Линкольн Чайлд - Crooked River

“I don’t know. At home?”

“ Right. Well, let’s say I’d hate to be the one who ever had to interrogate that woman.” Even though the overlook was deserted, Pickett glanced around before continuing. “This isn’t an avenue anybody else is following up, you understand. But I know you, and I know Pendergast better, and... well, I just like the cases under my command to add up.”

“I understand, sir.”

“And so do I.” Pickett’s eyes met Coldmoon’s in a curious gaze that was interrupted by a chorus of voices from behind them.

“Those must be the island staff,” Coldmoon said with something like relief. “Making their way down to the helipad with our luggage.”

“Of course,” Pickett said. “Let’s not keep them waiting any longer.”

Ten minutes later, both helicopters were warming up, their blades whipping the humid air. Constance got into the plush, leather-lined interior of the AgustaWestland first, keeping her hat in place with one hand while shaking Pickett’s with the other. Coldmoon — whom they would be dropping off on the mainland for his flight to Colorado — followed next. Last was Pendergast.

“Well, sir,” he said to Pickett, leaning in at the door. “Last time you were here, it was with a request to ‘have a look at the scene.’ I hope you found my perusal to be helpful.”

“Helpful? You solved the case.”

“I’ll say farewell, then. Agent Coldmoon is eager to get to his new post. And, in return for your kind words just now, I would only add that Constance and I are eager to get back to New York... without further delay.” He gave the last three words an unmistakable emphasis.

“Then I’d be the last person to detain you.” And Pickett stepped back while the luggage was loaded into the rear of the passenger compartment. A moment later, the door closed; the chopper rose swiftly and then, with a roar of its powerful engines, it banked to the northwest and sped away.

Pickett watched the bird vanish into the brilliant blue sky. Then, stepping back from the prop wash of his own helicopter, he reached for his phone and dialed.

“Dispatch One?” he said when it was answered. “This is ADC Pickett. The craft I told you about is an AW109, tail number Z-513227. Yes, that’s right. Please forward my instructions to divert it to Savannah, as discussed earlier. If necessary, I’ll talk to the pilot myself.”

And without saying anything further, he slipped his phone back into his suit; took one final look around at the unreal paradise that rose behind him; then, folding his copy of the Miami Herald , he ducked under the rotors and got into his own helicopter. A minute later, it rose into the pearlescent sky, following Pendergast’s ride at a more dignified, stately, government-approved rate of speed.