Ron cocked an eyebrow and coughed. “Did I get him?” he asked, smiling.
“You slowed him down. Will that do?”
“Go get him, tiger.”
I nodded and pushed off like a sprinter, headed for the fire stairs door that was edging closed. I hit the door at pace and leaped down the stairs four or five at a time, lucky not to break an ankle on the turn, and burst out into the lobby. The big unit who patrolled that area was waiting. I assumed Finau had given him instructions to stop me, because that’s what he tried to do. He lunged with a hefty fist that would have ended up somewhere in the middle of my brain, but didn’t. He was strong but slow, and I dodged him easily. He was ready for me to try sidestepping him again, this time spreading his legs to provide better sideways movement. I didn’t have time to negotiate or show him the error of his ways, and his move provided me with the tactical advantage. He outmatched me physically in every area, except one. So I lined him up, and like a punter with two seconds on the clock, I kicked for the game winner. I connected right between his balls and butt bone, and with a pretty nasty crack, he collapsed. Had he been standing properly, I would never have gotten past his chunky thighs, but that’s the rub of the green. I vaulted over him and dashed out onto the casino floor.
The place was quiet as usual, and I dodged between the card tables with ease. Problem was, I wasn’t sure where Finau had gone. The big guy lying in the hallway with his hand on his crotch had slowed me down enough. Then I saw Roto. He was running out of the jai alai fronton and caught my eye.
“Señor Miami!” he yelled, pointing into the fronton.
I sprinted to him, and together we ran into the fronton. The other pelotari were gathered around, the game having been stopped by a big Tongan running through.
“He went to the back,” said one of the pelotari, whose name escaped me. In their polo playing shirts they all looked the same to me.
“We have to get him,” I yelled at Roto. “He’s the one who tried to kill you.”
Roto yelled a command, something in Spanish, and the pelotari started moving. I didn’t wait to see what they were up to. I charged for the door.
I burst out into the dull sunlight, gravel crunching underfoot, the drone of the freeway omnipresent. Scanning the parking lot, I saw no movement. Then the door thrust open behind me and a troop of jai alai players marched out. They lined up in formation, like an artillery battalion, each man having strapped on their cesta—the long basket they used for jai alai.
“There.” One of the players pointed, using his cesta to direct our attention. About a hundred yards out, Finau stood up from behind a car and made a break for his own vehicle. He had to give up his cover to do it—the lot being as sparsely populated as ever. I watched Finau run away, frozen in spot. I couldn’t get to him before he reached his car, and my car was parked even further away. He was going to get away.
Then Roto stepped up and yelled.
“Fire!”
The line of pelotari loaded up their cestas with pelotas, the hard balls that were designed to smash against a granite wall, and they swung and thrust their right arms with the ferocity of a fastball pitcher, shooting balls into the air like mini missiles. The power behind the throws was awesome, and I realized why these guys were so athletic-looking and came off the court covered in sweat. It was harder than it looked. But the pelotari were pros.
The first pelota exploded a shower of gravel in front of Finau, making him slow down, not sure if he was being shot at. The second pelota hit a car just behind him with a tremendous metallic crack, leaving a huge divot in the trunk. Then the sky fell. Hard, goat skin-covered balls dropped from the sky at an alarming velocity, smashing around and into Finau. He was hit in the stomach by a low-slung shot that nearly launched him off his feet, then one cracked into his right shin, dropping him to his knees. I had to think that would smart, if not break bone. Several more shots hit him in the chest and shoulders, dropping him fully to the ground. There was a hiatus, where the sky cleared and the battery stopped. Finau picked himself up onto his hands and knees, looking my way. He smiled. He had withstood our assault, and was out of here.
But the pelotari were not done. Someone had dragged out a bag of pelotas, and the boys reloaded. Again, like a row of slingshots they thrust the pelota bombs across the parking lot, and as the sky filled with the hard balls once more, I saw Finau lose his smile. The jai alai boys must have found their range on the first round, because the second volley was targeted with laser-like accuracy. The pelotas rained down on Finau, onto his chest and shoulders and head, knocking him senseless. As the pelotari finished their throws, we ran forward in formation, like a forwarding army, toward Finau. I wasn’t wearing a cumbersome basket on one arm, so I got to him first. He was out cold, which was a good thing because he looked like a sleeping bear. The rest of the guys arrived, and they wasted no time trussing him up like a Thanksgiving turkey, using the long reeds that were used to create the cestas.
The Palm Beach County Judicial Complex was on Gun Club Road, not too far from us, and although this was technically police territory, I called the number I had on speed dial in my phone.
“Palm Beach Sheriff’s Office, how may I direct your call?”
“Is that Lucy?” I said, recognizing the voice as one of the civilian reception staff at the office.
“Who am I speaking to?”
“Lucy, this is Miami Jones.”
“Miami, how are you?” she said.
“So-so, Luce. I’ve got a guy at the West Palm Jai Alai who tried to kill one of the players.”
“Are you safe?”
“He’s unconscious right now, but some proper cuffs pretty soon would be nice.”
“I’ll get a patrol car out to you right now.”
I left the pelotari to guard Finau and jogged back into the fronton, past the jai alai court and onto the gaming floor. The big unit I had kicked in the coccyx was gone, so I ran up the stairs, one at a time. I really needed to get into shape. I found Ron sitting against the doorjamb of Jenny’s office, where I had left him.
“Having a day off?” I said.
“Do I have a fruity drink in my hand?”
“No,” I said.
“Then not a day off.” Ron looked into the office, and then back at me. “She kicked me, Miami. Kicked me. In the face. I’m lucky I didn’t lose an eye.”
“Where is she, Ron?”
“She ran. She’s gone. And I’m here to tell you, she’s not nearly as nice as you think she is.”
I nodded.
I had managed to get to that conclusion all by myself.
Chapter Forty
THE QUESTION WAS, where would an out-of-towner go on the run? I helped Ron up, his injuries superficial but sure to grow into severe wounds the more he told the story, and we hotfooted it down to the rental car.
“What does she drive?” said Ron.
“What do you think? A convertible. Lexus, I think.”
“Get the cops to put out a BOLO?”
“Not a bad idea, but we don’t know the license plate and they’re not going to stop every convertible Lexus in the Palm Beaches. That would annoy some very serious people.”
We got in the car and I pulled out toward the exit with no idea where I was going. I headed right, thinking she might hit the freeway.
“Okay, let’s think about this,” said Ron. “Where would you go if you were on the run?”
“Easy. Longboard’s. I could hide there for a month, beer included.”
“All right, so let’s assume Almondson isn’t going to do that,” he said.
“What about you, where would you go?” I said, pulling out onto I-95, moving for the sake of moving.
“Me? I’d head for the marina.”
“The marina?”
“Yep. I’d grab the first boat I could and sail for the Bahamas.”
“She’s from New Jersey. Let’s assume she doesn’t know sailing and doesn’t know where the Bahamas are. Where do
you go?”
We both looked out the window at the same time, cruising along the freeway as a passenger jet dropped over our heads toward the airport.
Ron spun to look at me, but I was already looking at him. I glanced back at the road a split second too late, as we went zooming by the airport exit. I smashed on the brakes and skidded into the stopping lane. There was traffic behind me but not a lot, so I dropped the gear in reverse and hurtled backwards along the freeway. Horns were blaring, but I kept going, onto the island that separated the freeway from the off-ramp. I crunched the gear back into drive, and the little car screamed, and tires skidded and a minivan jumped on the brakes with full horn, just missing us. I screamed down the off-ramp, ignoring the light as I wrenched the car onto Belvedere Road.
As I drove, Ron got on my phone and called the last number again. He told the dispatcher who he was, and that he was with me, and he said that the other suspect was probably headed for PBI, and for them to call the airport cops.
“She’s got patrols at the airport already, more on the way,” said Ron. “Their guys on the ground are contacting airport police.”
We pulled off Belvedere and onto the access road to the terminal. Palm Beach International Airport doesn’t get the traffic of the bigger hubs in Lauderdale and Miami, but what it does get is plenty of lost octogenarians. We were met with a wall of slow-moving rental cars and forty-year-old Cadillacs. Cars were slowing to read the signs overhead, terminal directions and long-term parking and rental car return. One Caddie made their turn across three lanes, sans indicator. No one but me seemed to mind. I saw a guy in a hat take some eyeglasses from his wife and put them on, all without holding the steering wheel. I wondered how he had been reading the road signs up until that point.
We crawled up to the terminal, and I pulled into a white zone at a haphazard angle, and Ron and I jumped out and ran for the doors. A traffic cop called after us.
“You can’t leave your vehicle. Loading and unloading only.”
We didn’t wait to chat about it. We ran into the departures level. There were people with suitcases on roller wheels everywhere. No one seemed to be where they wanted to be, because everyone was in motion. Which made it impossible to spot any one suspect. Ron slapped my chest and pointed to the departure board. I scanned the options. There was a flight to Westchester, New York, leaving in ten minutes.
“New York,” I said. “Heading to home base?”
Ron shook his head.
“Three hours in the air. Cops could check the manifest and have a team waiting at the other end. I’d want to leave the country.”
I was scanning the board again when a hand dropped on my shoulder.
“That your car parked like a drunk out there?” It was the traffic cop.
“Officer, my name is Miami Jones. We called in an attempted murder suspect possibly trying to flee via the airport. Did you get the call?”
He dropped his chin to the handset of his radio and called it in. It came back affirmative.
“Where is the suspect headed?”
“We don’t know,” I said. “Maybe the islands. Do you know when the next flight out is?”
“There,” he pointed to the board. “Nassau. Departing in fifteen.”
“Not long enough to get through security, is it?”
“It is if you’re flying first class,” he said.
I had no doubt that Jenny Almondson would fly up at the front of the plane. She was that kind of gal.
“Where?” I said.
The cop nodded and started jogging away, and Ron and I followed. We left the check-in kiosks and rows of luggage, and headed past a coffee shop toward the security line.
“She could be through,” I said. The traffic cop stepped over to the TSA agent checking IDs, and gave her the lowdown. The agent nodded, and the cop turned to me.
“I’ll walk the concourse, see if anyone fits your description. Pretty blond, you say?”
I nodded.
“That narrows it down,” he said.
“In a black pinstripe business suit.”
“Okay, not so many of them here.”
The cop took off through the security cordon, and Ron and I decided to wander in opposite directions to see if we saw her. I headed back toward the check-in kiosks, rows of sad faces leaving Florida and returning to shoveling snow and frozen windshields and iced-up streets. I dashed back out to the road and scanned the traffic and the stopped vehicles. She might have gone to the long-term lot. It wouldn’t have been as quick, but it would be more under the radar, and she probably didn’t know we were this close. Assuming, of course, that she was at the airport at all. She could just as easily have stayed on I-95. Eighteen hours later she’d find herself crossing the George Washington Bridge into Manhattan. I turned away, doubting our logic now, but sure that this was the better play for the moment. If she was on the freeway, we had more time. I-95 was covered in CCTV cameras designed to read license plates, so if she was still in her Lexus, there was a chance we’d find her. Not so much if she landed in a foreign country. I wandered back inside and scanned the faces again, seeing nothing.
Then I froze.
Walking away from a first-class check-in desk was a black pinstripe suit, draped in blond hair. For a moment I hesitated, watching her walk. She had no luggage and walked with as much speed as high heels allowed without looking clumsy.
“Jenny,” I called. My voice was swallowed in the white noise of people and movement and electronics. I took two steps toward a long trolley of luggage and gave it another go.
“Jenny!”
Heads turned in my direction. One of them was the blond in the pinstripes. She was frowning, not a great look for her, and her eyes scanned the crowd for the source. Then they locked on me. For a moment Jenny and I looked at each other across the humdrum of the terminal. Her face softened slightly, or that might just have been the light. Then she set her jaw.
“I told you, I’m not running a two-bit jai alai show forever,” she said.
“What did Hoskin offer you?” I realized now that Danielle was right; teamwork was everything, and competitors were often better as partners.
Jenny shook her head. “Offer me?” She laughed but not because anything was funny. “He didn’t offer me anything. You don’t get it.”
“Tell me. We can work it out,” I said, not really believing the words spilling from my mouth.
Jenny stood erect, defiant to the end. “I don’t need your help, Miami. I have all the help I need.”
“You mean Hoskin? He’s going to hang you out to dry.”
“Hoskin doesn’t tell my people what to do.” Jenny glanced sideways, along the rows of check-in kiosks, and I saw her eye fix on something. I turned and saw what had her attention. Two airport cops were wandering across the concourse, on routine patrol. I looked back to Jenny. She looked at me.
Then she ran.
I had no idea what her thought process was at this point, but I guessed if the options were fight or flight, and you had chosen flight, you just kept running, come hell or high water, until you escaped or were caught.
She flicked off her shoes in a well-practiced move, then ran away in stockinged feet. I chased after her. There were more people around me, so I did a lot of bumping and got a lot of nasty looks, and by the time I had made it through the check-in area, she had put some distance between us. I took off faster now and saw Jenny running past the security line, toward the end of the terminal. She hit the skids for some reason and slid along the smooth floor, her stockings providing no traction. Then I saw why she had stopped. A team of airport police were ambling up the terminal, headed her way. They didn’t seem to be looking for her, but seeing her skid to a stop and turn away piqued their interest. She ran from them, back toward me.
“Jenny,” I said again, and again she skidded to a stop, right in front of the security line. She turned to the door out of the terminal, perhaps abandoning her flight plans, and started toward it. But it wasn�
�t her lucky day. As she did, the doors slid open and four Palm Beach sheriff’s deputies strode in. They, unlike the airport cops, were very much looking for Jenny. I saw her stiffen and freeze. I glanced back at the deputies and noticed one of them was different than the others. This one was a woman. She was making the uniform look a hell of a lot better than the guys. Her brown hair shone and her piercing eyes never left the suspect. I watched as Danielle pulled her sidearm from its holster. She pointed it at Jenny.
“Freeze,” she said. Her colleagues joined in the chorus, then it was like rounds as the airport cops got in on the act and started yelling Freeze and Police.
Jenny panicked. It was a natural, understandable reaction. Freezing was the smart play, but she was in flight mode, and she turned and ran, her feet slipping on the plastic tile, pumping with limited effect, like the Road Runner building up momentum, then bursting away from the coyote. Jenny ran toward security, past the woman checking IDs. Once she hit the carpet she got traction and picked up speed, around the rope line that was herding travelers like cattle. She hurdled the final rope with impressive ease and dashed for the X-ray scanner. She hit the scanner and it burst to life, probably from coins or pens or her watch, and through she went. Somewhere deep down she had to know she was headed for a dead end, but where there’s life, there’s hope.
And then there was a large TSA agent. She was tasked with patting down female passengers and was watching as Jenny burst through the security scanner, setting the thing off. The TSA agent was not armed, but that didn’t dissuade her. As Jenny stepped to run around her, the agent put her arm out straight and poleaxed her. The stiff arm coat-hangered her, right in the throat. Jenny’s momentum kept her feet going, the lower half of her body flying straight under the agent’s arm, but her upper half came to a violent and sudden stop. Jenny flipped, crashing onto her back, grabbing at her throat, and sucking for air.
The TSA agent’s face did not change. She was passive, her face devoid of emotion, like there was no difference between patting down a traveler and almost decapitating a fugitive. The airport cops ran through the security cordon, weapons drawn, but their work had been done for them. Jenny Almondson wasn’t going anywhere fast. Paramedics were called, and the deputies put their sidearms away. Danielle saw me and wandered over.
High Lie Page 19