Phillip Margolin - Fugitive

Baptiste stared straight ahead and Tuazama waited patiently.

“I underestimated Charlie,” the president said. “I should have given him to you sooner. I want you to handle this matter personally. Go to America and bring back the diamonds.”

“And Charlie?”

“Charlie’s not important. He’s nothing to me anymore. It’s the principle of the thing now, Nathan. If I let Charlie get away with this everyone will think I am weak. So, find what he’s taken then make an example of him that will grab the attention of the next traitor who thinks about crossing me.”

Amanda Jaffe’s phone woke her out of a deep sleep. She groped for it after the third ring.

“Hello,” she mumbled groggily as soon as she located the receiver.

“Is this Amanda Jaffe?”

“Who is this?”

“My name is Martha Brice. I’m the editor in chief of World News.”

Shit, a reporter, Amanda thought as she swung her legs over the side of the bed and brushed her long black hair away from her face. Amanda’s boyfriend, Mike Greene, the chief criminal deputy at the Multnomah County District Attorney’s office, had spent the night with her at her condo because neither of them had a meeting or court appearance until noon. Amanda had been looking forward to sleeping in, for a change.

“Do you know what time it is, Ms. Brice?”

“That’s Mrs. Brice, and since its seven a.m. in New York, it must be four where you are,” the woman answered calmly.

“Is there some reason you couldn’t call me at my office at a civilized hour?”

“Actually, there is. I’m in my corporate jet headed for Oregon. I should be at the airport in four hours. I want to meet with you as soon as I land.”

Brice’s imperious tone acted like a double shot of espresso.

“Look, Mrs. Brice,” Amanda snapped, “I don’t try my cases in the press, and if you think the best way to get an interview with me is to wake me up in the middle of the night, you should take a refresher course at whatever journalism school you attended.”

“You must not have understood me, Ms. Jaffe. I’ll chalk that up to my waking you. I’m not a reporter. I am the editor in chief of World News. I run the magazine. I don’t conduct interviews. I’m flying to Portland to hire you to work on a case; one that I’m certain you’ll want to handle.”

“What case?”

“I don’t wish to discuss the particulars over the phone.”

Amanda was quiet for a moment. She didn’t like Brice’s attitude, but she was intrigued.

“I’ll be in my office by the time you land,” she said.

“I won’t have time to drive into town. I have an important meeting in New York, later today. I’d like you to meet me at my plane. There’s a conference area on board. There’s also a galley, so I can provide breakfast. Am I correct that you’re partial to blueberry pancakes?”

Amanda’s mouth opened in surprise. “If that was meant to impress me, you’ve succeeded.”

“I’m afraid you’re too easily impressed. One of my assistants Googled you. I obtained that piece of information from an interview you gave to one of my competitors after the Cardoni case.”

“That was a few years ago.”

“Don’t tell me you’re on a diet.”

Amanda laughed. “No, Mrs. Brice, and your offer of blueberry pancakes has served its purpose. I’ll need the carbs to get me through the day, since I’m going to be sleep-deprived.”

“Come to the Flightcraft FBO at eight.”

“FBO?”

“It means fixed base operator. Think terminal. Jennifer Gates, my administrative assistant, will be waiting in the lounge and she’ll escort you on board. One more thing. Don’t tell anyone about our meeting.”

“You don’t want anyone to know you’re coming to Portland?”

“That is correct. You’ll understand why when I tell you about the case,” Brice answered just before she broke the connection.

Amanda flopped onto her back so she could gather the strength to get up and get dressed. She found Mike lying on his side, watching her. As chief criminal deputy in the Multnomah County District Attorney’s office, Mike had led many of the county’s high-profile murder cases and they’d met when he prosecuted the Cardoni case, which almost cost Amanda her life. They’d had an on-again, off-again relationship ever since. If they weren’t so busy, she and Mike might have had time to figure out where that relationship was going.

Mike had blue eyes, curly black hair, and a shaggy mustache. Because he was a bulky six-five, he was frequently mistaken for someone who played college football or basketball-sports in which the cerebral DA had never engaged. Instead, Amanda’s boyfriend competed in chess tournaments and was good enough on the tenor sax to play professionally.

“I guess we’re not eating breakfast together,” Mike said.

“Sorry,” Amanda said, “duty calls.”

“A new case?”

“Yup.”

“What’s it about?”

“I don’t know, and I can’t tell you the identity of the client, so don’t ask.”

“Mrs. Brice must be rich,” Mike said with a grin.

“Please forget you heard that name or I will not have sex with you until the next millennium.”

Mike laughed.

“And how did you know she was rich?”

“Yours truly knows what an FBO is. Don’t forget, I practiced law in LA. So, she’s flying in on a private jet, huh.”

“Mike,” Amanda warned.

Greene laughed again. Then he looked at the clock on the nightstand. “What time do you have to be at the airport?”

“Eight.”

Mike snaked an arm across Amanda’s stomach. “I’m going to have trouble getting back to sleep,” he said as his hand moved slowly to Amanda’s breast.

Amanda rolled toward Mike. Being jerked out of sleep always jangled her nerves and she did have plenty of time to shower and dress.

“All men are pigs who only think about one thing,” she said.

Mike grinned and answered with the most valuable phrase he’d learned in law school: “Assuming that’s true, what’s wrong with it?”

IT WAS HOT for a Portland summer and Amanda had the air conditioning cranked up as she drove along the freeway to Airport Way, the road that led to Portland International Airport. Just before the road curved toward the parking garage for the main terminal and the arrivals and departures areas, she saw a sign that read BUSINESS AVIATION and turned into a parking lot that fronted the Flightcraft FBO, a one-story steel-and-glass building that acted as the terminal for private aircraft. Inside were a few rows of seats and a check-in desk. When Amanda entered, an attractive brunette with bouncy, shoulder-length hair stood up. She was wearing a blue pinstripe pants suit, a white silk shirt, and a strand of white pearls and looked very businesslike as well as very elegant.

Amanda was good-looking, but no one would call her elegant. Years of competitive swimming had given her broad shoulders and a muscular build she kept hard by continuing the workouts that had made her a PAC-10 champion and given her a shot at an Olympic berth. Her figure was nothing like that of a fashion model, but it still attracted men.

“Ms. Jaffe?”

Amanda nodded. The woman held out her hand and they shook.

“I’m Jennifer Gates, Mrs. Brice’s assistant. Mrs. Brice is waiting for you.”

“Pleased to meet you, Jennifer. Lead on.”

A sleek white Gulfstream G550 with the World News logo stenciled on its fuselage waited on the tarmac a short distance from the terminal. Amanda climbed a set of steps and walked into an interior unlike that of any plane in which she’d ever flown. The floor was covered with a deep beige carpet you’d expect to find in a Manhattan penthouse and the walls were paneled in dark wood. There were fourteen roomy seats upholstered in tan leather, one of which had been converted into a neatly made bed. Midway back from the cockpit was an oak conference table with a single place setting consisting of a monogrammed linen napkin, a crystal glass filled with ice water, another glass for the orange juice in a crystal pitcher, and silverware that Amanda was willing to bet was real silver.