Pilot Error (5 page)

Playthings of the rich and famous
, he thought disdainfully. His eyes followed Micki to the drink machine.
Or the rich and criminal.

The idea made Luke shake his head. Somehow, despite everything he suspected of
Jacinto Scenic Flights
, now that he'd actually met the evidently sole proprietor he was having a hard time believing she was guilty of—

"Some watchdog you are, Fizz," Micki said, interrupting his thoughts. She plugged the drink machine with spare change. "You usually do a lot better than this."

It was then that Luke noticed the black and white border collie stretched out under the low wing of a Piper Cherokee. Her dog, no doubt.

"It's not his fault. Animals like me." Squatting, Luke encouraged the dog to come over. "C'mon, boy. Friends?"

"Don't bother. Fizz is very particular about—" She seemed surprised when the collie came forward to push his head under the outstretched hand. "Traitor."

With a genuine chuckle Luke tussled the dog's ears and pushed to his feet. He fell silent, watching Micki hammer the temperamental soda machine with the heel of her palm. When a can still didn't drop into the bin at the bottom, she turned and headed for the back of the hangar without comment.

"Hey!" Luke called. For a professional businessperson, she wasn't acting very professional or business-like. If he really had been a customer with only sightseeing on his mind, then he would have taken his patronage elsewhere.

One hand resting protectively on his camera bag, he started rounding fuselages in pursuit. By the time he got to the rear of the hangar and noted the ten-by-twelve glassed-in area that was her official place of business, Micki was already inside rifling through the paper clutter on her desk. As he opened the door, a blessed waft of cool air rolled out. The dog brushed past his legs on its way to a water bowl and a blanket in the corner, eager to make the most of the tiny room's air conditioning.

Micki looked up from her search and snapped, "Don't stand there letting all the cold air out. Come in and shut the door."

Luke did, slinging his camera bag from his shoulder and placing it on the floor beside her desk... just in time to catch a pile of paper that slid over the edge. Micki again drilled him with her gorgeous blue eyes. It appeared she had found what she'd been searching for; a clipboard with a couple of forms attached.

Hastily tearing his gaze from hers, Luke offered the papers he'd saved, but not without first noting what they were. NOTAMs, VFR updates, assorted FAR publications, current and several weeks old; exactly what he expected to find on a pilot's desk... at least a pilot from the last century. Hadn't she heard of the internet? Why bother with all this paper?

There was also a mail order catalog for military surplus—nothing criminal there—and, on the desk under it all, two items that instantly piqued his interest; a tan-covered business ledger and a notebook computer. Now, if he could just take a look through those...

Micki took the papers with a curt nod of thanks and carefully placed them back on her desk, on top of the ledger and the computer, as if there were a system to the clutter that only she knew.

Feeling the tension surface between them again, Luke focused on the rest of the room. It had all the basic office needs, including fax and photocopy machines, a tall, gray metal file cabinet, and a fake potted palm in the corner that tried hard to make the small space feel 'touristy.' On the wall behind, he found a handful of picture frames, which were the only personal touches in an otherwise commercial establishment. Black chrome frames in different sizes held her FAA certification as a commercial pilot, an 8x10 photograph of her and two older people whom he guessed were Mom and Dad, a poem called
'High Flight,'
and a detailed aviation chart of the area.

After checking out her certification for good measure, he paused at the group shot. Micki was depicted standing in between a man and a woman who bore more than a passing physical resemblance, with an arm around each and all three smiling broadly. She seemed a different person in the photo, carefree and content, friendly and fun loving—exactly the opposite of what she appeared now.

"This your folks?"

"Oh... yeah."

Mustering up a flippant grin, Luke turned to throw some more bait at her. "Funny, they don't look Australian."

"My mum was," she answered quickly, missing the dig. Her blue eyes strayed to the photo and were momentarily lit by sadness, the animosity she'd shown him until now slipping from her shoulders like a worn out winter coat. "My dad was a colonel in the US Air Force. I was born here in the States, but I grew up in Australia."

"Was a colonel?"

"Yeah, he... started this business when he retired."

"So they live around here too?"

The dejected shake of her head caused the tough-as-nails image to slip further still. "No," Micki admitted, lowering her gaze. "Not anymore. They were killed in a car accident five years ago."

"I'm sorry."

"Me, too."

"Any other family?"

When she glanced up, the flinty look was back in her eyes. "It's just me, Mr. Hardigan. No brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, or uncles. Now are there any other personal details you think you might want to know, or will we get on with it?"

She handed him a clipboard containing a Charter Agreement specifying her fee for the flight, insurance and liabilities coverage, and a pen to sign at the bottom.

"I just meant that sometimes it's easier when there's other family," Luke said as he put his signature on the dotted line. He smiled faintly at childhood memories. "I have four kid brothers, and with a family as large as that there's always somebody on your side. It must be hard for you, all alone."

"Why, because I'm a woman?" She took back her clipboard. "I don't need 'somebody on my side,' I do just fine on my own. I'm a survivor."

Luke held eye contact with her for an extended moment, inexplicably wishing he could forget the felonious circumstances that had brought him into her life. But he couldn't—wouldn't—if only for the sake of the young man who had died in the Coast Guard accident just days ago.

When she moved away to the copy machine, he reminded himself that he was there to expose the rot that had made its way into this picturesque community and tainted certain inhabitants. His job was to bust them wide open so that Federal action could be taken against the ringleaders, and perhaps even against Micki Jacinto. If she were proven guilty, then there would be no mercy, not even if she had already tasted the bitterness of personal hardship.

Not even if he found her so incredibly attractive...

Clearing the lump out of his throat and the fantasy out of his head, Luke turned to the map on the wall.

The dots of land that made up the Florida Keys were like insignificant peas floating around in a giant bowl of blue soup. On one side was the Atlantic Ocean and on the other the Gulf of Mexico, with a tiny broken string of islands threading their precarious way out into the watery unknown. To a city boy like Luke, the Keys were some superfluous pebbles that God had dropped at the very end of the earth.

"So where are we headed today, beautiful?" he asked, his chauvinist tone embellished to fit the circumstances. It scored him the reaction he wanted.

Pushing a photocopy of the signed agreement at him, Micki glowered again. For the second time that morning he got the impression that she wanted to slug him. Having no doubts that she would, if given the chance, brought a genuine grin to his face.

"First, I'm headed home to change my clothes," she said.

Luke eyed her scantily clad figure appraisingly. "Don't on my account."

"Look, Hardigan, let's get one thing straight—"

"Can we get a look at those islands, too?" he cut in.

"What?"

Luke tapped his finger on the wall map, indicating a cluster of small islands off the Gulf side of Big Pine Key. "They look kind of scenic," he said, putting his cover story to the test. "See, I make a living out of selling pretty pictures. Do you think we could fly out over them so I could snap a few shots?"

Micki stared at the map with an unreadable expression, and Luke held his breath. If she were involved with the Bad Guys, then surely she would refuse, not wanting to risk an innocent tourist spying their operation from the air. And if she did refuse, it would be Step One in building his guilty case against her.

Sparing him a cursory glance, she said, "It'll cost you extra, having to go way out past Big Pine Key like that."

"Okay, name your price."

"Aviation fuel is not cheap, you know."

He shrugged. "So I have to sell a couple of extra shots to break even, no big deal. What do you say?"

She considered that for a moment, making Luke wonder whether she was innocent of all knowledge of the criminal activity he had come to investigate and just a shrewd businesswoman, or if she was about to ruthlessly sell out her associates for a tidy profit.

"All right, I'll take you there."

"Great."

"After I go home and change," she insisted.

"Fair enough." Luke kept his expression neutral despite this fortunate turn of events. At this point, it was in his best interests to be agreeable.

Three strides carried Micki to the office door, where she paused to wave at the utility shelf skirting the front window. On it was a coffee percolator with a half-full carafe, cups, creamer, and sugar. The gesture was clearly a business afterthought, not a concession for his personal comfort. "Help yourself, I'll be back in fifteen minutes."

Fizz joined her at the door, wagging his tail in expectation of a ride.

"No, you wait here, boy." She patted the dog, met Luke's gaze with a look that could melt a man at twenty paces, then left.

With a disappointed whine, Fizz returned to his blanket. Through the glass office front, Luke watched Micki don her biking leathers while fighting down another pang of attraction, this one inspired by the slow way that cool leather slid over her hot skin.

Damn. This... interest... in her had to stop. Micki Jacinto was a suspect, not a potential date, and it would make this case a lot easier on them both if he remembered that in the future.

Again masquerading as a simple tourist, he helped himself to some strong, black coffee, waiting until her leather-clad, helmeted figure had disappeared around the last plane in the hangar. One sip of coffee told him that particular pot had been brewing since Christmas. Distastefully setting it aside, Luke checked his watch.

He gave Micki two minutes to get to her bike and another two to actually leave. Then he moved, like a bear to honey, zeroing in on the notebook computer peeking out from under the papers on her desk. As he made himself comfortable in her chair, he threw a grin at the dog she thought she had left standing guard.

"What do you say, boy? Is she a handful or what?"

Fizz whined and stretched out on his side.

"Yeah, thought you'd say that," Luke said with a chuckle.

His amusement evaporated as he pulled out the computer and opened the case. Fifteen unattended minutes, he thought in grim satisfaction, gave him more than enough time to thoroughly search her files.

***

Concealed by the tail fin of a Mooney 201, Dirk Jurgensen listened as Micki's motorcycle faded into the distance. Her angry stride and the way she jiggled her key ring as she stomped past him, unaware of his presence, bespoke her mindset in clear and precise detail. She was pissed at Luke Hardigan, and Dirk couldn't say he blamed her.

For the last hour, he had been standing in the cool, dark shade of his maintenance hangar, ogling Micki through a pair of binoculars as she stretched and moved to polish her plane. The moment he had seen that snoop, Hardigan, get out of his rental car, Dirk had climbed into his work truck and headed across the tarmac.

What was Hardigan doing there so early?

Dirk had missed seeing Micki play her winning hand, but suddenly, missing the punch line of her joke was the least of his problems. He hadn't been able to hear what was being said inside her office, but he had been able to see their every move through the glass front. And what he'd seen he didn't like.

Luke Hardigan, with his fake gold watch and innocent tourist façade, had asked too many questions at
The Sandpiper
last night for it to sit comfortably with Dirk and his private business dealings. The moment the guy had tapped on Micki's wall map and indicated the area northwest of Big Pine Key, he'd had an unnerving suspicion that he knew what the veiled interrogation was really all about.

Dirk pulled the half-burned cigarette from the corner of his mouth and crushed it on the concrete hangar floor. Keeping the Mooney between himself and Micki's office, he watched the man, whom she had foolishly left alone, tap on the keys of her notebook computer.

Good luck, pal,
Dirk thought with a knowing smirk.

Micki was hopelessly technophobic. She'd wanted a laptop for record keeping and running her business even less than she wanted expensive diamond jewelry and the silk and satin lingerie he'd tried to give her. Maybe, this time, there was a plus side to her stubbornness, because no one was going to find anything even vaguely incriminating on that computer.