She pressed the power button, and the radio made the same crunching, ratcheting shotgun sound as it turned off. She shook her head. Who would want to wake up every morning to that?
Jess placed the robe on the bed. The situation was still confounding. The Grantlys had set an alarm to wake them at seven thirty, yet they weren’t in their beds?
She glanced around the room. The same wartime style of furniture crowded the floor. A full sized four-poster bed snugged up against one wall. Bulky oak furniture lined the other walls, leaving very little empty floor space.
Several framed photographs rested on the dresser. One posed portrait of an elderly couple seated in the living room with a younger man standing behind them was dated the previous year. Roger and his wife with their son, Wilson, presumably.
Two similar photos, taken in prior years, included younger versions of the three along with another man who resembled Mrs. Grantly. A second son, perhaps. Younger than Wilson.
Miss Fuchsia hadn’t mentioned that Wilson had a brother.
One thing seemed out of place in the old-fashioned room. A small painting hanging near the closet. Childish. Brightly colored swatches made with a wide brush on a white canvas. Jess moved to get a closer look at the artist’s signature. Zimmer. Again.
She pulled out her phone and took pictures.
She stood and scanned the room. Nothing seemed amiss. The furniture was organized. Shelves were dusted, tchotchkes artfully arranged. There were no signs of any disturbance.
She walked out into the hall. “Mr. Grantly!” she shouted and then waited and shouted again. “Mrs. Grantly!” No response.
She ducked in and out of another bedroom, a bathroom, and finally stepped into the kitchen.
A large stove dominated one wall. There was a dishwasher, but no microwave. The fridge sported a few business cards and notes adhered to it with magnets.
A bell rang, like an old-fashioned phone. Her heart slammed. She whipped her gun around. Her mouth fell open and she clamped it shut.
A black Bakelite phone was mounted on the wall. She blinked. She’d never seen the first plastic phones except in old movies. This one seemed to be working.
The bell rang again. She breathed in and out.
She was way too jumpy. What did she expect? A couple of ninety-year-olds to pop out and attack her? She wagged her head and smiled. Her heart calmed and her breathing evened out, too.
An old answering machine picked up. A radio announcer’s voice started. Rounded tones, lower octaves, each word precisely enunciated. “You’ve reached the Grantly residence. Harriet and I aren’t here at the moment. Leave a message, and we will call you back soon. Wait for the beep.”
Roger Grantly. Curiously, his voice carried no trace of a southern accent. Surprising for a man who was born and raised and lived all his life almost as far south as one could get without leaving the country.
The answering machine tape kept rolling a second or two before Miss Fuchsia’s voice came from the machine’s speaker. “Mr. Grantly? Harriet? Are you there? Please pick up. There is a woman who wants to get in touch with Wilson. Please—”
Jess grabbed the receiver off the wall. It was huge, and surprisingly heavy. “This is Jess Kimball. Mr. and Mrs. Grantly aren’t here.”
Miss Fuchsia gasped. “Aren’t there? But…how’d you get inside?”
“The door was unlocked.”
“Really?”
“I thought they might be in trouble, so I let myself in. But there’s no one here.”
“In trouble? I thought you said it was Wilson Grantly in trouble.”
“It’s not even eight o’clock in the morning, and a pair of ninety-year-olds aren’t at home? I’d say that’s a little unusual, wouldn’t you?” Jess raked her fingers through her hair and held onto her patience.
Miss Fuchsia’s rapid, shallow breathing came across the phone line. “I can call the car service to confirm, but perhaps they left for the airport.”
“You said they were leaving today.”
“Yes.”
“Before eight o’clock?”
“Maybe. I just assumed it’d be later. They can’t have left that long ago.”
“Do you have their cell phone number?”
“Oh, no. They’re not that technical.” Miss Fuchsia laughed. “They never understood why people needed a phone with them all the time. Wilson had to help them set up the answering machine and they were twenty years younger back then.”
“Do you know what flight they’re booked on?”
“No.”
“Then can you check with the car company and get back to me on my cell? It’s important.”
Miss Fuchsia “uh-huh’d,” and hung up.
Jess settled the handset back on the phone’s cradle, and looked at the notes stuck to the fridge door. She scanned the tidy papers pressed to the surface by cutesy cat magnets, and pulled off a handwritten note. It listed dates and flight times for Orlando and New York.
There was one more flight listed on the note. Jess’s blood ran cold when she saw it. She leaned heavily against a kitchen cabinet.
Roger and Harriet Grantly had tickets for Rome.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Jess looked at the handwritten note and swallowed. The letters were carefully formed. The A’s were rounded, the E’s had straight horizontal lines, not the looping swirl of many styles.
The writer had taken care with the presentation. It was something important to them. Something they wanted to ensure was correct, not open for misinterpretation.
But the wobble in the lines was clear, the l’s and t’s in particular. An old and unsteady hand, but a determined and careful one.
Jess read the dates and airport names for a second time. The Grantlys’ flight wasn’t scheduled to depart from Orlando International Airport for several hours. More than enough time for most people, but maybe a challenge for a pair of ninety-year-olds.
She looked around the house. Even with this schedule, they should still be home. They’d left for the airport very early. Miss Fuchsia was right that they were traveling to New York today, but she was thinking from a younger person’s mindset. Older people who didn’t fly often would want plenty of time to account for any possible problems. They definitely wouldn’t want to miss the flight and be forced to reschedule this particular trip.
She locked the front door, and thumbed through the contact list on her phone while she jogged off the porch and through the garden, back to the rental. The SUV’s leather seats were hot. She tossed the keys into the cup holder, thankful for the vehicle’s pushbutton start. The engine burst into life, and the air-conditioning pushed a stream of tepid air into the cabin.
A picture of the SUV rotated on a big display in the middle of the dashboard. She tapped her foot as she waited for it to finish its egotistical pirouette, and stabbed the button marked “phone” as soon as it appeared.
A list of her recent calls ran down the display. She didn’t have to search far back to find Morris’s number. As she reached to press the option to call him, the words “Incoming Call” appeared. She punched “Accept” and Miss Fuchsia’s voice tumbled breathlessly from the speakers like a waterfall.
“You were right. They only left home about ten minutes ago. They’ve gone to the airport. Definitely. The car service got a call from Mr. Grantly last night. He asked to go earlier. They’ve taken them already. To Orlando. International—”
“Okay. Calm down. I’m on the way to the airport now. They’re only a few minutes ahead of me. I’ll catch up with them.”
“You will be able to help them, won’t you? And Mr. Grantly? I mean, Wilson?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Should…should I call the police? They could—”
“I’m going to call the FBI, right now, after we hang up.”
“Oh! The FBI? Is that…necessary?”
“I’ve got to go…Miss…Miss. I have to go. Don’t worry.”
Jess didn’t wa
it for the woman’s reply before severing the call.
Morris’s number reappeared on the display. She fastened her seatbelt, and pulled into the travel lane while the ringing tone pulsed.
A navigation screen appeared in a corner of the display. She chose the “Rental Car Return” option, and began following its directions from Winter Park to the Orlando airport. Her third airport in less than twenty-four hours. She remembered the days when she was desperate to fly anywhere and everywhere. When she was a kid. Before she got pregnant at sixteen and her childhood ended.
Morris picked up the call. “Can I help you?” he said, curtly, as if her call was a nuisance and he hadn’t practically strong-armed her into helping him less than twelve hours ago.
“Sounds like you are not alone,” she guessed, although she didn’t hear any noises suggesting a crowd on his end.
“Right.”
“Can’t talk now?”
“Exactly.”
The navigation system prompted her to take the next turn for the on-ramp to the highway. She barely saw the sign in the heavy, drifting fog. Not the shortest route to Orlando International, but it was the fastest, given the early morning rush hour traffic and the poor visibility. She could make up the time lost to the Grantlys’ head start. Maybe.
She took a deep breath, “Here’s the highlights. Wilson Grantly’s secretary says he’s in Rome on vacation.”
“I know. You said.”
“She saw the ticket, so we know that for sure.”
“Having a ticket isn’t the same thing as being there.”
“Maybe, but his parents told her they were going to New York.”
She heard tapping on his end of the line.
“I don’t get it,” he said.
“What they didn’t tell the secretary was that they’re also going on to Rome.”
“How do you know that?”
“There was a note on their refrigerator.”
“You’ve talked to them?”
“No. They’d left for the airport ten minutes before I got to their house.”
“Sooooo.” He sighed. “How did you get the note?”
“The front door was open.”
He groaned. “Hang on a second.” She heard a thump, as if he’d put his hand over the phone, and then his muffled voice said, “I’m going to have to take this call.”
He was back a moment later. “Kimball, this is an FBI investigation. A law-abiding investigation. Not because criminals obey the law, but because if we don’t, we have nothing we can use in front of a judge. No justice for victims. Remember?”
“I know that.” If he’d been sitting in the SUV next to her, she might have punched him.
“So, you can’t go breaking and entering.”
“I didn’t. I told you. The front door was open.”
“Jess, who leaves their front door open in this day and age?”
“Ninety-something year olds?”
“Ninety…”
She could almost hear the gears turning in Morris’s head.
“Grantly and Son was established in 1945.” She explained the situation he should already have figured out. “Even if Grantly senior was twenty way back then when his dad started the business, he’s ninety at least.”
Morris whistled.
“Look, we don’t have time for chatter right now.” Jess peered ahead through the fog. “According to the note, they’re departing from the Orlando airport to catch a flight to New York and then to Rome.”
She was driving west, so the blinding sunrise was behind her, off and on, when it wasn’t obscured by fog. Traffic was still moving at the speed limit, or maybe a bit more.
“I can get the passenger manifests,” Morris offered. “Are you heading to the airport?”
“Hell, yes.” Jess swerved to avoid merging traffic from the right and moved the SUV two lanes left into the fast travel lane. “Based on everything we know, Wilson Grantly is probably being held for ransom, and his ninety-year-old parents think they’re going to pay the money and get him back.”
“Jesus,” he said.
“Eloquently put, but we need something a bit more constructive.”
“Wait a minute.”
There was silence on the line. Jess settled into an eighty-mile-an-hour cruise, keeping up with traffic but as far above the speed limit as she felt comfortable with given the weather conditions. Vehicles ahead of her were moving at a good clip, and at least a couple of them had passed her like she was standing still.
A few seconds later, Morris came back on the line. “We can’t detain them. No legitimate reason to. They’ve done nothing wrong as far as we know.”
“The note? The information from the Mounties? They lied to the secretary—”
“The note we probably can’t use because of the way it was obtained and it doesn’t say anything anyway. There’s no law against air travel. The Mounties are golden, but we have no provable link for any of the crimes to Grantly, and the secretary…forget about it.”
“We have to be able to do something.”
“It wouldn’t help us stop these guys even if we did detain the Grantlys. The thieves would know. They’d just fold up and move on.”
“We have to get to the source of the extortion ring.”
“The Grantlys are the only chance we’ve got.”
“Get me a seat.”
“Where?”
“On the flight. Same one as them. First class.”
“Have to be coach. No government servant flies first class.”
“Taboo will pay.”
He sighed. “You think you can get anything from those two on a plane flight?”
“Get me three seats. Me and them. In a line. Across the aisle. I can move them up after takeoff. Spoil them. Soften them up.”
“You sure Taboo’s going to pay?”
“Just do it, Morris. I’d have my assistant handle it, but Mandy’s still asleep. It’s early in Denver.” She swiped her fingers through her hair and grabbed the wheel again. “I can get it covered. It’s our best chance. Hell, it’s our only chance.”
“I’ll get things sorted out.” He exhaled loudly. “The tickets will be waiting for you.”
“One more thing.” She knew he wasn’t going to like it. “I’ve got my Glock. Make sure TSA doesn’t hassle me about my gun in my checked bag.”
A long pause. Guns and airplanes didn’t go well together. Especially if the gun belonged to a civilian. The rigmarole to check her gun through security could take an hour at best, worse if some new recruit handled the paperwork. She had neither the time nor the patience for the process today.
Morris was focused on something else. “Leave it at the airport. Get a locker.”
“No.”
“I can get the Glock back to you later.”
“No.”
She could tell she had his full attention when he said, “Jess—”
“An hour ago, you were the one concerned about my safety. Remember Marek? And Kowalski? Now I’m concerned. Fully concerned.”
Morris blew out a long stream of air. “Orlando had more guns confiscated from carryon luggage than any other Florida airport last year. Their security is as sensitive as it gets.”
“Which is why you’ve got to solve the problem before I get there. I’m about fifteen minutes away.”
Silence.
“Look, I don’t want to be caught up with the TSA. I’ll check my bag with the gun in it. I’m not asking to take it aboard with me. But I don’t have time for any crap. Just fix it, or I’m going to lose the Grantlys.” He didn’t jump in with approval, so she said, “They’re your only viable lead in this case. Is that what you want? Kiss them goodbye and hope for the best?”
“You’re a civilian, Jess. I’m not even sure I should be—”
“Do it, Morris. Two-way street, remember? You agreed. And besides, I’d rather be taking a day off instead of chasing down thieves and killers. That’s your job, not mine.”
&
nbsp; “That is exactly what I’m thinking. We’ve been treading a fine line between assisting and putting you at unacceptable risk. It’s my ass if anything happens to you.”
“Fine by me. So can you get someone to the airport? To interview them?” She exhaled and paused to let him work through his own objections. “You think a pair of ninety-year-olds who are so determined to save their son they’re traveling all the way to Rome to do the job themselves are going to break down and talk to the FBI? Seriously? You think that?”
“I’ll get your tickets and your seat assignments.” He sighed and she could hear the surrender in his tone.
“And find out if Wilson Grantly actually took that flight to Rome.”
“It’s on my list.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Luigi Ficarra was five cars behind the Grantlys. He’d been relieved when he realized the car parked in front of their house in the fog was their limo. They must have brought the pick-up time forward. He scoffed. Old people were way too cautious.
The limo moved more slowly than the general flow of freeway traffic. Overtaking the Grantlys should have been easy. But the fog and rush hour made conditions more difficult.
He knew precisely where they were headed, but with the Grantlys, he’d learned never to rely on anything. He’d watched and warned them for several days now. But he didn’t trust them to do as they’d been told. Or even to act sensibly.
Could they be trying to trick him? He smirked. He didn’t need a reason to kill Wilson Grantly right now. But if his parents wanted to supply an excuse, Luigi would gladly convey the message to his brother.
He kept as tight a distance between his sedan and theirs as possible, but he was too far back. Luigi moved up one car length at a time whenever he could find a gap. He was a good driver. He’d learned on the streets of Rome and Tuscany where aggressive tactics were not only desirable, they were necessary.
After a few miles, he saw his opening.
He swerved left into the fast travel lane between two oversized vans and back right into a center lane between an eighteen-wheeler and a subcompact and another right to second center between two motorcycles.
Luigi continued to weave in and out of small traffic gaps in each of the travel lanes until he could once again see the Grantlys’ limo several car lengths ahead. The driver was holding a stable speed and running in the second center lane closest to the right shoulder. Luigi saw his bumper from time to time. Not quite good enough. He needed to leapfrog one car closer.
Fatal Demand Page 13
