Nancy Grace: The Eleventh Victim

She did the same, worming her way through the crowd at the door, and finally lifting her face only as she stepped onto the sidewalk and back into the morning air.

Turning left, then left again, she made her way back to the East River, sprinting east until she was back to her regular path. She ran crosstown to her building, then two steps at a time up to the front door and quickly tucked into the high-rise lobby.

Ricky was there still, smiling. “That was a quickie for you, Hailey! No pain, no gain!”

“I can’t pull anything past you, Ricky…but don’t worry, I’ll make up for it tomorrow.” She breezed past him and into a waiting elevator.

Her head buzzed as the elevator climbed the thirty floors, minus floor thirteen, for good luck.

It was 7:18 a.m.

Stepping off the elevator, all was quiet.

With the murder weapon safely soaking in the soapy water of the sink at Century Diner, Hailey had one job left on her to-do list.

Catch the killer before he caught her.

Atlanta, Georgia

“DAMN! DAMN! DAMN!”

Why the hell couldn’t anyone do anything on their own?

Why did he, Floyd Moye Eugene, have to do everything himself?

Eugene was steaming under the collar; his face was red and his temperature had to be soaring. Sitting there behind his mahogany desk, which was completely free of clutter, not a single stray piece of paper or even a tiny silver gem clip out of place, he fumed.

Just off the phone with the Palmetto Dunes “leadership” down on the Island, Eugene decided, as he slammed the phone down mid-conversation, to make good on the threat to fly down to the Island and straighten things out himself.

If you want anything done right, you have to do it yourself.

That moron of a commissioner at St. Simons couldn’t foul this thing up any better if he tried.

Two months of constant delay had cost Eugene over two hundred thousand dollars so far. The bill was rising. Time was wasting. Failure to open the doors in time for tourist season would drain millions from short-term “flip” investors hoping for a quick recoup to then sell out before moving on to another so-called paradise high-rise development.

Eugene and his backers out of Vegas already had their eye on a “protected” strip of land in Hawaii-nothing but fisherman’s huts dotting the beach for miles.

Perfect.

But that was a no-go until Eugene could make good on St. Simons.

This should have been a freaking shoo-in, right here in his own freaking backyard.

With all the strings he’d had to pull with that moron Judge Carter; the reversal in order to get the federal funding back…in order to get the statute changed; the bust at the strip club…

Eugene breathed in hard and exhaled.

He had to calm down. Reaching for his right top drawer, he unlocked it and pulled out a manila folder, just to reassure himself.

Ah-the black-and-white photos of C.C. in the bathroom stall with the tranny.

They were beautiful. Thank God Hadden knew how to take a shot, even though he was a drunk. And excellent quality. You could make out every single hair combed over C.C.’s head.

C.C.

The idiot had to be shitting himself, waiting for the bomb to drop.

Then it would be bye-bye “Mansion,” as C.C. insisted on calling the governorship.

Wonder if he’d ever put two and two together and figure out that it was no coincidence that just after the reversal and the refunding of federal money to the law firm, he got busted with a tranny.

Probably not.

C.C. would probably blame it on some right-wing Republican conspiracy. Self-important moron. As if the Republicans would go to so much trouble to destroy a pimple on their ass like C.C.

Still seated behind his desk, Eugene patted the photos gently, as if they were a little pet, then locked them back away in the drawer.

Eugene realized he actually looked forward to the inevitable phone call from C.C., ’fessing up and begging Eugene to save his jiggly ass. He reached under his jacket into his short pocket, pulled out his dark aviator sunglasses, and touched a button on his phone.

“Yes, sir?”

“Call Peachtree DeKalb and get a pilot ready. I want to leave in thirty for St. Simons. I want the Gulfstream. I refuse to be cramped in a Citation. And for God’s sake, no stewardess yammering. I only want to hear from the pilots, and then precious little. And get the car and driver. And have a white Escalade waiting on the Island.”

Eugene clicked her off before she could utter the usual, “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Minutes later, the traffic blurred as Eugene’s limo sped up I-85 toward PDK, Peachtree-DeKalb Airport, one of Atlanta’s most exclusive private airports. With pilots on the ready for those who could afford it, PDK had a steady stream of veteran Delta pilots standing by to fly your plane, carry your luggage, fix you a drink, and shine your shoes if you wanted. Pilots were in the surplus in Atlanta, thanks to carrier layoffs and gas prices at the biggest Delta hub in the country.

The limo pulled up in front of EPPS Aviation with Eugene seated in the back, behind tinted windows.

Like the Wright brothers, the Epps started off as bicycle repairmen. Now they catered to an elite clientele that was willing to drop $8,000 for a one-way forty-five-minute jet charter flight.

The limo door was opened for Eugene, and he crossed a few feet of hot asphalt through wide glass automatic doors and onto a red carpeted walkway, leading to a white birch front desk.

To one side past closed frosted doors was the pilots’ lounge, and to the other, an elaborate setting for waiting passengers, complete with food, liquor, coffee, and widescreen televisions flush against polished birch walls. Magazines and newspapers from practically every major city in the world lined one side of the lounge.

Eugene breezed past it, heading straight through the lounge area to a second set of glass doors opening out onto private runways.

Standing there holding the door for him were two former Delta pilots, one gray with a deep tan, the other younger, paler, and taller.

“Mr. Eugene, happy to have you back…”

“Skip it. Let’s go.” Eugene cut him off mid-sentence.

The two pilots exchanged a glance and fell silently into step behind Eugene. They’d flown for him before.

Eugene was one of only a handful of customers who made them question their decisions to leave being true captains in exchange for opening doors, saying “Yes, sir,” eating shit, and cashing a big, fat paycheck every other Friday.

At the plane’s metal steps, Eugene looked up and barked, “This isn’t the Gulfstream V. What the hell is it?”

“It’s a Citation X, Mr. Eugene. This is all that was available at short notice.”

He climbed the steps without a word and sank down into a creamy leather seat.

A flight attendant who had also flown with Eugene before knew better than to speak. She waited silently until he signaled by holding up the aisle-side index finger.

“Bourbon on the rocks.”

“Yes, sir. Right away.”

She disappeared for just a few moments, reappearing on his left with the drink and a napkin. He took it silently and she melted away into the air-conditioned seats just outside the cockpit.

The engine whined and they were off, suddenly looking down at a crazy slant onto the city. Eugene sipped his drink and eyed the familiar landscape. The Capitol shone bright gold, the Georgia Dome, the Fulton County Courthouse, the Georgia Supreme Court building, CNN Center, all closely woven together in Atlanta’s downtown.

Eugene’s bourbon was down only an inch or so when the city fell away and they were flying over deep, deep green fields that stretched as far as the eye could see.