The Mather Triad: Series Boxed Set (Chloe Mather Thrillers)

by Lawrence Kelter

  I looked over my shoulder and waved to my mother through the kitchen window. Grace was performing her late morning ritual, plunging a pot of Italian roast and washing berries. Our house overlooked Huntington Harbor. I call it a house, but compound was a better description—it was living quarters for the three of us. Grace had her own wing on the upstairs level. The master bedroom was on the first floor, which allowed Liam and me to carry on our sexually depraved lives with a reasonable amount of privacy. Not that Grace really cared. She might portray herself as a proper lady, a woman in the mold of her idol Margaret Thatcher, but let’s just say that she’s shared a few tawdry tales on occasion while loose with liquor, and it sounded as if she’d done her share of mad shagging in her premarital days.

  I checked my watch. “I have to go, babe. Duty calls.” I planted a smooch on his cheek. “Keep the windows open, and don’t stink up the house too much.” Liam was using his last few days of vacation to freshen up the kitchen.

  Liam bowed in dramatic fashion while maintaining a wiseass grin. “Yes, my liege. Your royal orders are my command. I shall commence the painting forthwith and leave nary a stink to offend thy most delicate nostrils.”

  “Ballbuster.”

  “Shrew!”

  The absurdity of his response made me giggle. I planted a juicy one on his lips. “Shrew you.”

  I checked my watch again. I was meeting Wallace at JFK and had to leave time to pick up Agent Cabrera along the way. “I really have to go.”

  “Indeed. Gettest to JFK and make most hasty dispatch.”

  “All right, Shakespeare, cool your jets. I’m going.” I waved to Grace. “Remember,” I warned lightheartedly, “I don’t want to come home to a chartreuse-colored kitchen.”

  “I was thinking a Jetsons look might be nice,” he snickered. “Something futuristic.”

  I seared him with my gaze. It was our house, but it was Grace’s kitchen, and her mantra was, “You need a proper kitchen to prepare a proper meal.” She was like the Julia Child of Anglo cooking and actually knew how to make English cuisine taste good, which was not exactly easy. Good thing too, because although I could break down and reassemble a rifle with the best of them, my cooking skills began with snack bars and ended with the speed dial for Chinese takeout.

  “You know what? Skip it. I’ll let Mamasiits pick the color.” It was Liam’s nickname for Grace, but he wouldn’t dare call her Mamasiits to her face. It was a reference he only used around me. Grace was addressed only as Grace or Mother. Calling her anything else normally resulted in a furious tongue-lashing.

  “You know, one day you’re going to forget whom you’re talking to, and Grace will chop off your reproductive equipment.”

  He cringed. I believe the point had been successfully driven home.

  Anyway, I knew that I was safe with my mother in attendance and felt pretty confident that I’d come home to a kitchen reminiscent of an English castle. Liam knew better than to screw with the Iron Lady.

  Chapter 4

  Ariel Ganz closed his eyes and cracked his neck before checking the flight time on the aircraft control console. “Ten hours exactly.”

  Dov Bauman, the copilot, turned to him. “Your back acting up again?”

  Ganz squirmed in the pilot’s chair. “Like clockwork; I can set my watch by my back spasms. Of course, sitting in the cockpit for twelve hours at a clip doesn’t help anything. Don’t get old, Dov.” The Israeli Air Force Gulfstream V was en route to JFK Airport, about ninety minutes out. “I’d better check in with traffic control. We’ll be coming off the North Atlantic track in a few minutes.” A light rapping on the cockpit door interrupted him before he could key his headset microphone. The few passengers aboard the IAF transcontinental jet were military personnel with top-level security clearance. Ganz twisted the cockpit security latch without questioning who wanted access. “Arayngeyn.”

  Dalit Schecter, the purser, entered the cockpit carrying two cups of steaming tea and assorted snacks: pita wedges, hummus, and sugarcoated dates.

  “About time,” Ganz said. “I’m running on vapors.”

  Bauman grinned. “As long as the Gulfstream isn’t.” He reached for a date. “This is my addiction,” he said as he bit one in half. “I could eat the whole tray.”

  “But you won’t.” Ganz raised an intimidating eyebrow and popped a date in his mouth. “Ah. Good.” He turned to Schecter. “Did you sweeten the tea?” he asked as he chewed.

  “Two sugars in each,” she said as she set each cup into a holder. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “A faster airplane,” Ganz quipped. “My back is killing me.”

  Schecter smiled quaintly. “Will we land on time?”

  “If JFK isn’t stacked up,” Bauman replied.

  Ganz took a sip of tea to wash the sticky fruit off of his teeth. “That’s all,” he said dismissively. He keyed his headset microphone just as the purser exited the cockpit. “Boston, good afternoon, Israel alfa foxtrot four-five-zero with you, two-zero-zero.”

  Boston ARTCC Sardi Sector, radar position: “Israel alfa foxtrot four-fifty, Boston center roger.”

  Ganz: “Do you have our request?”

  Boston: “Affirmative.”

  Ganz: “Thanks.”

  Boston: “Israel alfa foxtrot four-fifty, I’m gonna be unable to do direct to Bergh here to cut you right across the Kennedy departure track, and in the event you have no transponder, I need to leave you on the airways until you get into the warning area.”

  Ganz: “And four-five-zero, roger, we understand. We’ll stay with the airways.”

  Boston: “Roger.”

  “Thanks for trying,” Ganz said and released his microphone button. He retrieved his waist pack from the storage compartment. “Time for a couple of A Bombs,” he jested as he unzipped the waist pack, shook two Aleve tablets into his open palm, and washed them down with his hot tea. “Better get comfortable,” he said to Bauman. “We may be up here a while.”

  “Don’t you just love the Big Apple?” Bauman asked sarcastically. He was chewing on another date when he began to cough.

  “Are you all right?”

  Bauman nodded to reassure Ganz, but he continued to cough.

  “Something go down the wrong pipe?” Ganz asked, sounding mildly concerned.

  “I’ll be okay in a—” Coughing interrupted his statement. He took a gulp of tea and then cleared his throat. “Better,” he said in a hoarse voice. “I’m going aft to wash my face. My lips and mouth are tingling.”

  “Sounds like an allergic reaction.”

  “To what?” Bauman asked. “Dates? I eat them all the time. Be right back.”

  “Sure. Go stretch your legs. I’ve got the airplane.”

  Bauman removed his headset and unlatched his safety harness. He continued to cough as he left the cockpit.

  Ganz waited for Bauman to leave and then keyed his mic again. “Boston Israel alfa foxtrot four-five-zero, can I get any help on that routing?”

  Boston: “Israel alfa foxtrot four-fifty, Boston center, roger. Is there an issue?”

  Ganz: “My copilot is not well.”

  Boston: “Roger. Something serious?”

  Ganz: “Just being cautious.”

  Boston: “Let me check with New York.”

  Ganz: “Thanks. Standing by.”

  ~~~

  Walt Samuels, the Boston air traffic controller, kept his eyes glued to the radar screen even after noticing that Pete Yeager, his shift supervisor, was standing behind him.

  “What’s up with the IAF flight?” Yeager asked.

  “Sick copilot,” Samuels said. “I was just about to call Atlantic for a hot ticket.”

  “Better get to it, I don’t want Israeli military on hold,” Yeager said. “Chop-chop.”

  Samuels jumped on the request. “Atlantic sixty-seven Hampton.”

  New York ARTCC: “Atlantic’s on.”

  Samuels: “I have a question for you.”

  New Yo
rk: “What’ve you got?”

  Samuels: “Actually, I’m gonna flash this guy to you, but please don’t take the handoff—he’s too far away.”

  New York: “Roger.”

  Samuels: “Northeast of Hampton, that IAF four-fifty.”

  New York: “IAF four-fifty, I’ve got a ticket on him.”

  Samuels: “He’s got a sick copilot and wants to go to Bergh. He’s at twenty thousand. If he doesn’t go there, he’s primary, only I still have him down the airways. I don’t know how that’s gonna conflict with your Kennedy departures trying to climb above him.”

  New York: “He’s primary, only I can’t really work him primary down that corridor.”

  Samuels: “So just tell him his routing is Bergh, and then I guess he’s doing some air work when he gets there.”

  New York: “Yeah, I mean I can take him direct to Bergh if he’s gonna go operational when he gets there. Do you know?”

  Samuels: “Ah, let me check with him and ask. I think he is.”

  New York: “If he’s gonna go VFR, that’s not a problem. He can even go direct to Bergh or down jet one-twenty-one amber three hundred, but working him IFR, that’d be a problem without a transponder.”

  Samuels: “Okay, so I’ll tell him if he’s gonna go VFR, you can work him; if he’s not, then you cannot take him that way.”

  New York: “Roger. He’d be right in the middle of the corridor for all the departures and stuff like that, and if he’s sitting at twenty thousand, I’ve got to climb through him, and I won’t be able to see him too well out there.”

  Samuels: “Okay, I’ll let him know. Thanks.”

  Yeager was still standing behind Samuels, listening to his side of the conversation with the New York air traffic controller. “Atta boy.” He patted Samuels on the shoulder and walked to the adjacent air traffic controller.

  Samuels: “Israel alfa foxtrot four-fifty, ah, whenever you got a minute, I’ve got a question for you from the next controller.”

  Ganz: “Four-five-zero, roger. We’re ready.”

  Samuels: “Roger, sir, ah, do you plan on going VFR when you get down to the Bergh intersection? He can’t take you IFR,” Samuels said, informing Ganz that he had to use visual flight rules, because departure traffic from JFK was too congested for him to perform an instrument landing.

  Ganz answered immediately, “That’s affirmative, VFR. Thanks.” He heard the latch on the cockpit door unlock the moment his conversation with Boston air traffic control ended. He took one look at Dov Bauman’s pale, clammy face and knew that his request for priority routing had been well advised.

  Chapter 5

  Special Agent Dominic Cabrera opened his front door, wearing a wife beater and slacks. I’d worked with him extensively and already knew what to expect. The man was a real piece of work.

  “Morning, Dom,” I said. “Geez, you’re not ready?” I said as I checked my watch. “You know we can’t be late.”

  Cabrera gazed at me with his customary deadpan expression. “Come on in, Gumdrop.”

  Cabrera wasn’t so much a machete of a man as he was a pocketknife. He wasn’t big and obtrusive so much as skillful and dependable. I knew that despite his off-color banter, he’d always be there for me. He was one of the few men who could call me a name like Gumdrop and get away with it. Anyone else would have paid the price.

  “I’ll be ready in a jiffy,” he continued. “I just need to pop a couple of boils and take my green tea enema.”

  I cackled. Now that’s a greeting.

  Cabrera looked as if he’d had a rough night. The bags under his eyes were large enough to tote watermelons, and a V2 electronic cigarette dangled from his pasty, wrinkled lips.

  He stepped aside to let me into his garden apartment, which was sandwiched between two Indian families. The odor of curry was everywhere. It had somehow penetrated the walls of his apartment, permeating the air with a rather aromatic tang. It was either that or Cabrera was wearing week-old underpants—knowing Dom, either was a reasonable explanation.

  Cabrera lifted his arms one by one and proceeded to slather his armpits with Herban Cowboy Maximum Strength Natural Grooming Deodorant stick, which sported a picture of a pine tree. I don’t want to say that he needed to shave his underarms, but it looked like he was smuggling Billy Gibbons and Dusty Hill under his arms. On a positive note, he was really laying it on thick, and the strong pine aroma completely eclipsed the odor of malingering curry, which had begun to make my nose twitch.

  “You really like to butter those wings, don’t you?”

  “Listen, Gumdrop, my father’s Mexican and my mother’s French Creole. They haven’t invented an antiperspirant strong enough to hold my manly musk at bay. On a humid day I can give limburger a run for its money.”

  TMI. I rolled my eyes. “O-kay. Then by all means, paint those bad boys until they surrender.”

  Cabrera had a dense beard. He was freshly shaven, but the shadow was still there. He snorted to clear his nose. “Cop a squat, Gumdrop. I’ll be with you in two shakes. Literally, two shakes. I have to pee.” He turned and walked off.

  I opted to stand and checked out his bachelor pad, which was decorated in contemporary baseball, Yankees baseball to be specific: gloves, bats, and balls adorned wall shelving, as well as framed Mickey Mantle jerseys. He even had a display case of Yankee bobble-head dolls. The place looked like a baseball museum.

  His apartment had thin walls, and I could hear the sound of the toilet flushing. Water splashed in the sink for a long while, and I took comfort in the fact that Cabrera had taken adequate time to wash up. After his comments about boils and enemas and such, I was contemplating the purchase of a radiation suit to keep his cooties at bay. Having spent extensive time in the Helmand River Valley in Afghanistan, I had no great love for parasites.

  Cabrera was now fully dressed, replete with a suit jacket, shirt, and tie. He grabbed his keys and wallet off the coffee table and took a moment to adjust his holster. “Ready,” he announced. “Let’s make like a gymnast and split.”

  How original. I shook my head in dismay. “I see that your collection is growing—this place is beginning to look like Cooperstown.”

  “It’s better than Cooperstown. Have you ever seen the women from Cooperstown?” he asked rhetorically. “The designer shoe warehouse up there is called Hooves and Horseshoes.”

  I said nothing but instead redirected my thoughts, How quickly can we race to the airport? “Hop in,” I said as we approached my SUV.

  “So what’s the name of this guy we’re meeting?” he asked.

  “You weren’t briefed?” I asked skeptically.

  “Yeah, I was briefed. You know that I have trouble with names.”

  And you’re an FBI agent, how? “Elias. Ben Elias. He’s an Israeli dignitary, so try not to embarrass us by calling him Shlomo or Yussel or something equally narrow-minded.”

  “Me?” He placed his hand over his heart. “I’m offended. I love the Jewish people. In fact, I could go for a nice brisket sandwich and matzo ball soup right now. Don’t worry. I won’t check to see if he’s been circumcised.”

  Okay, so Dom was obviously a little vulgar, but at least he wasn’t a wet blanket, and to tell the truth, he kind of breaks me up. Whoa! Hold up, Cabrera just scratched his junk, and that’s where I draw the line. True, I’m a spitfire kind of gal, but beneath the rock-hard veneer I’m still a woman, and tuning the tuba in my presence is just plain bad mannered. “Hey! Do you think you can leave yourself alone long enough for us to get to the airport?”

  Cabrera grimaced. “What, this?”

  Christ, he did it again. “Yeah. That. Exactly that. Keep your hands off Little Dom.”

  “You’re very much mistaken; this ain’t Little Dom,” he said with a smug expression on his face.

  Big surprise, he’s going to tell me that his johnson is called Big Dom. How juvenile. “Why am I mistaken?”

  “Because, his name isn’t Little Dom, it’s Mr. Pacino.”


  Okay, I’ll bite. No. Not literally. “Why do you call him Mr. Pacino, because you want me to say hello to your little friend?”

  He sneered. “Buzzkill.”

  Counting the minutes. Counting the minutes. Go somewhere else in your mind. You’re on the boat. The breeze is incredible, and you’re drooling over Liam’s bare chest. Better.

  Elias was in town on some rather unpleasant business. Rachel Rabin, the woman whose mutilated body had been discovered in the Shinnecock Bay, was an Israeli National, here on a work visa. Elias was arriving by jet directly from Tel Aviv. My assignment was to coordinate the investigation with the police and the Israelis.

  I glanced over at Cabrera. He had his iPhone out and was checking his email. What a clown. I wondered if he had a big red nose in his pocket and carried a can of silly string instead of mace. “Anything interesting?” I asked.

  “Lots of good stuff: Columbian Dating, Russian Brides … oh, here’s a good one, Horny Singles Over Fifty. I think I’ll bookmark that one. I’m a real Casanova with the hip-replacement crowd.”

  I’ll just bet you are. “What an impressive dating strategy. So what’s our best route to JFK?”

  He fired off directions without so much as an instant of delay. “Take the SOB to the LIE to the Southern State to the Belt.” I guessed he knew his way around.

  Cabrera was probably right, but I doubted that he had bothered with the traffic report. “I checked the traffic before I left the house, and there was an accident on the Southern State. It’s probably still a parking lot. Why don’t you ask Siri for the best route?”

  “Siri? You’ve got to be kidding. I don’t ask that uppity bitch anything. Watch this.” Cabrera pressed the Home button on his iPhone. “Siri, navigate to JFK.”