Loitering With Intent

by Stuart Woods

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Do you have any documentation for the airplane with your name on it?”

  “I have a bill of sale in the backseat,” Vernon replied. “I’ll get it for you.” He unlocked the pilot-side door.

  “Allow me,” Dino said, stepping between Vernon and the airplane. He reached into the rear seat and brought out the aluminum briefcase. “Heavy,” Dino said, weighing it in his hand. “Shall I open it for you?”

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  “That’s all right,” the man said. “I’ll do it. It has a combination lock.”

  “Why don’t you give Lieutenant Bacchetti the combination and let him open it?” Tommy said. “We’d feel more comfortable.”

  Again, Vernon looked at the three strangers. “It’s one-two-three,”

  he said.

  Dino spun the combination on the two locks and opened the case.

  Stone leaned forward and looked over Dino’s shoulder. There were some papers in the case, and Dino lifted them to reveal half a dozen camera lenses underneath.

  Vernon took the papers from Dino and handed Tommy one of them. “That’s the bill of sale,” he said. “Harmon’s phone number is on it, if you’d like to call him. The FAA is a little slow in issuing new registrations.”

  Tommy looked the document over. “Mind if we have a look in the gun case?” he asked.

  “What is this?” Vernon asked. “Some kind of drug thing?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind,” Dino said, relieving him of the case. “I assume the combination is the same.” He set the case on the ground and opened it. Inside were three fl y-fishing rods and reels.

  “I’m down here for the bonefishing,” Vernon said, “not running drugs. You want to search the airplane?”

  “Thank you,” Tommy said, and he and Dino began looking inside the cabin.

  “Beautiful airplane,” Stone said.

  “Thanks,” Vernon replied, watching the cops work.

  “I used to own one, but it wasn’t as nice as this.”

  “Frank Harmon does nothing but restore old airplanes,” Vernon said. “He does good work.”

  Tommy closed the airplane door and approached Vernon. “Thank you,” he said. “Now may I have a look in your duffel?”

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  “There’s a handgun in there,” Vernon said. “And I’m licensed to carry it.” He handed over the duffel.

  Dino and Stone gathered around to watch Tommy go through the bag.

  “Well, look what we’ve got here,” Tommy said, holding up a rifl e barrel and a silencer. “Mr. Vernon,” he said, “you’re under arrest.”

  The three men turned to look at him, but Jim Vernon was gone.

  “Over there,” Stone said, pointing. Vernon hit the chain-link

  fence with a foot, grabbed the top and vaulted over it. He hit the ground on the other side and ran like a frightened deer. Tommy, Stone and Dino began to run. They reached the fence.

  “Give me a leg up,” Tommy said, “then go get your car.”

  Stone and Dino tossed Tommy over the fence, then ran for the parking lot.

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  AN N I K A WA S ST A N D I N G at the watercooler, sipping from a cup, when Stone grabbed her arm and hurried out the door.

  “He ran,” Stone explained.

  “Do we have to run, too?” she asked.

  “We just drive,” Stone said. He, Annika and Dino got into the rental car, then they drove to the main road, turned right and drove along the beach.

  “Why do you think he went this way?” Dino asked.

  “Look at all the people and cars,” Stone replied, driving slowly.

  “It’s camoufl age.”

  They made their way along the beach, and when they saw Tommy, Stone and Dino got out.

  “Any sign of him?” Stone asked. He heard police whoopers in the distance, approaching.

  “Nope, but help is on the way. He’s got to be in this beach crowd somewhere. You stick with me.”

  A couple of squad cars screeched to a halt, and Tommy gave them Vernon’s description and dispatched them in different directions. Stone happened to look back toward the airport. “Hang on, 17 6

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  Tommy!” he shouted. “You’re not going to need the help.” He pointed at the red Cessna, climbing, then turning north.

  “The son of a bitch doubled back!” Tommy cried.

  “Call the tower and see if he filed a flight plan,” Stone said. Tommy had to call information for the number, but he got connected and asked his questions. He hung up. “No flight plan. They don’t even know his tail number; he took off without contacting the tower. Also, he didn’t have his transponder on.”

  “That means air traffic control can only track him as a primary target, which is harder,” Stone said. “Call Paul DePoo. He’ll have the tail number from when Vernon checked in, and he’ll probably have a credit card number for his fuel.”

  Tommy called, spoke to DePoo, then hung up. “I’ve got the tail number, but he paid cash for his fuel.”

  “Then call the state police,” Stone said. “They must have aircraft that can start looking for him. But first call the Navy base. They’re ATC for the area. See if they have a course and altitude for him; that will make the search easier.”

  After several minutes of trying to get the right number, Tommy finally got a controller on the line. “He’s headed due north, and he leveled off at eight thousand feet,” Tommy said. “Then they lost him.”

  “Eight thousand is the best-speed altitude for that airplane, and he probably has a stiff tailwind. He can do 155 knots true airspeed, and with, say, 20 knots of wind he can reach the mainland in half an hour or so. Ask the state police to try and alert as many South Florida airports as they can, especially Fort Lauderdale, where Vernon says he’s from.”

  Tommy got the state police on the line and talked for several minutes. Finally, he hung up, looking discouraged. “They’ve got only one aircraft available, and it’s in Orlando, but they’re sending it south.”

  “He’ll be on the ground somewhere by then,” Stone said. “Best 17 7

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  thing is for your department to start calling airports and see if anybody spots him. Then at least you’ll know what city you’re looking for him in.”

  “I expect he took his duffel with him,” Tommy said, “so we don’t have the rifle. All in all, I’d say this is a total disaster.”

  JIM VE R N O N DE S C E N DE D to 1,000 feet over the water, then crossed the mainland coast, flying over the Everglades. He tapped a code into the GPS for a location he had defined by longitude and latitude, then he set up an instrument approach he had defined as well, then he set the autopilot for the approach. Soon he was flying along a line that was an extension of the runway centerline, watching the GPS

  count down the miles. When he was three miles out, he spotted the clearing. Nobody would spot it who didn’t know where it was. He brought back the throttle and began his fi nal descent. He landed softly on the grass and taxied the airplane back toward the cabin he had built there. Next to the cabin he had erected a ramada, which amounted to poles and a roof, a hangar without sides, which would make it impossible to spot the red airplane from the air. Once under the ramada, he spun the airplane around and shut down the engine.

  He walked over to where a dozen 55-gallon steel drums sat, picked up the hose attached to one of them and refueled the airplane, using a hand pump. Best to have a full load of fuel if he needed to get out of there in a hurry.

  He went into the cabin, switched on the generator and the TV

  and opened a can of chili for lunch, then he sat down and watched a news channel while he ate. Then it came.

  “South Florida airports have been alerted by the state police to be on the lookout for a small airplane, described as a red Cessna 182.
The pilot, whose name is Jim Vernon, is alleged to be a hired killer who shot and wounded a man in Key West two days ago.”

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  That was it. As long as he didn’t land the airplane at a South Florida airport, they’d never find him. The rest of the country was his oyster, but he wasn’t ready to leave Florida just yet. He burned all his Vernon identification in the woodstove, then opened a small safe hidden under the floorboards and took out a packet of I.D.s. He selected a driver’s license and cards with a new name, Thomas Sutherland, and put the wallet in his pocket. He was cleaning up after his lunch when his cell phone rang. It was a throwaway, with no GPS chip, so he had no qualms about using it. “Yes?”

  “Are you aware that the man you were sent to deal with is still active?” a voice said.

  “I am. I’ll have to make another attempt.”

  “The person who issued the contract has canceled it,” the voice said. “You can keep the first payment, but it’s over. Is there any reason to believe the police know who you are?”

  “None,” he replied. “I’ve taken care of that.”

  “I have another assignment for you, in the Northeast. Can you depart immediately? It pays better than the last one, and I already have the fi rst half.”

  “I can’t leave until tonight,” he replied. “The airplane is hot in Florida. I’ll change the registration number this afternoon and get started after dark.”

  “Good. Here are your instructions.”

  He wrote down all the information.

  “The subject lives alone and dines at home every evening around eight o’clock. A dining room window will give you the access you need, and there is considerable foliage on the property. You can drive within fifty yards, then approach the house.”

  “Understood. I’ll call you when the job is complete.” He hung up and went to work. Using a hair dryer, he removed the registration number from the airplane, then affixed new numbers. He went back into the house and, consulting his collection of state and city 17 9

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  maps and his aviation charts, he found an unmanned airport called Johnnycake, only a few miles from his target city, then mapped out his route. He would also take along a portable GPS unit. He packed fresh clothes and put his soiled ones into the washing machine, then he put everything he needed into the airplane. He had only to wait until dark, and he used the time to phone his wife in nearby Jupiter.

  “How did your trip go?” she asked.

  “Not perfect, but not bad. I had to settle for half the fee.”

  “We’ve got some ripe bills, you know.”

  “Don’t worry, I have a new job, and our man will deliver some cash tonight.”

  “Are you coming home?”

  “I have to leave as soon as it’s dark, so it will be a couple of days.”

  “Oh, all right. I guess we need the money.”

  “I love you. Take care of yourself.”

  “I love you, too.” They both hung up.

  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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  HE SLEP T U N T I L nearly noon, then he walked up to the highway and found a diner, where he had a large breakfast. Back at the airfield, he found it pretty much deserted. An occasional airplane would take off or land, but there was no tower, not even an offi ce, just a bunch of airplanes tied down, waiting for the weekend and their owners.

  As he stood there a Mercedes station wagon drove up, and a man and a woman got out.

  “Good morning,” the man said, “or is it afternoon?”

  “Barely,” Sutherland said. “You off to somewhere?”

  “Yeah, we’re visiting some family in Maine for a couple of days.”

  He opened the trunk to reveal four suitcases.

  “Let me give you a hand,” Sutherland said, taking one of the bags out of the trunk. “Which airplane?”

  “The Bonanza over there,” the man said, nodding. “Thanks.”

  Sutherland followed him to the airplane and watched him unlock the right-side front door. “Give me your keys, and I’ll unlock back here,” Sutherland said.

  The man tossed him a heavy bunch of keys. As Sutherland opened the door, he managed to free the car’s ignition key from the bunch, then he set the suitcase in the luggage compartment, leaving the keys in the lock.

  After a preflight inspection, the man and his wife got into the Bonanza, and ten minutes later they were rolling down the runway. Sutherland waited until the airplane had disappeared to the north, then he got his duffel and a tool kit out of his airplane, put them into the rear of the Mercedes, started the car and drov
e away.

  He had his printed maps, and it took him less than half an hour to find the home of his target. He cruised past the house, and as he did, he saw a woman leave by the front door, get into a pickup truck 18 3

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  in the driveway and back out. She looked like the cleaning lady, and there was no other car visible at the house. He drove a little farther down the street and saw a dirt track leading into some woods. He turned into it and drove to a clearing, where the land had been scraped clean. There was a sign advertising a construction company planted on the lot. Looked like someone was going to build there.

  He got out of the car, taking his tool kit, and made his way through the woods back toward the house. When he arrived at where the trees met the lawn he stopped and watched the place for signs of life for a while, then he approached the house and began looking into windows. Plantings at the front of the property shielded him from the street.

  At a rear corner of the house he found the dining room and the kitchen. At a breakfast nook beside the kitchen window, a place had been set for one person, and a bottle of wine left on the table. Apparently, his subject did not use the dining room when eating alone.

  Sutherland stood with his back to the window and looked at the woods, some thirty feet away, as he pulled on a pair of latex gloves. He checked angles and heights and picked out a spot with a good line marked by the center of a row of azaleas planted at the edge of the woods. Perfect.

  He removed a glass cutter and a set of suction cups, affi xed the cups to the selected windowpane, then cut the edges of the glass repeatedly. Finally, he banged on the bracket of the cups with his fist, and the glass snapped out. It would have fallen into the dinette, but he was holding on to the suction cup bracket. Gingerly, he freed the glass from the suction cups, then turned the glass and drew it outside through the new opening. He put the suction cups and the glass cutter back into his tool kit and walked to the spot in the row of azaleas. He stood behind them, then sighted, then knelt and did the same. The kneeling position would be just right. He tossed the 184

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  glass pane as far as he could into the woods, then shucked off the latex gloves and walked back to the car.