never have given him a second glance. Now he waited until he was sure what plane the guy was headed for.
Then he stepped out from the shadows.
“Murdered?” Humboldt asked.
Brendan nodded slowly. “That would be my guess. It seems to be how these people work.”
“What people? Fags?”
“No,” Brendan said. “Actually, from what a friend of mine says, sex crimes tend to be much … worse. But these people …”
“What people?” Humboldt asked again.
“You tell me,” Brendan said, looking directly into the man's eyes. “You tell me what kind of people would rape a promising young sailor, then kill him and make it all look like a suicide.”
Humboldt shook his head. “You're looking to confuse me, aren't you?”
“I’m looking for the same thing you are. The truth.”
“I know the truth. You killed him.”
Brendan leaned forward. “Mr. Humboldt, if I’d done what you say I’d done, do you really think the navy would have kept it a secret? Do you think they didn't check everything in your son's apartment to see if anyone else had been there? My fingerprints are on file because I was in the navy. They'd have identified them if I’d ever been in there. And semen carries DNA. It wouldn't have been that hard a case to prove, if it were true.”
Humboldt's eyes were blinking rapidly now, a sign of his distress. That could be good, or it could be bad.
“I knew your son, Mr. Humboldt. And it was no secret. His name was in my appointment calendar more than once, and he got time off work to come in for counseling. His commanding officer had to know he was seeing me. If there'd been the least evidence that we had contact outside the chapel, they would have been all over me.”
Humboldt's hand was shaking again, and his knuckles were growing white. If he squeezed too hard, it was going to be all over. But Brendan couldn't afford to think about that now. He had a wedge, and he had to keep hammering it, to save both himself and Tom's father from this terrible poison.
“Yes, I was counseling your son, Mr. Humboldt. He'd gotten involved in something that sorely troubled him. Some kind of conspiracy.”
“Hiya,” the man said casually. He was a cop, Victor could tell. Cops had a certain walk about them, even in plain clothes. Victor nodded to him and made as if to continue his preflight checks.
“Great evening for flying, isn't it?” the man asked.
Victor looked up at the darkening sky. “Looks to be.”
His mind was whirling a mile a minute. A cop. Here. That damn mechanic had said something. He took a deep breath as he flexed the elevator panels. There were a million reasons a cop might be here. Airport security had been beefed up lately. Everyone knew that. Especially here in the Tampa Bay area, where a teenage boy had recently committed suicide by crashing a private plane into a downtown bank building. So yes, it made sense that he might run into some federal rent-a-cop.
Except this man didn't look like a rent-a-cop.
“Can I help you with anything?” the man asked.
“Have you done any flying?” Victor replied.
The man shrugged. “Not since Afghanistan. And I flew Blackhawks then.”
The man was lying, and Victor knew it. He didn't have the cut or carriage of recent military. Nor could he have risen through the ranks fast enough to be plain clothes by now. And he
was
a cop. It was in the casual sweeps of his eyes, not darting nervously yet still taking in detail. Victor's father had had those eyes. Cop's eyes.
“I prefer fixed wing,” Victor said. “At least if the engine cuts out, you can glide. A helicopter has the glide ratio of a brick. And even if you can autorotate, your odds aren't very good.”
“That's true,” the man said.
By agreeing, he'd taken Victor's bait. The truth was that even if a helicopter's engine stalled, the blades still had a lot of momentum stored up. That was why they kept whirling after the aircraft landed and the pilot turned the engine off. At flight speeds, the blades would continue to whirl fast enough to let the pilot land the chopper safely. That was called
autorotation.
A former military helicopter pilot would have known that. Now Victor was sure the man was lying.
But that didn't answer the question of how to get rid of him. Act natural. That's what he'd been told, again and again.
“Come to think of it,” Victor said, “you could save me a couple of minutes. Could you check the ailerons for me?”
It had been either that or the landing gear, and Victor did not want this man snooping around the bottom of the plane. The flight controls out on the wingtips would keep him farthest away from anything that looked suspicious.
The man walked over to the left wing and flexed a flap. Not an aileron. He obviously knew nothing about airplanes. But Victor was hardly in a position to call his bluff. Victor checked the landing gear and glanced up at the gas release nozzle. Everything was fine. Just dupe this cop for a few more minutes, satisfy his curiosity, and send him on his way.
Then Victor would fly into history.
The twilight was deep by the time Chloe reached the rectory. None of the security cops was in sight, and for a few precious seconds she debated whether to go hunting for one. Then she decided that might waste too much time if Brendan were in trouble.
Hefting the Glock, she hesitated. There was no way for her to carry the gun invisibly. Finally, she tucked it up under her cotton blouse, holding it close to her midriff.
Then she climbed out of the car, glancing casually around. The street was quiet. Not even somebody out walking a dog. There must, she thought, be something really good on the tube tonight.
Walking as normally as she could while holding a gun to her middle, she climbed the rectory steps and tried the front door. Locked.
She hesitated, wondering if she should try to break in. But she was feeling awfully exposed on the front porch. Anyone might be watching from neighboring houses; if she broke in, the cops would be called.
Now that might be a good thing. But it could also be a very bad thing for Brendan if he were inside and in trouble. She didn't want to do anything that might cause a killer to panic.
So she backed away from the door, turned around, and descended the steps. If the church was locked, she'd go around the back way and enter the courtyard.
But the church wasn't locked. Merv was in the hospital, and whoever was supposed to be doing it for him hadn't done it. Brendan? Possibly. He was always quick to volunteer to step in where help was needed.
And he wasn't the type to forget to do something he'd promised to do, whether it was answering a phone or locking the church.
She stepped into the cool interior. None of the lights were on, so the church was dark inside, almost nightlike. She used the flickering sanctuary lamp to guide her.
Her heart was beginning to hammer hard. She hadn't felt like this since her days as a cop when she'd had to follow a perp into a building. Back then she'd had backup. Tonight there was just her. It wasn't a comforting thought.
She didn't genuflect this time; God would understand. What He might not understand was the gun she was carrying. It was out now, a comfortable, familiar weight in her hand. An obscenity within the walls of this church.
The sacristy was empty. Brushing against racks of robes, hearing them whisper as she passed, she headed for the courtyard door. It, too, was unlocked, and she passed through it, wincing when a hinge creaked. It wasn't that loud a sound, nor one that was unusual at this time of day, but she winced anyway. What she wished for right now was total silence.
She slipped across the courtyard, the gun held behind her back so that if someone glanced out the rectory window, he would not see it. If.
There was a light shining dimly near the back of the building. Curtains filtered it, concealing whatever was happening inside. No other lights were on. Standing stock-still, she listened. Voices? She couldn't be sure.
She reached the side door of the rectory and tried the knob. It wouldn't turn, dammit. But in the hushed twilight she saw something around the jamb. Bending to see better, she drew a sharp breath. The door had been jimmied.
And when she pushed on the door, it swung open.
Matt saw the flicker of recognition in Victor's eyes. The bluff hadn't worked; Victor had figured it out. The question was, was he armed? Matt figured he probably was. There were too many variables in Victor's plan. A weapon would be an essential precaution. But where did he have it? Matt hadn't seen any bulges around his ankles, and the man wasn't wearing a coat or anything else that could hide a gun.
In theory, he had enough to search the plane, even without a warrant. It was on the watch list, and he was sure the
Carroll
Doctrine would protect him. Especially in the current legal climate. But there were problems as well. He was out of his jurisdiction. The watch had been canceled. And so far, the man hadn't done anything that provided grounds for reasonable suspicion, let alone probable cause.
No, Matt needed more. Enough that the case wouldn't be thrown out for faulty procedure. Because he needed this guy to roll over on his bosses. That wasn't going to happen if his lawyer took one look at the facts and saw an easy dismissal.
But how to bait him out, without having him reach for the weapon Matt was sure he had?
“So you're flying to Jacksonville tonight?” Matt asked.
Victor's eyes narrowed for a split second before he smiled, and said, “Sure am. Business meeting tomorrow.”
So okay.
Matt thought.
I know, and you know I know. Let's dance.
“Pretty town,” Matt said. “Well, the riverfront is nice, anyway.”
“That's what I hear,” Victor said. “This is my first trip there. I usually work south Florida.”
“Lauderdale or Miami?”
“Lauderdale, mostly,” Victor said. “Sales.”
Matt made a face. “I hate Lauderdale. Been there three times and my car broke down all three times.” It wasn't true, but it forced the conversation.
“I guess,” Victor said. “I usually rent a car.”
Matt had circled around the nose of the plane to approach the man from behind. “Well, of course, owning an airplane.”
“It's an expensive convenience,” Victor said. “But time is money in this business.”
“But you don't own this one.”
Victor stiffened and turned.
“This aircraft belongs to Vreeland Aviation, in Maryland,” Matt continued, his voice level. “Rented to Lance Brucon two weeks ago. Shame what happened to him.”
Victor couldn't quite conceal the look of surprise.
“But you didn't know, did you?” Matt asked. “They made a real mess of him. We needed dental records to identify him.”
Victor had his back to the fuselage now, his shoulder pressed up against a wing. Nowhere to go.
“Did you really think they'd let you live?” Matt asked. The bluff was working. “We know all about your background, Victor.”
In truth, he had no idea about this man's background. All he had was a name. But the mere mention of Brucon's name made Victor's eyes widen a bit.
“I … I’m just a salesman,” Victor said. “I sell machine parts for carnival rides.”
Matt nodded. It was a good cover story. Odd enough to believe without there being an obvious way for a casual listener to check it out. Who knew who supplied those parts? But somebody had to. His was a professional cover story, no doubt about it.
Matt inched a bit closer. Another foot or so and he'd be too close to Victor for the man to reach for a concealed weapon.
“And I’m sure that, if I knew who made carnival rides and took the time, I’d find employment records. Your employers seem to do good work.”
“We make excellent machine parts,” Victor agreed.
“Your employers don't make machine parts. You know it, and I know it. And as parts go, you're expendable. They proved that with Brucon. You have two choices, Victor. You can go along my way, or you go out their way. And those are the only two choices you have left.”
Matt saw that he'd pushed too hard. Victor nodded, but it was a predatory nod. His hand rose as if to scratch the back of his neck, and Matt realized that was where the gun was hidden.
Matt was already reaching for his own gun when he heard tape tear away from skin. He drove his left shoulder hard into Victor's chest, pinning him to the side of the plane, as he drew his own gun and jammed it into Victor's ribs. There was no way Victor could aim his own gun. But he could fire it. Right next to Matt's left ear.
The tiny report of the twenty-two, barely audible a hundred feet away, sounded like a whip cracking against Matt's eardrum. The world swirled for an instant, and in that instant Victor shoved him away.
Matt fought the insistent whine in his ear, trying to focus, to bring his weapon to bear. Victor was quick. Matt saw the flash and felt the sting against his side. That was a miss Victor would not repeat.
Matt leveled his gun and fired, the report of the 9mm explosive. Victor had gotten off the first shot, but the 9mm parabellum round could do a lot more damage. And did. It punched through Victor's sternum, mushrooming as it hit bone, and blew a two-inch hole in his heart.
Victor slid down slowly, his eyes already vacant.
For the first time, Matt felt the wet burn in his side. As the sound of sirens grew in his right ear, the world turned dark.
“Why'd you kill Steve?” Brendan asked. “He had nothing to do with anything.”
Humboldt hesitated, then shrugged. “Everybody said he was like a son to you. I wanted you to know what it felt like.”
A heavy sorrow settled in Brendan's heart, heavier than the fear he was feeling. A weight equal to the world. “He
was
like a son to me.”