Lynne Heitman - First Class Killing

Same old Felix. He lived in a world without skepticism, irony, or sarcasm. He was delighted by life, all parts of it, even something as dispiriting as the airline business. I loved talking to him.

“Listen, Felix. Do you have time to do some work for me? I’ll pay you this time.”

“Really? Are youse rious? That would be, like, so awesome to work for you again. But you can’t pay me.”

“Why not?” I finished my last spoonful of oatmeal, went to the refrigerator for an orange, swung by the sink for a paper towel, and sat back down to start peeling. “I don’t want you working for free.”

“It’s a rule. I’m employed full-time for Majestic Airlines, which means no way I can have any other jobs.”

“It wouldn’t be a job. It’s more like a…a…”

“I read the regs, Miss S. It says it in there.”

“You read the regs?” A staggering thought. The rules and regulations of Majestic Airlines were collected in three thick volumes written in the driest prose this side of the phone book.

“Yes, ma’am. All three volumes.”

I hadn’t even considered the conflict of interest. But I needed his help, and I did not want to take advantage of him. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

He batted the suggestion aside, which, having said it, I realized he would. Felix was an honest fellow. “I’ll do it as a favor to you, for getting me this job. I love this job.”

“No, Felix. Remember, I got you this job to repay you for the last bit of work you did for me for free.”

“Miss Shanahan, please. It would be my pleasure. I insist.”

It was too tempting an offer to turn down. Felix was masterful with a computer and was just plain fun to have in my life. I would figure out some other way to pay him. “I don’t want to interfere with your work schedule there.”

“Whoa, cool…I mean, that’s not a problem. I make my own schedule.”

“You make your own schedule?” There was no making of your own work schedule at an airport that operated around a real schedule-departures and arrivals.

“They made up a new job for me. I’m in charge of all the computer equipment. Do you know how often the baggage system goes down?”

I finished peeling my orange and pulled apart the sections as he rattled on. It was good and sweet and sticky, and the juice got all over my fingers. “Are you having fun?”

“This is so much better than working at the hotel. I’m going to owe you for the rest of my life. What do you need? Do you need me to come up there? Because I can be on an airplane tomorrow-”

“No, Felix. I think you can do this from the comfort of your own home. I need you to track down the origination of a Web site.” I gave him the Web site address from Tony the Actor and his sign-in name. “I have no password.”

“I don’t need a password.”

“Right. Sorry.” I’d forgotten that offering a password to Felix was like offering a key to a locksmith. “What I need you to do is try to find a way into this site so I can see the screens and the customer interfaces. Also, if you can track back and get any information on who pays for the domain and/or who maintains it, that would all be useful. Best-case scenario is we can find the person who runs it, track back to his computer, and suck out all the data it collects.”

“Do I need to know what to look for?”

“Good point. I’m investigating a prostitution ring run by flight attendants. This is supposed to be the scheduling site, but don’t be alarmed if any skin shows up.”

“Skin? Oh.Ohhhhhh. Ohmygosh. Wow. Okay, then. Like I said, I’ll get going on it. And Miss Shanahan?”

“I wish you would call me Alex.”

“I’m really, really glad you called me. Thank you so much for letting me do this for you.”

It was the same as last time. I had Felix thanking me for letting him do me a huge favor.

“Call me if you get anything.”

“I will.”

I hung up with the sure knowledge that no matter what Felix ended up doing with his life, he would always be underemployed.

I took my bowl, now filled with orange peel, to the sink to dump down the disposal. While it was grinding and the water was running, the phone rang again. The message in the spy window announced a private number. Not helpful. I turned everything off and answered.

“Hello.”

“How are you doing this morning, doll?” The sound of Angel’s voice was like a rocket booster kicking in to redirect the planned trajectory of my day.

“I’m doing well. Are you ready to listen to a proposal? I can offer you something I know you will find interesting.”

“We’ll see. Meet me at the Saffron Spa at ten-thirty. Do you know where that is?”

“On Arlington?”

“They’ll be expecting you.”

IT WAS AMAZINGLY BUSY AT THE SPA FOR A workday. I never knew things like this went on while I was working a real job. The two women staffing the reception desk both had the same hairstyle. It looked as if it had been cut with a meat cleaver yet was still strangely trendy.

The one who wasn’t on the phone greeted me when I walked in. “May I help you?”

“I’m Alex Shanahan.”

“Oh, yes. You’re the guest of Miss Velesco. Go right on up the stairs, and Siobhan will help you.” She pointed to a spiral staircase.

Siobhan guarded the checkpoint at the top of the stairs. She was slightly older, but no less hip, than her colleagues downstairs. Like all of the spa’s employees, she wore a pink lab coat and a flowery fragrance.

“Follow me,” she said, after she’d checked me in. “I’ll show you to the locker room.”

She took me to the changing area, where the only thing locker room-like about it was the neat row of lockers. Otherwise, it looked like the master bathroom at Versailles. I stashed my street clothes, pulled on my robe, and managed to walk in my paper slippers to the waiting room, where the air was filled with Enya and the scent of heavily spiced candles. I poured a glass of lemon water and looked around for where to sit.

Something odd caught my eye, something so completely out of place it took me a second to register what it was. My long-sleeved sweater, the one I had last seen flying over the dance floor in LA, was lying like a throw blanket across the back of the velvet love seat. About then, I felt a growing sense of unease that turned into an inkling that turned into the certainty that I was not alone.

The chaise longue in the far corner was draped with cranberry-colored mosquito netting that hung from the ceiling. It was just sheer enough that I could see someone lounging behind it, and I realized where the sweater had come from.

The drape billowed, and a voice emerged. “Y’all naked under there, sweetheart?”

“Naked as the day I was born. Spa rules.” I went over to the love seat, pulled off the sweater, folded it, and sat down with it in my lap. “Thanks for returning my sweater.”

The curtains parted, and Angel came out. Her size made the terry-cloth robe seem skimpy on her. Her hair was piled and pinned on top of her head, and she wore little or no makeup. Women as young as Angel tended to look even younger without makeup. Angel looked harder, and I flashed on Tristan’s warning that she was someone to stay away from.

She walked in her paper slippers over to the armoire, where the liquid refreshments were arranged. She twisted the end of her towel and dipped it into the pitcher of cucumber drinking water, then unrolled it and used it to dab at her face.

“You have my attention,” she said with her lazy scrub brush drawl. “Now, tell me what it is you think I need from you.”

“Is it safe to talk in here?”

“No one in here but us chickens.”