Eighteen feet behind the cockpit, Rudolph Bostich held a pen in his hand and hesitated over the crudely written confession Kat had prepared, reexamining his conclusions. His initial instinct had been to deny everything. It was, after all, up to the state to prove a crime beyond a reasonable doubt, and who knew better than a prosecutor how hard it was to convict someone who refused to crack unless the evidence was solid as a brick?
He glanced up at Kat, realizing the futility of trying to protest that child pornography held no interest for him, or that he had been equally horrified to find that the bastard who had tipped him about Lumin had loaded such pictures on his computer—pictures he had tried ham-handedly to erase.
But there was no way he could tell her what really happened.
She was right about one thing. Possession of even erased pornographic pictures of children would create a firestorm that even an eventual acquittal couldn’t quench.
Rudy Bostich closed his eyes and ran over the options one last time. If he refused to satisfy Ken Wolfe’s demands for a confession and someone got hurt, he would bear a double stigma. Yet, if he signed that paper, he’d be admitting to something he didn’t do. He had gleefully accepted what he thought were files of young women in hardcore X-rated activities, but would the distinction save him from public condemnation?
No, the President would have to drop him in a nanosecond regardless.
Bostich looked at the words Kat had written. “I acknowledge that I am in possession of partially erased computer files depicting …”
That much was true.
Rudy Bostich sighed and pressed the pen to the paper, watching his name flow in sickeningly clear letters. He could still say it was obtained under duress, of course, so maybe this was the best method. He’d already made the same statement verbally into his own tape recorder as Kat held it in front of him.
Kat realized there was one more duty, and she felt her stomach knotting again as she folded the paper and looked at Bostich carefully, the tape recorder still held in her hand where he could see it. A small wave of loathing washed over her as she looked at him, imagining that same right hand tying a rope around a tortured little girl’s neck.
“One more question, Mr. Bostich. The picture of Melinda Wolfe on your computer was taken by her kidnapper and killer, but that person was not Bradley Lumin.”
“WHAT?” Bostich almost came out of his seat with shock.
She nodded. “That’s right, Mr. Bostich. I’m glad you decided to do the right thing and admit you lied to that Connecticut court, but as far as the murder of Melinda Wolfe is concerned, it’s immaterial. There’s no need to reinstate evidence, because the evidence was planted.”
“What do you mean, ‘planted’?”
She looked at him carefully, trying to read his reaction, wishing she had Frank’s years of experience in sizing up human reaction under stress of criminal investigation.
“Whoever killed Melinda tried to frame Lumin, but the attempt has failed.”
Bostich looked dazed. “You mean, this was unnecessary? I’ve sat back here trying to balance what I should do, dammit, and you were right, I thought. I should give Wolfe whatever he wants, whether it’s the truth or not. Now … now I find out after falsely incriminating myself to end a hijacking, that it’s unnecessary?” He started to say more, but stopped suddenly, his mind racing through the possibilities.
If not Lumin, who?
“Give it up, Bostich. You lied, you’ve confessed to it, and that’s that.”
“Who is the killer?”
“Hold out your right hand, Mr. Bostich. Hold it palm down.”
He complied, reluctantly, and she looked hard at it, comparing the hand with the one in her memory from the picture.
I can’t tell for sure, but they could be the same! Kat concluded.
“Put your hand down.”
He complied.
“Rudolph Bostich, did you kidnap Melinda Wolfe?”
“Wha—what?”
“Yes or no, please.”
“Good God, NO!”
“Rudolph Bostich, did you murder Melinda Wolfe?”
The look that crossed Bostich’s face was a combination of utter horror and panic. He began to sputter an answer, but sat back hard, his breathing rapid, as he managed to croak out a reply. “Are you crazy? NO! I … I … could never do anything like that! Why would you think—”
“Because, Mr. Bostich, you possessed a picture that only the killer could have taken. Either Lumin was the killer, or you were. Since we now know Lumin is not the murderer, there’s only one explanation left.”
She stood then, reaching behind her for the plastic handcuffs she had fished out of the aircraft’s flight kit earlier without Ken’s knowledge.
“Rudolph Bostich, I am placing you under arrest for felony perjury, and for suspicion of the murder of Melinda Wolfe.”
“You’re wrong!” he croaked, his voice barely recognizable.
Ken was holding the P.A. microphone as Kat entered the cockpit and slid into the right seat. As she held up the signed confession, he nodded and pressed the button.
“Folks, this is Ken Wolfe speaking for the last time. I’m going to land us in Phoenix, which, of course, is where you should have been this morning. You’ve been through hell, and I am eternally sorry for all you’ve endured. I’m not sure what I’ve accomplished today, other than the unmasking of Rudolph Bostich, who has now confessed to lying in a court of law under oath. Bradley Lumin has been arrested, but a new discovery appears to show that Bradley Lumin may not be my daughter’s killer after all. I don’t know who is, but I trust the investigation will continue, and the murderer will be caught and tried.”
Ken replaced the P.A. microphone and turned to face Kat’s startled expression.
“Ken, what exactly are you planning to do?”
“I said we’d land in Phoenix, and I mean it.”
“And you’ll let the people off there?”
He nodded. “There will be no one stopping them.”
“Meaning?”
He looked over at her. “Kat, I think you’re trying to hide the fact that you’re trained as a pilot. You know too much. You’re too comfortable up here.”
She tried not to look startled and waved her right hand at the panel. “I’ve sat in simulators, Ken, but that’s a long way from being a Boeing pilot.”
He was pointing to the forward glareshield at two paddle-like switches.
“This is the autopilot, Kat. Either switch in the full up position engages it, like you see it now. There are two independent autopilot systems, but for precision landings, we use both at the same time.”
“Why are you telling me this, Ken?”
“Because you’re going to monitor the aircraft while it lands itself.”
“And where are you planning to be?” She tensed for his answer.
“I’ll be … only God knows where, Kat. I pray with Melinda … and her mother. My body will be in the forward restroom.”
She shook her head violently. “Are you crazy, Ken? You know you can’t shoot a gun in a pressurized jetliner without—without terrible consequences.”
He shook his head. “Not necessarily true, Kat. That’s a perpetual misconception. Unloose an assault weapon, and, yeah, you’ll create havok. But a single bullet may not even penetrate the outer skin of the aircraft, and even if it does, there won’t be a rapid decompression. Merely a small hole. Just be sure you keep everyone out of that restroom until the pathology team arrives.”
“This is ridiculous! I can’t fly this aircraft! If you’re not here, we’re dead.”
“Not true. Now listen up, because there are some things you’re going to have to do, like put down the landing gear and flaps at the right time.”
“Ken, CUT IT OUT! This isn’t some stupid movie script where the ditzy blonde lands the plane. I CAN’T DO IT! You’re going to have to get us on the ground.”
“I don’t want to ever touch the ground again. I
’ve done all I can do. I’m leaving.”
“And killing us is a reasonable result?”
“This Boeing can land itself, Kat, as long as you put the wheels down once this light goes on.” He pointed to a light on the panel. “The autothrottles are engaged, I’ve already got us on an extended final approach to Phoenix Skyharbor, and the only other thing I need to do is show you how, and when, to lower the flaps.”
“So what if the autopilot clicks off?”
“Turn it back on.”
“What if it won’t come back on?”
He sighed. “Then the solution is simple. Here.” He clicked a button on the control yoke twice, disconnecting the autopilot. “Put your hands on the yoke, Kat.”
“No. I’m not going to participate.”
“DAMMIT, DO IT!”
She complied reluctantly.
“Okay. Flying a seven-thirty-seven is simple. I’m going to let go, and just let you get a feel for—”
Kat rolled the yoke to the left sharply, then reversed the roll just as sharply to the right, rolling the 737 almost inverted as she pulled hard, pushing them both down in their seats.
“Whoa! I’ve got it!” Ken said, resuming control and rolling the jet back to wings level as he arrested the sudden climb.
“I told you, Ken, I can’t do it! I’ll kill us all! You’ll kill us all!”
“No, not true. Not as long as I can get you set up for an automatic landing.”
She turned to him. “So we’re still debating that?”
“No,” Ken shook his head. “I’m convinced you can’t fly, so what I’m going to do is set you up on final with the gear down and the flaps set, and make sure everything’s working right. I’ll head into the restroom just before touchdown. All you have to do when the wheels touch is pull back the throttles, pull up these reverser levers, and when the aircraft has slowed under fifty, step on the brakes. The autobrakes will do all the rest to that point. When you’re stopped, pull these start levers out and down to cut off the engines.”
“This is stupid, Ken.”
“I told you, Kat. I don’t want to touch the ground again.”
“How selfish can you get?” she snapped. “I can almost understand you doing what you’ve done today in order to catch a killer, but to imperil all these people just so you can kill yourself a few seconds early is nonsense! It’s stupid. And it’s selfishness in the extreme.”
His hand moved around the forward panel, adjusting various settings for the autopilot and dialing in the instrument landing approach frequency.
Bill North called as Ken was lifting the P.A. microphone, and Kat answered.
“I’m here.”
“Roger Matson is calling again. I’ll patch you through.”
Ken punched the P.A. button.
“There’s one more thing I want to tell you, folks. Despite what I said for effect earlier, I did not know when I came aboard this morning that Rudolph Bostich would he on this, or any other, AirBridge flight I did not plan this.”
“Kat? Roger Matson here. Where are you?”
“Getting ready to land in Phoenix, Roger, and trying to keep this suicidal pilot from killing himself before we touch down. What have you got?”
“Last night was the second anniversary of my daughter’s death. I decided that the law was never going to get Lumin off the streets, and I had to do it myself. So, I took a high-powered rifle up to Ft. Collins to kill him, because the law wouldn’t uncover Bostich’s lie and rearrest Lumin, and because I was convinced Lumin had killed twice more since Melinda’s death.”
“Do you still have a cellular phone within reach?”
“Yes. Why?”
“You have my number?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Call me on it. Now!” The line went dead.
“But something strange happened. I found I couldn’t make myself pull the trigger and shoot Lumin.”
Kat hurriedly opened the cell phone and punched in Roger’s number, relieved that the signal from the ground seemed strong. He answered it immediately.
“I could hear you fine, Roger. Why the—”
“Bill North was listening on that satellite phone, Kat.”
“I couldn’t figure out why, but now I understand God was holding me back from killing the wrong man.”
“So what? He’s heard everything else.”
“Not this, Kat. The fingerprint doesn’t belong to Bostich. They had a real problem finding a match, but they finally came up with a petty criminal in Chicago.”
“This morning, when I suddenly discovered Bostich on my flight, it was like God giving me a final chance, and even though I knew what I was about to do was criminal, I took that last chance. My life has been over since Melinda’s death, but I had to make sure that her killer couldn’t kill again.”
“What are you saying, Roger?”
“His name is José Taurus. He doesn’t have much of a criminal record, but he works for a shadowy operation that produces pornographic tapes and magazines, and has been under investigation by Interpol for suspicion of dealing in snuff films. You know, the ones where women who think they’re doing a porno film are murdered on-camera.”
“I know. The whole subject is nauseating.”
“Taurus isn’t the murderer, but he’s the functionary who sent in the monthly cash for the unlisted e-mail address, SHRDLU2, which our murderer may have been using.”
“Look, folks, it’s important to me that you know one more thing. Even though I’ve been threatening you all day long to make sure no one stopped me, there is no bomb on this airplane. I would never … could never … take the chance of hurting my passengers. I’m sorry I had to convince you otherwise.”
Kat shifted the phone to her other ear. “Go on, Roger!”
“I had a buddy on the Chicago force find Taurus and squeeze him hard in the last twenty minutes. The guy was terrified, but he apparently knows nothing else. He says he was told by his boss to do it, and we can’t find the boss. In the meantime, I had another friend checking the background of this company, and you won’t believe what popped up.”
“What?”
“I know I’ve scared all of you half to death, but you were never in any real danger. The flight was controlled at all times, including my psuedoacrobatics. Even the takeoff from Telluride was carefully calculated and never in doubt, although I didn’t know I was going to have to go that soon.”
“Taurus’s sleazy corporation is a subsidiary of a Swiss company that publishes skin magazines in various languages for the European market, and it, in turn, is wholly owned by a private multibillion-dollar publishing empire headquartered in Salt Lake City.”
Kat felt suddenly off balance. How many major publishing empires were headquartered in Salt Lake? “What’s the name, Roger?”
“NorthLight Publications. And guess who owns NorthLight?”
“Bill North?”
“Bingo.”
THIRTY-TWO
Aboard AirBridge Flight 90. 5:11 P.M.
Kat gripped the cell phone and closed her eyes, concentrating hard. The idea that Bill North could own a company that was even indirectly involved in distributing sleaze was disturbing, let alone the sudden connection with the SHRDLU2 mailbox. The fact that his offer of help in Salt Lake might have been less than altruistic was also throwing her substantially off balance. She had assumed he was just a concerned citizen before discovering he partially owned AirBridge and was taking care of an investment, but now this?
“Roger, do we have any indication who in North’s outfit might be involved? Surely Bill knows nothing about this.”
“I don’t have a clue, Kat, and without the time to talk to Taurus’s boss, the trail goes cold. His company in Chicago is determined not to cooperate, of course.”
“Which means we need North’s help. Roger, I know nothing about North’s operations other than he said he made his money in publishing. What do you know about him?”
There was a long, tel
ling pause on the other end, and she heard him clear his throat before speaking.
“Kat, I was startled when you said he was helping you. North’s holdings include a wild variety of questionable publications overseas. For instance, NorthLight Publications has been under investigation in the Philippines for years for controlling the underground production of hardcore porn of all types, and publishing some really disgusting rags. He also owns three of Europe’s and Britain’s shabbiest tabloids, the type that keep the paparazzi in business hounding the famous to death—literally, in the case of Princess Di. He’s got legitimate interests, too, but a lot of the guy’s money stinks.”
“I didn’t know any of this, Roger.”
“No reason you should, unless you’d been researching the international sleaze merchants like I have. Where’s Ken? Is he listening?”
“He’s giving a P.A. right now, so I don’t think so. Should he be?”
“No. Kat, there’s one more thing you should know. There’s something no one else but me knows about Melinda’s final hours. I’ve held it back, because other than us, only the murderer knows these details, and I always assumed that was Lumin. Look, I’m … not entirely sure why I feel so strongly I should tell you this, but I do. Now that Lumin looks innocent, it’s critical information. Don’t repeat this to anyone unless you’re using it to confirm, understood?”
“Go ahead.”
“It’ll make you ill, Kat.”
“I’m already ill.”
“So, folks, please relax if you can. This will all be over in less than twenty minutes. And please know that even though I can never make amends, or ask your forgiveness, I am sorry for what I’ve put you through.”
Ken finished the PA. as Roger Matson finished speaking. Kat closed the cellular phone with deliberate care, trying not to betray the feeling of revulsion that had swept over her as he’d predicted. She thought for a second, the anger rising within, and reached for Rudy Bostich’s computer once again, determined to find the key. The reflected hand she had spotted in the picture of Melinda Wolfe was a start. It demanded closer examination.
The Last Hostage Page 37