HE WA I T ED U N T I L dusk, then started the airplane’s engine and taxied to the end of the short runway while he could still see without lights. Shortly, he was winging his way to the Northeast. 18 0
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STON E , DIN O , TOM M Yand Annika sat in the nearly empty Key West Yacht Club. “Okay,” Tommy said, closing his cell phone,
“we’ve called every airport south of Palm Beach, and the state police are wiring the tail number all over the country.”
“I don’t think you’re going to catch him,” Stone said. “This guy is a pro. He knows you’re looking for that airplane.”
“What’s he going to do, throw it away?” Tommy asked.
“Paint it, change the tail number. There are thousands of Cessna 182s in the country.”
“Maybe we should notify paint shops, too.”
“I wouldn’t bother; you’re not going to catch him. Look what he did today: we didn’t expect him to hotfoot it out of there, and we certainly didn’t expect him to double back to the airport and take off. He’s good.”
“Everybody gets caught,” Tommy said.
“Except the ones that never get caught,” Dino added.
“I’ll bet the ballistics on that rifle would have matched the bullet that passed through, ah, Charley Boggs,” Tommy said.
“Did you recover the bullet?”
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“Yeah, but the report hasn’t come back yet.”
“I’d be willing to bet that the rifle you found was just to throw you off the track,” Stone said. “The one in his duffel did the work.”
“This guy will be back at work soon,” Dino said.
“How does a man like this find his work?” Annika asked.
“He has an agent, just like an actor or writer,” Stone replied. “My guess is it’s Manny White.”
“Then why would Manny alert us about a hit man?” Dino asked.
“He didn’t, really. I mean, we weren’t very alert, were we?” Stone said. “He didn’t tell us enough to stop the guy.”
“You think Manny is capable of that?” Dino asked.
“I think Manny is capable of arranging a hit on his mother,” Stone replied, “if he still has one. Seems like Manny is the go-to guy for just about anything—skip tracing, murder, you name it.”
“Of course, you can’t prove that,” Tommy said.
“I guess if you could convince the Miami or state cops to tap his phone and his cell phone, you might nail him,” Stone said,
“but you don’t have enough on him to get a warrant for that, do you?”
“I guess not,” Tommy said. “Well, the good news is, he’s out of our hair. He’ll never come back to Key West.”
THE MAN N O W known as Thomas Sutherland refueled his airplane at a small airport in South Carolina, then continued northeast. Shortly after two in the morning, he checked his GPS, picked up his microphone and pressed the talk button rapidly fi ve times. Dead ahead, the runway lights at Johnnycake Airport came on. He landed and taxied to the fueling area. As his airport reference book had told him, there was a self-operated fueling station. He inserted a credit card into the slot, just as at a gas station, and fi lled his wing tanks, then he taxied to a remote area of the airport, shut down the engine and went to sleep, curled up in the rear seat. 18 2
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