Джанет Иванович - Twisted Twenty-Six

Cross attached the padlock and waved goodbye.

“Good thing he looks like David Niven,” I said, “because that’s all he’s got. He isn’t very smart. And the hairdresser isn’t a rocket scientist, either. The door might be impact glass, but it’s not thick enough to be completely bulletproof,” I said to Lula. “Empty a clip into it while I call Connie.”

I went to the back of the wine cellar, dialed Connie, and told her to find Cross’s plane. “It sounds like he’s flying private,” I said. “Does he have his own plane? Does his credit show any action with a charter company? We need to get to him before he takes off.”

“The closest airport would be Trenton-Mercer,” Connie said. “If he’s flying private, he’d be flying out of an FBO. I think Signature is there. I’ll see what I can do to stop him, and I’ll get back to you.”

“How’s it going?” I asked Lula.

“I’ve run out of bullets, and the glass got all these spiderwebs going through it, but it didn’t break.”

I found a magnum of champagne and swung it at the door. The bottle broke, spraying champagne everywhere, and a small hole appeared in the door. I hit the door with another bottle and the door shattered. Lula and I cleared the door, bolted out of the house, and ran for the Porsche.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

WE CROSSED THE DELAWARE and were back in New Jersey. Lula had the map app programmed for Signature Flight Support at Trenton-Mercer Airport. I hadn’t heard from Connie, so I was going with my best guess.

“He has a good head start on us,” Lula said.

“I’m counting on him wanting to use the restroom and visit the popcorn machine before he gets on the plane.”

I was also flying in the Porsche, getting it into the nineties when I had open road. I knew it had a radar detector and a laser scrambler, and I was counting on them working.

I got a call from Connie just as I pulled into the Signature lot and screeched to a stop.

“Sorry this took so long,” Connie said, “but I’m new at this airplane-tracking thing. I’m texting you his tail number. His plane is at Signature. Looks like he hasn’t left yet. I’m trying to get a delay put on his plane, but so far, I haven’t been able to get through to the right person. How close are you? I’m on hold with airport security.”

“I’m on the ground and running,” I said.

Lula was some distance behind me, trying to run in her stupid platform sandals. I pushed through the entrance door and stopped to look around. I didn’t see Cross or Georgio.

“I’m looking for Steven Cross,” I said to the woman at the reception desk. “I have papers for him.”

She motioned at the side door. “He just walked through. You should be able to catch him.”

I looked through the glass and saw Cross and Georgio and a uniformed pilot heading for a plane with the boarding steps down. The receptionist buzzed me out and I ran toward Cross. He was talking to the pilot and holding a big box of popcorn from the lobby machine. I was wearing my messenger bag across my body, and I had my cuffs tucked into the back of my jeans. Cross turned when I was about fifteen feet away. He one-handed the popcorn and reached inside his jacket with the other. I closed the distance and tackled him. There was an explosion of popcorn, his gun discharged, and was knocked out of his hand when we hit the pavement. I got one bracelet on his wrist before the pilot and Georgio wrestled me away. Lula burst out of the FBO followed by a security guy. She was running full steam ahead in her green spandex tights, waving her arms in the air, yelling, “Stop! Police!”

“She misspoke in her excitement,” I said to the security guard. “We aren’t police. We’re apprehension agents. This man is in violation of his bond agreement and is attempting to flee.”

“We’re almost police,” Lula said.

Georgio shook his head at Cross. “You just had to get popcorn. I told you there was food on the plane, but you insisted on using the restroom and getting popcorn. And then you had to pick out a magazine.”

“I should have shot them when I had the chance,” Cross said.

“You’re no David Niven,” Lula said. “You probably don’t even play tennis.”

I’d torn the knee out of my jeans and scraped my elbow when I tackled Cross. By the time we got things sorted out and security released him into my custody, I was already scabbing over.

“You’re a fast healer,” Lula said to me. “I don’t know why you’re so opposed to being a bounty hunter. You got all the qualifications for it. You don’t want to underestimate good clotting time.”

We dropped Cross off at the police station, made a stop at Cluck-in-a-Bucket for a large bucket of fried chicken and a quart of macaroni salad, and went to the office to eat lunch.

Connie was all smiles when we rolled in. “That was amazing,” she said. “Ranger couldn’t have done it better. If we’d lost that bond, we might have been looking at bankruptcy.”

“You should have seen Stephanie doing a hundred miles an hour on the way to the airport,” Lula said. “And then she tackled Cross when he had a gun in his hand and took him down. It was like she was Bruce Willis in one of those Die Hard movies.” Lula set the chicken and macaroni on Connie’s desk and pulled a bottle of champagne out of her boho bag. “Compliments of Steven Cross, who, by the way, is a horrible human being.”

I ate two pieces of chicken, had a mug of champagne, and called Grandma.

“We got cookies all over the place,” Grandma said. “I’m all baked out. It’ll be nice to get out of the house and go to bingo tonight.”

Bingo. Groan.

“I’ll pick you up at six forty-five,” I said.

“Do you think I should give new cookies to the sisters?”

“No. I think you should avoid the sisters.”

“We haven’t heard anything about them dying, so that’s a good sign,” Grandma said.

I hung up and thought about having another mug of champagne, but I had to drive home, so I passed.

“Gotta go,” I said. “Big night at bingo. I need to patch myself up.” I looked down and saw a shiny blue extension lying on the floor. No problem. I still had lots left.

—

My elbow was scraped, and my knee was scraped. Fortunately, I had some big Band-Aids left over from my gunshot wound. The jeans were unsalvageable.

I went to my office, which was better known as the dining room table, and reread my information on the La-Z-Boys and Sylvester Lucca. I knew there had to be a connection. I knew I was missing something.

I fell asleep facedown on the table halfway through the Miracle membership list, and I woke up a little before six o’clock. Another extension had fallen out and was lying on the table. I used it as a gossamer-thin bookmark, went to the kitchen, and looked in my freezer. I had all sorts of food, but it all involved defrosting and heating. As it turns out, defrosting and heating aren’t in my current skill set. My current skill set includes peanut butter spreading. I’m good at it. Practice, practice, practice. If I spent as much time on the rifle range as I spend with my knife in the peanut butter jar, I’d be a crack shot. So, I made a peanut butter sandwich and washed it down with chocolate milk . . . because I also know how to squeeze chocolate sauce into a glass of milk.

I got dressed in boyfriend jeans that were comfortably loose over my newly bloodied knee. And I coupled them with a long-sleeved jersey that eliminated the need to explain the Band-Aid on my elbow.

I drove to my parents’ house to get Grandma, and I could smell the cookies when I got out of the Macan. Chocolate chip. By the time I reached the porch the chocolate chip aroma was mingled with gingerbread. My father was asleep in his chair, in front of the television. No doubt in a post-cookie stupor. Grandma was in the kitchen packing a grocery bag with cookie tins.