passengers on board, particularly if that pilot works for the owner of the jet and not a charter company or one of those ‘jet share’ companies.”
“Can we talk to that pilot?”
“I’ll get in touch with him, see what I can find out. But he works for The New Day. Those guys are pretty slippery.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I had some questions for one of their pilots a while back and the guy just disappeared. They basically said that he left the organization and we were never able to find him.”
“What kind of questions?”
“The same kind you’re asking.”
Some unformed thoughts were tumbling around in Jeffrey’s head… Tim Samuels’ private security agency, The New Day’s private jet fleet, the dead jeweler and his missing cache of pink diamonds.
“When was this?”
“A couple of weeks ago actually.”
“Did it have something to do with a murdered jewel dealer from South Africa?”
There was a pause on the other end of the phone. “I can’t answer that, Jeff. Sorry.”
An answer like that and he didn’t really have to.
“So I guess we’re going to Florida,” said Lydia with a roll of her eyes.
“I guess.”
Jeffrey whipped up some egg-white omelets with scallions and smoked salmon while Lydia brooded at the counter with a cup of coffee. She didn’t cook, never had really. But she was a master with the “one-button” machines, as Jeffrey called them. Coffeemaker, mini-food processor, toaster… she could make espresso, chop garlic, and toast up a piece of sourdough bread like nobody’s business.
She sat on one of the stools by the counter and turned her back to the box that sat on the floor between the love seat and the fireplace hearth. As long as she had Lily Samuels to think about, she didn’t have to think about Arthur Tavernier and his legacy or his letters. In fact, it would be selfish to worry about her issues when Lily Samuels could be somewhere fighting for her life.
“We should go tonight,” she said, starting to feel the buzz of anxiety. She stood and turned toward the staircase.
“First we eat, then we rest a bit,” he said sensibly. “Then we’ll go.”
He was always the one that made sure they took care of themselves, even when there was chaos all around them, even when the buzz could keep her running on empty for days.
“The worst mistakes are made when you’re hungry or when you’re tired,” was his famous philosophy. “When we can, we need to avoid making decisions during those times.”
“I can’t believe we’re going back there,” she said, after a minute.
“Me neither.”
They’d just sat down at the table when the phone rang. Lydia leapt up to grab it.
“Hello?”
The line was staticky, the cellular signal weak and slipping in and out. She thought she heard Dax say her name and the low wail of sirens in the background. Jeffrey got up from the table and picked up the extension in the living room.
“Dax?” she said, glancing at the caller ID and seeing that the number was unavailable.
“-gunshot-and then we-too late.” That was all she got. She had no idea what he was saying but she was fairly certain it was bad news.
“Dax, I’m not getting you. The signal is bad.”
“Lydia, can you hear me?”
“Okay, I got you. What’s happening?”
More static. She was about to hang up and try to call him back but then his voice came over the line as clear as a gong.
“Tim Samuels killed himself,” he said. “He’s dead.”
Part Two The Burning
– ANONYMOUS
Seventeen
When Internal Affairs came to his doorstep, Matt Stenopolis was still in his boxers, eating a glazed chocolate donut and drinking a cup of coffee. He heard the Caprice pull into the driveway and pulled himself away from the Pokemon cartoon he was watching. He drew back the curtains and stood at the picture window, watching as two men, one paunchy and balding, one young with a bodybuilder’s physique, both of them wearing bad suits and cheap ties and matching wool coats, emerged from the car. There was an aura of cheesy self-importance about them and he recognized them immediately as IAD.
He didn’t bother to put on pants before he answered the door.
“Gentlemen,” said Matt through the screen door. The cold air of the morning was biting, made more brutal by the sharp wind that blew. He noticed the dead trees and the empty street, the streetlamp that still hadn’t dimmed for the day.
“Detective Stenopolis,” said the older man. He had thick lines and soft purple bags under his eyes, his moustache needed a trim, the wool coat he wore over his suit needed a good lint brush. But there was something steely about him, something really tough. A lead toe under a worn old boot.
“What can I do for you this morning?” Matt had an idea that this was about Jorge Alonzo, the Latin King he’d been rough with when he’d disrespected Jesamyn. Those punks all had lawyers; they were always screaming police brutality. Murderers, drug dealers, rapists every last one of them, but God forbid their civil rights were violated.
“Can we come in?”
Matt hesitated. IAD officers were like vampires: once you invited them in, they were hard to get rid of. He noticed then that they’d left the engine running and the backseat of the car stood open. White clouds of exhaust plumed around the vehicle in the frigid air.
“I was just being polite, Detective,” said the older officer when Matt didn’t answer right away. “Don’t make this worse than it’s going to be. Okay, buddy?”
That’s when he felt his stomach clench. He saw his mother and father come out of their house next door, their coats on over their pajamas. They shuffled over the icy sidewalk, his father holding on tightly to his mother so that she wouldn’t slip. The echo of a door shutting in the morning air told him that his brother had been called and was on his way up the street. He wanted to yell at them, tell them to go back into the house, but he didn’t.
“Mateo,” his mother called, looking at him worriedly. “What’s wrong?”
