Picture Perfect (25 page)

“Mrs. Taylor, I don't know why you're nervous, but I do think there's something you should know. When we pulled away from the curb back at the courthouse, a car pulled out right behind us. It's been following us ever since. Being a reporter, I'm trained to notice such things,” Strang said importantly, hoping the elegant woman would be impressed.

“Oh, God,” Sara moaned. Whoever was in the car wasn't following her to the airport to see if she got on the plane. If she knew nothing else, she knew that for a fact. She was going to be killed. She could taste her own death; a bitter sourness in her mouth.

“Do you read the
Informer
, Mrs. Taylor?”

“All the time. My housekeeper buys it and leaves it in the kitchen,” Sara said feverishly. She should have told Andrew. Left a message, or something. What lies would Roman DeLuca tell her husband? Poor Andrew, he expected to get home to a wife, a wonderful celebration dinner, and everyone living happily ever after. “Shit!” she said succinctly.

Percy Strang frowned. He pursed his narrow lips in disapproval. Mrs. Taylor had slipped a notch in his esteem. Back at the courthouse she had seemed so elegant, so regal, like a princess, and she would certainly look smashing on the front page, right next to his story about the woman who had grown another kidney—a genuine medical miracle.

The chauffeur leaned his head back and spoke. “Which airline, ma'am?”

“Airline?” Sara repeated.

“Yes, ma'am. Where do you want to be dropped off?”

Sara's mind raced. Eastern? Delta? Pan Am? She couldn't remember. They had come down on Eastern, but that was no reason to assume DeLuca had made her return reservation on Eastern. However, “Eastern,” she said firmly. The check-ins couldn't be that far apart.

Sara's mind raced as the limousine pulled up at the curb. Perhaps the driver would deliver a message to Andrew, or should she have the reporter deliver it? She couldn't make up her mind. If she did write a note to Andrew, she might place him in danger, and Andrew didn't function well in a crisis. He needed her and she was failing him. Should she write the note or not? The decision was taken out of her hands the moment she stepped out of the car. Just as the porter asked if she had any luggage, DeLuca's man, Jonas, leaped from his car.

“Mrs. Taylor, Mrs. Taylor, wait for me,” Jonas shouted, a smile on his face.

Sara could hear Percy Strang calling to her to stop as she ran for the Eastern check-in counter, but she ignored him. Where were the police? The security guards? Miami had a crime rate to warrant an officer every twenty feet, but she couldn't see anyone to help her. How could Jonas kill her in a public space?

It had been so long since she'd prayed that Sara felt the words catch in her throat. She couldn't remember the simple prayers she had learned as a child. She had never been one to rely on the Almighty to help her, preferring to handle her own affairs in her own way. If she didn't see a uniform soon, she would have to go to the check-in and tell the reservation clerk.
Tell him what?
her mind shrieked.

“Mrs. Taylor, where are you going? Why are you so upset?” Strang had caught up with her. “Didn't you hear me? There's a man running after us who wants to talk to you. Perhaps he's got news of your son.”

Sara turned. “That man you are so concerned about, Mr. Strang, is trying to kill me. He may even kill you. That's why I'm trying to get away from him. Where is he?”

Intrigue, kidnapping, killing—all the ingredients for a first-class story. Some journalist in the sky must be looking out for him, Percy thought happily. He almost tripped over his own feet as he tried to keep up with Sara. “He's right behind us, and I think you should know he's gaining rapidly. Look, Mrs. Taylor, I'm no he-man type. Why don't you find a cop?”

Sara picked up speed. “I would if I could. Do you see one anywhere?” she shot back.

“You could shout for help,” Strang said.

“And then what? The man following us is connected with the syndicate. He works for the District Attorney, who is also connected with the syndicate. Where do you think that leaves me, Mr. Strang?”

Sara wanted to scream with frustration. Where was she going anyway? Who was she fooling? If she did find a policeman, what was she going to say? Jonas would whip out his credentials and tell the officer that she was distraught. The officer would gladly hand her over to the District Attorney's right-hand man. She didn't stand a chance, and she knew it. She wasn't going to be allowed to get on any plane. Jonas could even say she was mentally unstable. Who was going to believe her against someone with his credentials? He had Madison Avenue, Ivy League, the military, and law enforcement on his side. And what did she have? She was just a highly strung, perspiring, middle-aged woman being trailed by the star reporter from the
Informer
. Once she was in Jonas's custody, that would be the end. The local police would probably give him an escort out of the terminal.

“Andrew, Andrew, I'm so sorry,” she murmured. Frantically she looked around, trying to see some way of escaping the man trailing her. Maybe she would be better off outside; she could walk around the airport building endlessly and still not get away. She needed an exit. A diversion. It was getting difficult to breathe.

“I don't understand any of this,” Strang bleated. “We really have to stop and catch our breath. Mrs. Taylor, are you listening to me? If you sit down calmly to talk and think, we might come up with a solution to this . . . this predicament. What I'm saying is, this is a busy, well-policed airport. The man behind us isn't going to . . . Besides, isn't he one of the men assigned to guard you and Mr. Taylor? Mrs. Taylor, you aren't listening to a word I'm saying. You're overwrought; you must be mistaken.”

“You're right, Mr. Strang, I'm not listening, and that's because you don't know what you're talking about. Back in the courthouse I purposely singled you out to get me away from the man following us. He is wearing a gun in a shoulder holster. As long as you walk directly behind me, as you're doing now, he won't dare shoot me. I'm frightened, and I don't mind if you know. You should be frightened, too, Mr. Strang. These people are evil; they will stop at nothing. They've already kidnapped my son. Now do you see why I have to get away from that man? He has no intention of letting me board any plane. I did something foolish this morning, and I'm going to pay for it with my life. But I'm not giving up without a fight, I can tell you that.” Her voice was barely a whisper, hoarse and frightened.

“Come now, Mrs. Taylor, you're upset about your son, and the fact that your husband is a key witness in a murder case. It's understandable that you're building mountains out of molehills. What do you say to a cup of coffee?”

Oh, God, she was going to die and he wanted a cup of coffee. She felt like throwing up. Then she saw the diversion she needed. A group of South American soccer players was advancing down the concourse with good-natured backslapping and hilarity. If she quickened her stride, she could reach the exit sign at about the same time the players did. And if Strang could manage to join the crowd of players, he could stall for time and allow her to get outside where she could run.

The words came in controlled gasps. “Mr. Strang, will you help me? If you do this, I promise you the story of your life. Ten minutes, that's all I need.”

The story of his life! The big scoop! They were the words every journalist dreams of. The big by-line. He would do it—it would spread across pages one and two. The woman with three kidneys would have to wait for another issue. This was the big one, the one he had dreamed about ever since walking into the
Informer
office to apply for a job. They had asked him two questions only. Can you type? Can you spell? He had answered “yes” to both and they'd hired him on the spot. And now his big chance had come! Even if Sara Taylor was crazy, it was a great story.

Sara felt the color drain from her face as she closed the distance between the soccer players and herself. How lightheaded she felt. Maybe she could get out of this after all. The exit sign blurred. “Now,” she whispered hoarsely.

She thought Strang hadn't heard her, but suddenly he threw up his arms and walked smack into one of the approaching players. “My God, you're a sight for sore eyes,” he shouted as he wrapped his skinny arms around the player's neck. “I want you to endorse some new soccer balls for me. You and your friends move right over here.” He pushed the players together into a huddle under the exit sign.

Sara gasped—she'd made it! She was through the door. The question was, what was on the other side? Where was she? Paying no heed to the signs which read “Authorized Personnel Only,” she raced along the concrete corridor and down a short flight of stairs. Red letters on the door ahead shouted “No Admittance” but Sara was beyond stopping now. She pushed open the door; behind her she could hear the pounding of footsteps. Jonas knew what she had done, and he was following her again.

There wasn't much time left. Still, she had to try. She felt a rush of air on her face—she was outside. Her mind was racing, her thoughts incoherent. Maybe she should have taken her chances with the airport police. Maybe, maybe, maybe. But the end would have been the same, of that she was convinced. Only the location would have been different—a lonely road with a bullet through her head, or worse, a blow to her head and the car set on fire. She knew she had to die. She had disobeyed Roman DeLuca, tried to outsmart him, and now it was too late! He'd never let her get away with it, especially if Andrew helped the State's case on the witness stand. She should have obeyed DeLuca's rules.

Sara ran wildly, legs pumping furiously, breath labored and painful. She was heedless of her path, aware only of open space around her and concrete beneath her feet.

Dimly, in the distance, she heard a voice on the public address system. “Unauthorized persons on the runway! I repeat—unauthorized persons on the runway! Clear the runway! I repeat—clear the runway!” Over and over the message was repeated, and each time the volume increased. Sara realized they were referring to her, and to Jonas. She saw running figures converging on her path—help was on the way. She was within a hair's breadth of winning!

“Clear the runway! Will somebody clear the goddamn runway? A man and a woman are on runway six. Clear the runway! Aircraft approaching! Aircraft approaching!” the PA shrilled.

Sara kept running, knowing her life depended on it. She risked a glance behind her. Jonas was still there, grim and determined. Safety was only yards away. There was a roar near her head, loud and piercing. She mustn't stop, mustn't think! She was almost home, a winner again.

The aircraft appeared out of nowhere. Out of the corner of her eye she could see a monstrous moving object but she had to get across—she
would
.

The whining in her ears became louder. Then, a shadow pressed down on her. She was losing control of her movements in the turbulence. It felt as if the plane would flatten her onto the runway—but of course it wouldn't land flat—there were the wheels.

But it was the wheels that cut that thought short.

Seconds later, Michael Jonas skidded to a stop next to the motionless form crumpled on the runway. His chest heaved with exertion, and his eyes were wide with horror. But he'd seen worse. He had known exactly what he was doing when he chased her onto the runway. DeLuca might protest, but he would be pleased. If there was one way to climb to the top, it was by obeying orders. DeLuca had said to take care of her, and he had. Aside from being windblown and out of breath, he was none the worse for wear. It was over.

 

Sanders trudged into the campground just as dawn broke. He felt more certain than ever that Davey Taylor was close by. Feeley wasn't back yet and he wondered who was going to replace the blond policeman behind the desk. A quick catnap was what he needed now, so he could make a fresh start when Feeley returned. Sanders nodded curtly to the young officer, who was slipping a long-handled comb back into his shirt pocket.

Feeley shook him awake at eight forty-five and handed him a cup of coffee. “You know something, Stu, I can't drink coffee out of a cup anymore,” he joked as Sanders roused himself. “If it doesn't come out of a Styrofoam container and have a lid, I can't get it down.”

“Never mind the coffee. What did you find?”

“The same thing the cops did—traces of blood. That apartment was a hellhole—I wouldn't let a dog live there. I rousted the landlady and, let me tell you, she was a piece of work. She was nipping on a bottle of beer at five in the morning. Said it beat coffee for a pick-me-up. She'd heard sounds of a fight and a lot of banging around—same thing she told the cops. I did find a couple of mates to this,” he said, holding out six mothballs. “I found them on the steps. I looked all over the apartment but couldn't find any more. There was an empty box in a paper bag by the sink. No other trash. I hung around till the workforce crawled out of the woodwork. If there wasn't someone to hold up the corners at seven
A.M.
, Newark would fall apart. No one saw a thing,” he said disgustedly.

At Sanders's bleak look, he added hastily: “I don't know if this is worth anything, but as I was getting into my car—thanking God it was still there—a little kid came up. He wanted a quarter, probably to play the numbers. The long and the short of it is, he was playing stickball outside the building when Balog and the girl came out carrying an ironing board which they loaded into the pop-up. The kid said Elva—that's her name—always carried the dirty clothes in a paper bag to the laundromat around the corner. He said he saw her do it lots of times. The kid was a regular little wiseass, said you don't take ironing boards to the laundromat because you can't iron there. He also said the clothes looked heavy, and that Balog was sweating. I gave him a few bucks.” Feeley could tell Sanders was pleased.