Steven Havill: Red, Green, or Murder

Authorities in Houston confirmed that Maggie Payton Borman had boarded flight 921, bound for London’s Heathrow Airport. That particular Boeing 757 had rumbled out onto the runway only eighteen minutes late, at 5:21 a.m., with a painfully sparse manifest of passengers. She had been able to call just before flight attendants gave the word that cell phones should be stowed for takeoff. And just about the time I had stepped into the shower that morning, flight 921 had started its take-off roll.

“She called me from the goddamn airplane in Houston ,” I said. “I never heard anything in the background. I’ll be damned.”

“A light load of passengers, and it’s easy to tell when the flight attendants start moving around, making final prep,” Estelle said.

“Now what?” I asked, and I read Estelle’s body language correctly. She had relaxed back in her chair, hands folded over her stomach.

“She’s in the can,” she said with uncharacteristic slang. “The flight is nonstop to Heathrow, and that’s good for at least eight or nine hours from Houston. There’s no point in inconveniencing a plane-load of travelers by diverting. There’s an air marshal on board, and arrangements have been made to alert him.”

“A quick round trip,” I said.

Estelle nodded. “Once in Heathrow, she won’t even go through customs. The air marshal can take her into custody on the airplane, and it’s just a matter of making the return connections. Because she’s arrested on board our airplane before it touches down, there’s no matter of extradition-and even if there were, English authorities aren’t going to want to waste time with her. They’ll be delighted to see her off. Wash their hands of her.”

“You’re bound for Houston?” I asked. “Authorities there might hold her, you know.”

“If they do, they do. But no. Jackie’s going to do that. I have an appointment with the D.A., and a bunch of other paperwork to do.” She glanced up at the clock. “The preliminary hearing for Zimmerman is in an hour or so.”

“Houston cops would make the tag for you, you know,” I said. “Jackie doesn’t need to go, either.”

“She deserves some time away,” Estelle said. “It’s her turn. Plus, it’s good for Mrs. Borman to see a familiar face when she deplanes.”

“What can I do for you?”

Estelle smiled and reached out, nudging a pencil toward me. It rolled a few inches on her desk calendar and stopped. “I need a sequel. The deposition you wrote last night was pure art, sir. Now, we need another. On everyone and everything that’s happened this week to which you are personally privy.” She patted my hand.

“Personally privy,” I said. “I like that.”

“Absolutely. And be particularly thorough with your last phone conversation with Mrs. Borman. I don’t think Phil had anything to do with this nightmare, but your deposition is going to make a difference with the district attorney on that.”

I groaned and picked up the pencil, then dropped it in an empty cup. “Not on an empty stomach,” I said. “This is going to cost you. A nice green chile breakfast burrito, maybe? Some fuel before I start my memoirs? And good company. We’ve got the time. Go with me.”

“Why, sure,” Estelle said, and that surprised the hell out of me.