The pilot comes on the speaker. “We’ve been notified that we’re to proceed to the private plane terminal, where they’ll be arresting Mr. Walsh.”
My mind shoots in a thousand directions. I had nothing to do with Cecelia’s death. I know they said I left a fingerprint in her room, but I was never in their suite. “I didn’t do anything.” Then another thought piles on. “Is this Detective Robards again?”
“We’re going to manage this.” Tinsley reaches for my hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze.
Fiona gets on a call, and I hear her speaking Gaelic to someone. It sounds nothing like any language I know. When she hangs up, she writes something down and walks up to the pilots.
When she returns, she takes a deep breath. “I’ve asked the pilots to land and then take us to a hangar that belongs to a friend of mine. The police will have to run after us, but that’s fine. We’re not trying to outrun them, but we’re not letting the media make a spectacle of two of my clients today. I’ll exit the plane, and you’ll sit here until I call Jim. He will escort you down. Take as long as you need to come down the stairs and make them wait. You broke your ankle, after all.”
“What about the press? Won’t they follow the police?” Tinsley asks.
“They can’t. They won’t be able to access the tarmac and won’t know where we’re stopping the plane. They’ll figure it out, but hopefully not until after you’re long gone. This is how you get arrested at an airport—without the press and with dignity. And this is how we’re going to knock Detective Robards’ legs out from under him.”
Dammit. It is Robards. “Did they find Heather McCoy?”
“Not that my contact in the DA’s office was aware of this morning,” Fiona says. “This is also a publicity stunt.”
“If they arrest me, I won’t say anything until you arrive,” I assure her.
“When I spoke with the district attorney this morning, we both agreed that this was a fishing exhibition for Detective Robards. I don’t think the DA knows this is going down, and I’m going to call in a good and expensive favor.”
I’m not sure what that means.
Tinsley pulls her hand away from mine and stretches her fingers. I think I was squeezing too hard.
We hit the tarmac, and the police are parked where we would normally go when we land. The plane makes an early turn and drives past several access points before turning into a large hangar far away from the main private terminal.
The pilot comes to a stop, and the flight attendant opens the door and extends the stairs. I hear Fiona tell her to shut the door behind her.
The flight attendant nods and does as she asks.
Through the window, I watch Fiona descend and speak to a large gentleman. I wonder if he’s the guy she was speaking to in Gaelic. After a moment the police come blazing up with their lights and sirens. Detective Robards runs over to her. He’s yelling and screaming and pointing at the plane.
Fiona puts her hands on her hips and points to the plane as well. I wish I could hear what they’re saying.
Detective Robards gets right in her face, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up. Jim grips the seat in front of him, no doubt ready to jettison himself from the plane and right to her side.
The large gentleman steps between the two of them, but Robards doesn’t back down. The large man points to several places in the ceiling of the hangar. I’m not clear what he’s pointing to, but I hear Jim chuckle.
“He’s pointing to the cameras, reminding Robards that his anger is being recorded and will most likely be shared.”
Robards keeps pointing at the plane, and I’m sure he’s insisting I come out and be arrested. Someone in a police uniform rushes up with a telephone. Robards snatches it and paces back and forth, his arms moving so frantically, I’m sure he’s going to take flight.
Suddenly he throws the phone to the ground, and it crashes into a thousand pieces. But he’s not finished. He struts over to a paint can sitting off to the side, and it’s almost in slow motion as I watch him rear back and, in a perfect kick, send the can into the air. The lid spins toward Fiona, and yellow paint sprays as the can sails toward the plane and out of my sight.
Tinsley gasps. I’m not sure where it landed, but I hear something crash against the front of the plane.
“That asshole!” one of the pilots yells.
“I have a feeling someone is not going to be happy,” Jim says.
The pilots swing open the cockpit door, and I can see the front window spiderwebbed and yellow paint running down the outside.
Detective Robards is now pacing back and forth, his arms flapping as he yells, his face so red it looks almost purple.
The pilots grab towels and drape them over the plane’s electronics as the bright yellow paint seeps through the broken safety glass.
Jim’s phone rings. I see Fiona’s name on the screen. He listens a few moments. “Okay, we’ll call up the car, and they’ll meet you at his place.”
Jim disconnects the call and looks over at us. “You both are going to Landon’s with your team.”
Tinsley pulls her belongings together and is ready to exit the plane with her head held high, not as if twenty people are watching.
Jim’s phone pings, and a Range Rover comes up to the base of the plane. He looks at me. “We’re going to exit. Some media has found us, but they’re outside. We’re going to walk down the stairs, and we’ll get right into the Range Rover.
