A good omen, I hoped. “When will it be ready?”
“Already is.”
“Did you book the plane?”
“Working on it. Can’t have your name or mine on the manifest. Too easy for the Feds to trace. A hurricane’s supposed to hit South Florida tomorrow and has all the pilots skittish. There’s a small airstrip thirty minutes south of Talbott Island, and if I’m able to book a plane you can leave from there.”
I laid my head against the headrest. God, I was so tired. “Parsi and Erica will claim I’m on the run from the law. Hunt me down.”
“I’ll handle them. Once you text you’re in California, I’ll call a friend at the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, float the idea that Nathan and Erica’s team has a drug cartel snitch. Tell him about the threat. Understandable you’d secure a haven for your family.”
“Mom’s meeting me at the club at eight in the morning.”
“Stay at Spartina until you hear from me.” Fatherly concern rippled through his voice.
Cedar would be Nathan’s first call when he discovered me gone. “I’m not at Spartina. I’m on the way to Florida.”
“You’re what?”
I jerked the phone from my ear and kept the receiver a safe four inches away.
“I found evidence that Granddad socked thirty million in an offshore bank.” I waited for Cedar’s response. Dead silence. No doubt he was as shocked as I was. “Now that Cal’s dead, I’m the sole beneficiary. Cal was found in my investigator’s car. And tonight, Kathleen Lafferty told Nathan I sent Joseph on an errand and now he’s disappeared. Nathan confronted me. I know he’s close to arresting me.”
“For what?”
“Calvin’s murder.” My heart turned as dark as volcanic stone. “I will not go to jail and leave Owen unprotected.”
“The marshal remanded you to Spartina.” Cedar enunciated each syllable as if English wasn’t my first language. “Running makes you look guilty. You should’ve followed my instructions and let me handle things.”
“I don’t think the Cabrals are threatening Owen. If they have a snitch, they know their ring is compromised. Me going to the police would be moot. Doesn’t make sense they’d threaten to kill Owen. And if the Cabrals aren’t my enemy, who is? I have to get Owen’s to a safe place before Nathan throws me in jail.”
“The message didn’t say they’d kill your boy.”
Cedar’s condescending tone shred the last of my patience. “Never seeing Owen again constitutes a death threat.” I dropped my voice. Arguing accomplished nothing.
He blew a frustrated breath. “I told you I’d keep you out of jail.”
“Joseph’s the only person who cares if I keep my mouth shut. And he knows I’m innocent. I have to find Joseph. But first I want Owen safe. Are you going to help us get away or not?”
“I am helping you.” He huffed again, but this time more anxious than mad. “This hurricane has resulted in a mass exodus from South Florida. Every plane is booked. You may have to drive. I’ve got another call coming in, maybe it’s the pilot. I’ll call you back.”
I didn’t know any pilots personally, but I bought annual NetJet shares through Barry Real Estate, although a direct booking would require my name, or my company name on the manifest. I stopped at the last rest area before the Florida-Georgia line. Fished in my purse for the zippered pouch holding my collection of business cards. I found one for Chuck Mitchell, a NetJet pilot who’d recently flown me to Atlanta. I called, identified myself, and apologized for the late hour. “The last time we flew, you mentioned having a partnership in a private plane.”
“Yeah. A Cessna Citation XLS—sweet little ride.” His voice held the wonder of a first-time father describing his newborn.
“I need to get to California tomorrow. Three people.” My heart beat at the pace of a broken metronome. “Is there any way you can help me out?”
“How soon you need to leave?”
I did a fast calculation. “We can meet you in Jacksonville by ten o’clock.” I closed my eyes and said a prayer.
“Well.” He stretched the word into five. “My only plans for tomorrow involve my wife and my mother-in-law, so yeah, I can swing it. Long flight, we’ll have to stop and refuel half-way.”
I recognized the tone; we were about to negotiate price. I didn’t have time. “How much?”
“Cross country’s going to run you close to seven grand.”
I kept my voice light. “Cash okay?”
“Cash?” He laughed. “Okay, but only small unmarked bills.” I didn’t respond, and he cleared his throat. “Yeah. Cash is fine.”
“And Chuck, I don’t want my name on the manifest.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Erica walked into the Spartina kitchen, and Nathan glanced up from the three open reports on his computer. Plainly, personal hygiene hadn’t been on her morning to-do list. Her fatigues looked as if they’d endured twenty-four hours of continuous wear, and her hair needed a comb. Her disheveled appearance tugged something deep inside his chest—it felt a lot like regret. “How long since you slept?”
“Coming up on thirty-six hours.” She slipped a folded sheet from her back pocket and handed it to him. “DMV email with the tag number for the property manager’s Fusion.” She opened the Krispy Kreme box and picked up the last chocolate glazed, Nathan’s favorite.
For weeks Erica had scoffed at the idea Kate and the Cabral cartel had a connection. But Beth Thompson had disappeared, and Erica’s rose-colored glasses sat a little skewed. After Calvin’s murder, her tinted shades cracked. Then Kate and the Fusion went missing, and Erica stomped her pink spectacles to smithereens.
Erica’s new mantra: Kate Landers—the Southeast’s largest drug kingpin. No question. No debate. Based on circumstantial evidence and supposition, she’d built a relentless campaign for Kate’s indictment.
Nathan had shot her down.
Erica had bypassed Nathan and proposed the theory directly to the brass, requiring Nathan to spend two hours defending his opposing position. He had won the battle and submitted a request for Erica’s reassignment, citing her previous relationship with the Barry family as a hindrance to their investigation. He planned to give her the news before the replacement arrived, but Erica knew Kate better than anyone on the team, and until he cut her loose, he intended to hold her tether short and take advantage of her insight. “You see my last text?”
She finished off her donut and carried a Boston cream to the bar, Nathan’s second favorite. “Been too busy running down flight plans.” She licked cream off her finger and swiped it across the screen on her phone. “The email about the Charleston appraiser?”
“Sheriff’s original observation was off the mark.” Nathan searched the remaining donuts and slid a blueberry cake on a napkin. “The appraiser didn’t have a heart attack, and his head trauma wasn’t conducive to a fall. Coroner suspects foul play.”
“Bam.” Erica fist pumped. “That guy was Noah Barry’s go-to appraiser.”
Nathan’s espresso finished the brew cycle, and he joined Erica at the bar. “And now the guy meets his maker under questionable circumstances.”
“Doesn’t pass the smell test.” Erica licked vanilla cream from the corner of her mouth.
He shoved his napkin across the bar. “Joseph Lafferty left Savannah the same day the guy died—now Joseph’s skipped out.”
“He didn’t skip.” Erica picked up the napkin and wiped her mouth, then took a second bite. Cream oozed from the side and plopped on the counter. “The princess is a problem solver, always has been. Kate sent Lafferty on a trip just like the wife said. Jacob Lafferty’s dead. Kate’s afraid her second-in-command will come unglued and she’s somewhere trying to minimize the fallout. Only people who’ve disappeared into the wind are Kate’s private dick, Beth Thompson, and Kate.”
“Kate being responsible for the disappearance of her investigator and Beth Thompson is supposition.”
Erica played an air violin. �
��Now who’s the cheerleader?”
Heat slid down his spine and into his shoes. He blamed his flash of irritation on three hours of sleep and Erica eating his two favorite donuts. “You ran down the flights?”
“Nothing so far.”
“You try NetJets?”
“Nada. But Kate won’t go far from Florida. We’ve got Owen.”
He stuffed the last of his donut in his mouth, chewed, swallowed, and looked around for another napkin. He wiped his hands on his jeans. Nathan agreed Kate wouldn’t abandon her son. “Something caused Kate to bolt.” He suspected it was their last conversation in the atrium. He finished his coffee and carried his cup to the sink.
“We’ll be sure to ask the princess all about her reasons for leaving before we toss her in jail.”
“There’s no indictment, Erica.”
“Would be if I were heading the team.” She pursed her lips like a teen landing a zinger.
And a good reason you’re not. Nathan checked his phone and pulled up his notes. “I got the impression last night Kate was scared.” He gave Erica a minute to consider his read. “She left eight lawmen on her property, giving us opportunity to go through every inch of her house.”
“Only if we break in,” Erica said, clearly not buying it. “She left it locked tight.”
“If Kate’s guilty, she’d assume we’d get a warrant.” He reopened a report on his laptop. “Atlanta pulled together a map tagging the commercial real estate owned by Barry Real Estate—the warehouses are all on the East Coast. Take a look and see if anything pops.” He pushed his laptop across the bar to give her a better view.
“Holy crap. They’re all inland properties with direct ocean access.” She slapped her hand on the bar. “This proves Noah Barry was head of the Cabral cartel on the East Coast.”
Nathan grabbed a bottle of water out of the fridge. “Maybe he was, maybe not. But he’s dead.”
“He could’ve passed the baton.”
“To Calvin?”
“Cal didn’t have the smarts.” Erica sat silent. Then her gaze shifted. “Kate took over for her grandfather.”
“Kate worked for the past three years holding down a full-time bank position. As you pointed out yesterday and the day before and the day before that—running drugs ain’t no part-time gig.”
Erica gave him a suit-yourself-shrug. “All I know is our team moved into Spartina and everything went quiet. Even the street’s dried up.”
All true. Fatigue settled deep into his pores. He scrubbed his face. His eyelids felt as if someone had coated the inside with adhesive.
Last night, Kate had exhibited visceral signs of fear and guilt. Drug cartel kingpins might experience fear, but guilt wasn’t in a psychopath’s archetype. “I think Lafferty wiping his computer threw Kate.”
“She’s a number cruncher. Her primary job at the bank was to vet hedge funds.”
“Your point?”
“No way Lafferty hitched a ride down a road Kate didn’t check, cross reference, and map,” Erica said.
“Being trusting of an employee isn’t a crime.” He pressed two fingers against a knot lodged in his shoulder. Nathan wanted one more shot at Kate before she lawyered-up. His sixth sense, his training, everything he put into solving a case, told him Kate wasn’t a cold-blooded killer.
But he couldn’t discount Erica’s claim he was a dupe. Or ignore the fact that his stomach fluttered like a smitten teen every time Kate walked into the room. It was throwing off his mojo.
Erica opened the fridge and popped the top on a can of Diet Coke. “You think this appraiser’s death could be a coincidence?”
“Murder has no coincidences. Calvin Thompson, Jacob Lafferty, this last kid, what’s his name—Norwich, and the appraiser. And it doesn’t look good for Kate’s investigator, Ben Snider. The Cabral cartel’s covering their tracks.”
Erica ran a finger around her Coke can. “I don’t see their reasoning for whacking the appraiser.”
“I’m betting Kate’s figured it out, and she’s spooked. When we find her, I need her to talk. She doesn’t do that when you’re in the room.”
Erica slid onto a stool, laid her head against the wall, and closed her eyes. “Don’t bet on Katie spilling her guts with or without me in the room. She’s a student of Sun-Tzu.” She laughed. “Kate quotes The Art of War at dinner parties. Use to drive Adam crazy.”
The Art of War—Nathan could use that. But this morning, he had another battle to win. “I’m going to Savannah. Have a talk with Cedar Haynes’s staff.”
Erica didn’t bother to look up. “Waste of time without a warrant.”
“You take four hours and get some shut eye. Then check the destinations of every private plane that took off after nine o’clock last night.” He closed his laptop.
Erica grunted.
He stood in place.
She opened one eye and raised a thumb. “Got it. Before I hit the hay, is it okay if I issue a BOLO on the Fusion?”
“Yes.” He thought it’d be a waste of time. Kate was smart enough to dump the car, but busy work would keep Erica occupied.
Nathan stopped at the guesthouse and searched for slick, smooth-talking Texan clothes for his field trip to Cedar’s office. His choices were limited. He pulled on a white silk shirt, removed his socks, and slipped into tasseled loafers he only wore while working undercover. He plundered under the bathroom sink and found styling gel. Greasing his hair, he used his fingers to spike the ends into a punk-gangster style.
Haynes had morning court. Nathan’s wardrobe change was directed at Cedar’s assistant Shirleen, a single mom with a reputation for late-night partying. He counted on a bit of flirtatious chitchat leading to an invitation for Shirleen to accompany him in an impromptu New York City weekend, and then he’d ask her if she knew any private pilots. Thus netting the name of Cedar’s favored local pilot. But if Shirleen was a fail, Nathan had a plan B.
****
Zipping down Broughton Street, Nathan found a parking spot a half-block from Cedar Haynes’s law office. The office opened at nine. Five minutes later he stepped inside an empty lobby. A good sign the attorney wasn’t in residence.
Cedar’s receptionist wore skin-tight white pants and a purple jacket reminiscent of those worn by Spanish bullfighters. A nameplate advertising Lizzie Idleman sat on the desk.
The young lady was twenty-one years of age, a native Savannahian, and a recent graduate of SCAD, Savannah School of Arts and Design.
Lizzie was Nathan’s plan B.
She cast him a beaming smile. “Can I help you?” Based on a phone conversation with a SCAD’s record clerk, Lizzie had a fashion merchandising degree.
“Darlin’, are you a fashion model?” Nathan matched his smile to his twang.
Lizzie shifted in her seat and preened like a pedigreed poodle in front of a pack of mutts.
“I need a few minutes with Mr. Haynes this morning,” he said.
“Mr. Haynes is in court today.” She flipped her jet-black Elvira hair over her shoulder in one smooth, practiced move.
Nathan shot her a deflated frown. “Now that’s a shame. How about his assistant?” He closed his eyes, snapped his fingers. “I think her name is Shirleen.”
“Her son had an accident at school. She rushed over to the emergency room. I’m not sure when she’ll be back.” Lizzie pushed a group of wooden bangles up her forearm, slid her notepad from the corner of the desk, and looked up expectantly. “If you leave your contact information, I can have Shirleen call you.”
Nathan donned his jacket, slipped his badge from his back pocket, and held it in front of Lizzie’s face. “Marshal Nathan Parsi.”
Lizzie’s eye widened. She studied his badge, then rolled her chair back.
“What time do you expect Mr. Haynes?”
“No idea.” Lizzie’s face would make a suitable substitute for a roadblock. “He’s in the middle of a case. Could be today. Could be tomorrow.” She swiveled and glanced down the hal
l.
Nathan figured he had less than ten seconds before she called for backup. “Well, Lizzie, looks like you and I will be having a private chat.”
She ran her long slender fingers through her hair again, gave it a little shake. “Not without a warrant.” Her hand inched toward her desk phone.
Cedar’s gatekeeper was well coached. Nathan leaned in three more inches. “Our conversation won’t affect client confidentialities. It’ll be about you.”
Her brow wrinkled.
“Chief Ellington’s a friend of mine.” Nathan straightened to his full height. “You were the topic of our conversation earlier this morning.”
“Me?” Understanding settled over her face like a veil.
“We can talk here if you want.” He raised his voice. “Makes no difference to me.”
Her gaze skittered toward the hall. “Not here.”
“Starbucks. Five minutes.” Nathan waited until she nodded her agreement, and then walked out of the office without a shred of guilt. Lizzie Idleman was about to learn a valuable lesson. One day, if she were half as smart as she was pretty, she’d be grateful—but probably not today.
He commandeered a corner table at Starbucks across the room from the line of addicts waiting patiently for their five-dollar fixes. Not that the privacy issue concerned him, but he was sure it’d be paramount to Lizzie.
She entered, maneuvered through the crowd, and stopped at his table.
He half-stood. “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me.”
“Did I have a choice?”
“Sure. We could’ve had this conversation at the police station.” Nathan waited until she sat. “This is how it works. I ask questions. You answer.” The chatter around their table faded into the background. “And I’ll know if you’re lying.”
She jerked back as if Nathan were toxic. “I’d prefer to wait until Cedar’s available.”
A chastised expression settled over Nathan’s face. “Trust me. You don’t want to make me wait.”
“What happens if I refuse to talk to you?”
Changing Tides Page 20