Fatal Demand

by Nigel Blackwell Diane Capri

  Jess felt her anger building. Wilson Grantly had involved himself in a dirty money scheme and then roped his parents into it as well. They were ninety years old, and he was treating them as he must have all his life. As a convenience, a useful source of money, someone to sacrifice for his own hide. Jess could muster no sympathy for Wilson Grantly. He and Blazek were two of a kind.

  Harriet stood alone on the tarmac, her needleless bag of yarn by her side. Roger was being loaded into the ambulance. Jess clenched her fists. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t let them make any more sacrifices. She grabbed her bag, rushed to the back of the aircraft, and down the stairs to the tarmac.

  She reached Harriet while they were still securing Roger into the ambulance. “Mrs. Grantly?” Jess said, gently touching her arm to avoid startling her.

  Harriet turned around. Her eyes didn’t focus on Jess. “Yes, dear?”

  “Harriet, let me help you.”

  “Oh, my dear, I’m quite sure you cannot help me. Although I wish you could,” Harriet said.

  Roger was secured in the ambulance, motionless, breathing through an oxygen mask. The paramedic turned his attention to Harriet. “It’s time to go Mrs. Grantly,” he said, offering her a hand to climb into the back with Roger.

  Harriet looked around. She stepped behind Jess, scanning the tarmac. “Where is our luggage? I need our bags. They, they…” She grabbed Jess’s arm. “We need them.”

  Jess patted her hand. “I know.”

  Harriet looked at the ambulance, and the paramedic with his hand outstretched. She swallowed. A tear ran down her cheek. She wiped her nose and pressed her lips together, but her chin still quivered.

  Jess wrapped her fingers through hers. “Give me your claim ticket, and let me collect your luggage. You can go with Roger. I’ll find you. We’ll get this all worked out.”

  Harriet held her fist over her mouth. “I…I…”

  “We have to go, lady,” called the paramedic.

  Jess turned to the paramedic. “What’s your name?”

  “Callum Black.”

  “I’m Jessica Kimball. Thanks for taking good care of my friends. Where are you taking him?”

  “We’re required to transport him to the closest facility, Antigua Hospital,” Callum Black said. “Mrs. Grantly? We need to go. Now.”

  Harriet’s chin still quivered and she pressed her fist to her mouth to silence her sobs. Jess gave her a hug. “You’re tired and overwhelmed right now, Harriet. You go with Roger. I’ll collect your luggage and meet you at the hospital. It will be all right.”

  Harriet used a handkerchief to wipe her tears. “I’m so worried.”

  “I’m a good worrier. I’ve had tons of practice.” Jess squeezed her shoulder gently. “You take care of Roger and let me worry for a while, okay?”

  Jess pulled out two of her business cards. She gave one to Harriet, along with the burner cell phone she had purchased at the Orlando airport. Harriet stared at the phone. “I don’t know how to use one of these,” Harriet said, voice unsteady.

  Jess patted her arm. “When I have your luggage, I will call you. All you have to do is press this green button and then talk to me.” She pointed to the button. “You can do that, can’t you?”

  “I think so.” Harriet opened her handbag and removed the ticket envelope containing her baggage claim checks. “Please be very careful, Jess. You know how important this…the luggage, and everything, is to us.”

  “It will all be fine.” Jess accepted the envelope, nodded and squeezed Harriet’s shoulder one last time. “I’ll see you very soon.”

  The paramedic helped Harriet into the ambulance.

  Jess waited for him to close the door. She handed another business card to Callum Black in exchange for his. “Is Antigua a heart center?”

  He shook his head. “It’s a trauma center. They might transfer him if he needs cardiac care beyond their staff.”

  “Is it possible he’ll be examined and released?”

  The paramedic shook his head. “I’m no doctor and I can’t discuss his medical care with you, but it looks like he had a heart attack, and his wife said he’s had them before. So, somebody’s gonna want to keep him overnight. Observation at the very least.” He shrugged. “Liability being what it is these days.”

  “I’ll call you,” Jess said.

  “You do that.” The words didn’t seem reassuring, but his demeanor did.

  Jess watched the ambulance drive away, lights flashing. She climbed back up the steps, and retook her seat.

  A bad heart. A known condition. A stressful day. Not a good combination. Now they were caught between saving Roger or saving Wilson. Jess had no doubt which one was more worth saving, but without Wilson, she couldn’t save Roger, either. Losing his only son would surely kill him.

  Stress caused his heart attack. No surprise. Unless Jess could stop him, the thief would escape with the money Wilson had already paid him. All three Grantlys would go to jail and all three lives would be effectively over. How many would these thieves kill before they were stopped? Nothing Jess could do about that. But she could do her best to see that Harriet and Roger were not two of their murder victims.

  Once Jess was on board, the rear aircraft door closed, and the plane finished taxiing to the terminal. She lined up with the rest of the passengers, and exited the cabin. Those continuing to connecting flights dodged and weaved their way through the throng to reach their gates before boarding ended.

  She didn’t have that problem. The Rome flight didn’t depart until midnight. She’d bought the ticket as insurance, but she knew now she was going to use it. That’s where the scammer was. That’s where he was waiting for Harriet and Roger. And their money.

  She didn’t intend to keep him waiting.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  New York City, New York

  May 11

  Luigi followed the line of passengers from the plane, out into the concourse, and through security. He took the escalator down and turned left into a large hall marked “Lockers.”

  The hall was divided into sections, a large colored circle denoting each row. He found the blue section, and waited until a man in a business suit departed before opening the locker he’d rented several days ago.

  He pulled out the untraceable .22-caliber Smith & Wesson 22A pistol. His thumb felt the rough area on the side where the serial number had once been. He took its box of ammunition, and a box cutter, and raced to baggage claim.

  Old man Grantly had been taken away in the ambulance, his wife with him. That left their luggage waiting to be claimed. If they’d had any sense, they would have told the authorities about their luggage and someone official would have collected the bags. But they had a second problem. The bags contained what was left of their life savings. Nearly a quarter million dollars. The last thing they wanted was for that money to fall into official hands.

  The old man was a known quantity. He wasn’t going to bounce back from a heart attack. Even if he did, the airline would deny him passage. Too much risk. Too much liability. Roger Grantly was grounded.

  His wife was different. She was the more active of the two. Maybe too active. She was certainly a wild card. Luigi couldn’t depend on her to carry through. She could quite likely call the whole thing off.

  He wouldn’t let that happen.

  He had to deal with the Grantlys and retrieve the money. No excuses.

  Dealing with the Grantlys wouldn’t be too difficult. He would call around the area hospitals, locate, and terminate them. She was old and slow and much smaller than Luigi. No contest there. The old man would probably die in the hospital anyway. He certainly looked near death when they carried him off the plane. Old man Grantly could be dead already.

  The thought cheered Luigi and made him smile. Now that the cash was in play, he’d find another way to move the money to Rome. Enzo wouldn’t like it. An unnecessary risk, he’d say. Enzo was older and, he thought, wiser than Luigi. But Luigi was the better
improviser. He’d figure out what to do, if things went sideways.

  The money was always his first priority. The three Grantlys were nothing but annoying details.

  He worked his way along the row of conveyor belts until he found his flight number. He recognized several of his fellow passengers’ faces crowded around the ramp where the cases emerged from deep in the airport’s baggage handling system.

  The attractive and meddlesome American woman was there, one hand on a luggage trolley, the other typing furiously on her phone. She had been on the tarmac, talking to Harriet when they carted the old man away.

  Luigi stood on the opposite side of the conveyor, so he could casually stare in her direction. She kept her shoulders back, and he guessed she ran or worked out to keep her figure. It was a good figure. Natural muscle tone, not the Botox and silicone enhanced image of beauty pushed by Hollywood. She still seemed full of nervous energy, but the curls in her hair looked as if they’d suffered through a long day. He watched for several minutes before he realized she reminded him of an American actress. What was her name? Meg Ryan. Yes. That’s the one. Only younger. Early thirties, Luigi guessed, and he was good with guessing ages.

  Bags finally started rolling down the ramp onto the conveyor. People crowded closer. Luigi scanned the hall, and breathed a sigh of relief. He saw no police and no officials with clipboards and a description of the Grantlys’ bags.

  He turned his attention to the silver baggage belt. Luggage was collected, tags were checked, and slowly the crowd in the baggage claim area thinned out.

  The American woman remained on the far side of the carousel, watching the bags pass. After a few minutes, she selected a brown duffel bag. Luigi was sure the duffel had traveled the belt’s complete circuit at least a couple of times.

  He kept his eyes on the conveyor. Was she ever going to leave? Did she have more bags? She settled the duffel by her feet. Damn, was she going to collect the Grantlys’ luggage? Was she some part of the family that the spineless Wilson Grantly had neglected to mention? He made a note to bring it up with the man. Painfully.

  The American kept her eyes on the conveyor.

  Luigi recognized the Grantlys’ luggage instantly when it finally appeared. Two old-fashioned hard-sided blue bags. They tumbled sideways down the ramp, and thumped against the bracing around the conveyor.

  The American didn’t move. She kept her eyes on the conveyor. The blue bags passed her. Perhaps she wasn’t waiting for the Grantlys’ bags after all? Or perhaps she didn’t know what they looked like? The old woman probably couldn’t remember the color, let alone the make.

  The bags passed by Luigi. He fought back the temptation to grab them and run. A quarter million dollars. He could be out of the exit before anyone moved. Even if they did, he had his gun. An easy and effective deterrent to the average do-gooder. He wouldn’t even need to fire.

  But he had to be patient. He had to be sure there was no surveillance. Not the American, not airport officials, nor the New York police. A few minutes would flush out any suspects. The general lack of interest in the Grantlys’ bags would bring them out. As much as he hated the idea of losing the money, he hated the idea of losing his liberty even more.

  The bags passed by again. One more circuit.

  He looked around the claim area. Near the exit was a men’s restroom. He could use it to remove the ransom. After, he would stow the cash in his locker, and jam the bags into another. He couldn’t leave the bags in the open. If they were discovered, it wouldn’t take long for them to be connected to the Grantlys, and that would invite more problems.

  He took a deep breath. The bags turned the corner of the conveyor again. One more leg, along the far side, and they would be his.

  The American was still waiting. He laughed to himself. Her luggage was probably lost. Would she be distraught? Or would she have a screaming fit with some underpaid airline flunky? Either way, he didn’t intend to be around to find out. Thirty seconds more and she’d be left waiting here alone.

  He dried his hand on his jeans, ready to grip the plastic handles of the Grantlys’ heavy luggage.

  He took a step toward the belt.

  The bags closed on the American. She stepped forward. He shivered. She took another step. He took a half step, his eyes narrowing on her. She stepped forward, both hands out, and lifted both of the Grantlys’ bags from the conveyer.

  The muscles in his face went rigid. He eased his hands to his sides and clenched them into fists. Damn her. Damn her to hell.

  He had to stay controlled. Focused. He took a deep breath. Damn her. He watched the bags.

  She checked the tags, lifted them onto her trolley, and headed for the exit.

  Damn her. He forced himself to breathe until his chest rose and fell rhythmically. He stood still a few seconds, oxygenating his muscles, fighting back his temper.

  He’d known all along he would have to deal with the Grantlys. But now he had to retrieve the money as well. Damn Marek. This entire fiasco was his fault. Enzo had been right.

  Luigi uncoiled his fingers and breathed out his rage. The American walked through the automatic doors to the sidewalk outside. He strolled after her, following her bouncing, curly blonde hair.

  Very soon, the meddlesome woman was going to die.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  New York City, New York

  May 11

  Jess maneuvered the airport trolley through the automatic doors at the end of the baggage claim hall, and onto the sidewalk. She found her Glock in her brown duffel bag, made sure it was still covered with a layer of clothes, and moved it into her messenger bag. Whatever Morris had done to get her gun through several layers of security had obviously worked. She’d thank him next time they talked. Meanwhile, she loaded the gun along with its magazine inside the bag, and placed the clothes back in the duffel. She didn’t think she needed the gun, but she wouldn’t be caught without it.

  She headed toward the area reserved for taxis and limousines. Several of the drivers smiled and offered to take her wherever she wanted, but she walked by them. She’d texted Mandy to arrange a limo. A company on Taboo’s roster of approved providers. The last thing she needed was an unreliable driver while she was carrying the Grantlys’ life savings and a gun not registered in New York.

  A man in a black suit and a peaked cap stood beside a black Lincoln Town Car. “Kimball?” he said as she approached.

  She smiled. “That’s right.” He put her bags in the trunk.

  She slipped into the rear seat, gave him the name of the hospital, and moments later, they merged into outbound JFK traffic.

  She stretched her shoulders, and rotated her head as far as it would go. Stretching her ligaments felt good. Left then right. Once. Twice. The tension in her neck eased with each rotation.

  She looked to her left and caught a glimpse of the last man she’d seen at the baggage carousel. He was getting into a taxi behind her. His bags must have come out right as she’d left.

  He’d been staring at her while they waited in baggage claim. He was good looking, in an unshaven, swarthy way. His jeans and blazer were worn, and his loafers scuffed. She figured him for a party-hardy kind of guy.

  At a different time, it might have been interesting to meet him, but not now. She turned away, and licked her upper lip. There never seemed to be a good time for a personal life now. Would that ever change?

  A sign on the Town Car’s dashboard identified her driver as Omar. He was obviously familiar with the roads, navigating the lanes and orange cones smoothly.

  She leaned back, and dialed Morris.

  He answered on the third ring. “What news?”

  “You first.”

  He huffed. “Wilson Grantly flew to Leonardo da Vinci airport six days ago. Confirmed. He checked into a hotel downtown.”

  “Is he still there?”

  Morris scoffed. “Stayed two nights. Hasn’t been seen since.”

  “Damn.”

  “Phone rec
ords show a call to his parents’ home on the third night. Ten minutes. Three more calls after that. All from Tuscany.”

  “You have records?”

  “Our friends at the NSA are pretty helpful these days.”

  “And?”

  “Public payphone. Tuscany. A couple of hours north of Rome. Grows olives. It’s a tourist place. Hundreds of people go through every day.”

  Jess sighed. “So, no clue where he’s being held.”

  Morris said, “That’s right. Unfortunately.”

  “Can’t you do anything?”

  “I’m trying to get something going with the Italians, but State is iffy.”

  “There’s a man’s life at stake.”

  “I know that, Jess. But what can I say? Delicate times. We can’t just go into another country like we do here. There is an F in FBI. For ‘federal’ meaning United States, remember?”

  “I remember that two ninety-year-olds were traveling halfway across the world to bring their son back, too.”

  “Were? What’s your news?”

  “Roger Grantly collapsed during the flight. Heart attack, most likely. I’m on the way to the hospital to check on him.”

  Morris whistled. “And his wife?”

  “She went with him.”

  “And they’re heading to Rome.”

  “They have tickets, but now? Who knows?”

  He cleared his throat. “They confirmed he’s being held for ransom?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “You got anything more specific?”

  Jess looked at Omar. He had his hands on the wheel, intently maneuvering through traffic, but he could easily hear everything she said.

  She took a deep breath. “The Grantlys were told the exchange would happen at the Rome airport.”

  “It’s not likely to be that easy. What’s the ransom?”

  She looked at Omar. The money was in the trunk. As nice as he appeared, the last thing she wanted to do was put temptation in front of a stranger. “I can’t say.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No. I just can’t say.”