First Class Killing

by Lynne Heitman

  “An intervention?”

  “I don’t want you slipping over to the dark side. There’s so much money in being a hooker, and you’re so poor.”

  “Do you think I want to be a hooker, Tristan?”

  “I think you might have some sort of fascination with the whole bad girl thing. You being such a good girl and all.”

  “Sometimes being good is boring.” I finished cleaning the .44 and put it in front of him for inspection.

  “I’ve been bad,” he said, squinting down to check my handiwork, “and I’ve been good. Good is better.”

  “You’ve been bad? I want to hear.”

  “I’m not kidding about this.”

  Something in his voice made me look up at him. His face, usually so mobile and animated, had turned in profile to all right angles and sharp corners—his nose, his chin, even his jaw line, which made a sharp turn where it hinged to his skull.

  “You’re not serious. Do you think she’s going to convert me?”

  “How do you think she got them all organized? Do you think they all just fell into line and happily started handing over a cut? Did you ever hear the name Robin Sevitch?”

  “No.”

  “She was a spitfire like DQ. One of the first girls to start hooking on the job. She made a lot of money, and when the new regime came in, she didn’t like it much. She said she’d rather turn everyone in than have to pay part of her fee to Angela. Guess what happened to her?”

  I swallowed hard and felt a faint stirring in the pit of my stomach. “What?”

  “She went to Omaha and never came back.”

  “What happened?”

  “Supposedly, she went out for a walk by herself along a deserted canal. They found her body with her head bashed in.”

  “You think Angel did that?”

  “Let me put it this way. She never had another single complaint from the rank and file.” He unzipped the case for the .44 and set the gun inside. “Stay away from Angela Velesco, Alexandra. She is one twisted sister.”

  Chapter

  7

  THE SUN WAS HIGHER IN THE SKY ASIDROVEback to the city, and I couldn’t find my sunglasses. The last time I’d had them was on a turnaround to Phoenix sometime last week, which meant they were buried in my suitcase, which was still sitting unpacked in the middle of my living room. That left me approaching the tollbooth for the Sumner Tunnel, fighting with my balky sun visor, digging for money, and juggling my cell phone all at once.

  “Hold on, Harvey.”

  “Wait, you cannot—”

  “Hold on.”

  I rolled down the window to greet the toll collector. “Good morning.” I got no response in exchange for my three bucks, but I did get passage back through to the city.

  “Harvey, are you there?” He was. “Did you talk to Carl? Did we get the extra time?”

  “I spoke to him yesterday afternoon. He will give us until a week from Monday.” His voice was in and out, but I was surprised we were connected at all, since I was in the tunnel under the harbor.

  “Harvey, that’s only ten days.”

  “He also gave me a warning. If he pays for the extra time, he wants to see results.”

  “I don’t blame him. Listen, I just spent time with Tristan, and he gave me an idea for an analysis we can do that might help us identify the players.” I hit the brake and slowed to a stop behind the car stopped in front of me. “Dammit.”

  “What is it?”

  “One of the lanes in the tunnel is blocked.” I started inching the Durango into the other lane, hoping for a chance to shoot over. When I caught sight of a Miata in my rearview, I made my move. I almost didn’t hear its little horn bleating. Sometimes size was all that mattered.

  “I am asking what is your idea?”

  “Oh. Top swappers.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Swaps, Harvey. Swapping. Trading trips among ourselves. Being able to manage your work schedule is part of the beauty of being a flight attendant. If the hookers are using their ability to swap to get on the trips with their dates or to get to the cities where their dates will meet them, then a high level of swapping might be a way to spot the hookers.”

  “How would we identify the swaps?”

  “We get a copy of the base schedule as it was bid and then a copy of the schedule that was actually flown over the past several months. We compare them and use the results to identify the top swappers.”

  “Where am I to get the schedules?”

  “Carl should be able to get you electronic versions of the as-bid and as-flown schedules. That would make it easier to work with the data. While you’re at it, ask him for a list of earnings for everyone at the base. I’d get last year’s and this year’s earnings to date.”

  “Income versus lifestyle analysis,” he said, anticipating where I was going. “I can match salaries to asset purchases, estimate a cost of living, and see if they can afford what they have on their reported salaries.”

  “Exactly what I was thinking. It should be easy, too. These women are not shy about spending money. They wear expensive jewelry, have second homes down on the Cape or on the Vineyard, and there is a lot of plastic surgery going on, which is not cheap.”

  “Nor,” he said, like the accountant he was, “is it covered by health benefits.”

  “Right.” I came up out of the tunnel and into the chaos of the Big Dig, the massive roadway rearrangement project designed to rationalize Boston’s interstate highway system and sink most of it underground. It was already years in the making and years from completion, which made it one of the world’s largest semipermanent construction sites. From a practical standpoint, they changed the detours almost every night, so you had to pay close attention if you didn’t want to end up in New Hampshire. I made the crossing successfully and headed toward my neighborhood.

  “So, what do you think, Harvey?”

  “It could work. It would be fast.”

  “Your enthusiasm is killing me. I thought it was brilliant.”

  “Alex, even if we do come up with a list of names, none of this necessarily proves anything.”

  “You said it yourself. We’re not trying to convict them. We’re trying to scare them, which won’t be easy. The more we know about them, the better chance we have. There’s something else I think we should do.”

  “What?”

  “Look into an unsolved murder in Omaha. An OrangeAir flight attendant named Robin Sevitch got her head bashed in there. Tristan says Angel arranged it.”

  “Dear Lord.”

  “I know. It could be urban legend, but he implied she did it to send a message about who was in charge.”

  “I will see what I can dig up.”

  “Good.” I spotted a space on the street almost too late and had to throw it into reverse and barrel backward for half a block, a maneuver that required my full attention.

  “Harvey, I have to go. I’m at the pharmacy.”

  “The pharmacy? What is the matter? Are you sick?”

  “Not sick,” I said, looking down at my smart linen pants and silk blouse. “Just dull and flat-chested. I’ll call you later.”

  I heard my phone ringing through my closed door as I stepped off the elevator. The answering machine picked up as I fumbled my keys out and unlocked the dead bolt. I tried to hook the dry cleaning on the bedroom door-knob as I hurried past but missed and ended up with piles of OrangeAir uniforms and plastic sheathing on the floor.

  “Hey, Shanahan, where the fuck are you? Too bad, because you’re gonna want to hear this. Anyway, call me when—”

  It was Dan, and I had a matter of seconds before he hung up. I lunged toward the phone. “I’m here. I’m here, Dan. Don’t hang up.”

  “What the fuck? Are you screening your calls?”

  “I just walked in.” I dumped my bags on the counter and my backpack on the floor. One of the shopping bags fell over, spilling out my do-it-at-home hair color kit and a new bottle of fing
ernail polish. “What’s going on?”

  “Ask and you shall receive.”

  “You talked to our guy?”

  “I had to hunt him down. He’s in Dubai on business. I got him on his cell phone.” That was one of the great things about Dan. Once he committed, you knew he wouldn’t stop until he came through for you. “He thought I was calling asking him for a job, but then I had to tell him no, I was calling about getting laid.”

  “How did it go?”

  “I sweated through my shirt and my suit jacket and had to take an hour after I hung up to go walk around on the ramp. I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to look this guy in the eye again.”

  “I know this wasn’t easy, but did he give you anything?”

  “He told me he would sponsor me, if I was interested.”

  “Sponsor you?”

  “It’s like a club. You don’t just call up and hire a hooker. It’s members only, and according to him, it’s harder to get into than the CIA. You have to fill out an application, and on this application you have to put the names and phone numbers of three active members who are willing to sponsor you.”

  “Do they actually call them for references?”

  “Sure as shit do. They pretend to be someone else, but they do a background check. A better one than we do, it sounds like.”

  “What exactly are they checking for?”

  “To make sure the guy is who he says he is and not a cop. If he checks out, he gets a temporary ID and password, which he uses until the first time he bangs one of them, the idea being a cop wouldn’t go that far. Once they do that, they get a permanent ID.”

  “Impressive. This is some operation she’s running. How do they hook up?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did he talk about scheduling and meeting and—”

  “Web site. It’s all done online.”

  “I knew it. Payment, too?”

  “Shanahan, for Christ’s sake. He was in fucking Dubai, and I was sweating through all my clothes. It wasn’t a lengthy and detailed conversation.”

  “Okay, okay. Sorry.” I waited a beat for him to calm down. Otherwise, he would talk so fast I couldn’t understand him. “Just tell me what you did get.”

  “I asked him for the name of the Web site. He said it wouldn’t do me any good without a password. He also said there’s nothing to see there. It’s just a sign-in screen. So I asked him, how do you see the girls, how do you know who to ask for, and he says they have these introduction parties where you can meet them. There’s one scheduled for tomorrow night. Supposedly, lots of hookers will be there. He’s not going, obviously, but he told me where it was in case I wanted to.”

  “Great. Let me get something to write with.” I slid the magazines and unopened mail around on the counter until the pen I was searching for rolled off the edge. It probably made sense for an investigator to have writing tools at the ready. I made a mental note as I plucked the pen from the hardwood and found a napkin to write on. “Where is it?”

  “LA.”

  “LA? LosAngeles?”

  “Little town on the West Coast? Palm trees…movie stars…big international airport?”

  Turning around and going right back out on the road again was the last thing I wanted to do. I wasn’t even sure I had any clean underwear. But Tristan did say that Angel was expanding her wings to LA. Maybe this was the kickoff, in which case, clean underwear or not, I should be there.

  Dan was waiting. “Do you want it or not?”

  “Give it to me.”

  He read me the address, and I wrote it down. I knew virtually nothing about LA, but he said it was at some producer’s house in the Hollywood Hills. Nothing intimidating about that. “Okay, here’s the most important part. You have to have this password to get in. Are you ready?”

  Chapter

  8

  “ALEXANDRA!”

  Tristan screeched down the jetbridge and onto the quiet aircraft. I jumped and clanged the coffee pot against the coffeemaker. Fortunately, onboard coffee urns are nearly indestructible.

  “You startled me.”

  “Is that you? Oh, my God, dear, you are ablonde! But when did you do this?”

  I stuck the pot on the burner, reached up, and plowed my fingers through my new do. It was a familiar habit through unfamiliar territory. I wasn’t used to wearing products on my hair.

  “Last night, and I’m not a blonde, I’m merely highlighted.”

  “Look at you, all poofed and moussed. You look fabulous.”

  “Do you really think so?” If I had been unsure before, now I was totally convinced—I had made a terrible mistake. It was too much. “Is it too much?” I knew I shouldn’t have done it myself. What was I thinking taking fashion advice from Dan? “Do you like it? Is it a good color? Is it okay?”

  “Better than okay. Is that new makeup, too?Look at those nails. Girl, what got into you?”

  He turned me around, and I had to admit, it was nice to be noticed. “It’s your influence,” I said. “I knew I couldn’t show up with you at a Hollywood party without looking anything less than fully buffed.”

  I’d had no luck arranging my own swap to LA—apparently, it was the place to be for flight attendants this evening—so I’d had to enlist Tristan, with his seniority and his pull and his vast number of sources around the base. He got the job done, but the price was that he insisted on coming with me. In my heart of hearts, I was relieved. I hated parties. The sound of ice tinkling in glasses or the smell of a Sterno can burning under a fondue pot was enough to trigger the party vapors, the inability to function in large gatherings of schmoozing people, all of whom knew each other, none of whom knew me. This particular confab, put on by a Hollywood producer, had the potential of being the most intimidating party I’d ever attended.

  “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.” He stowed his bag in the first-class coat closet. “My days of jetting out to LA for a party are long over. But this might be fun. Did you turn on the ovens?” He reached past me to check. “Still gun-shy, I see.” After opening the doors to make sure no ice buckets were hidden inside, he turned them on. “Tell me again why going to this party is so important to you.”

  “I told you last night.”

  “I know you did, but I want to hear it again. I am so excited for you.”

  “There’s someone there I want to see.” Not exactly a lie…

  “A passenger, right?”

  “He is, yes.” Still not really a lie. There would be passengers there.

  “Oooh, a handsome prince. Did he invite you? Tell me everything about him. Did you meet him on a flight? You must have. Does he live in LA? You have to be careful of handsome princes from LA. Mostly, they’re starving gay actors. I can help you scope that out. Introduce me, and I’ll tell you within thirty seconds if he’s gay. Unfortunately, it’s the toads that have all the money, and if you kiss them, they will still be toads, albeit wealthy ones. You don’t have to worry about them, anyway. Most of them are only interested in jailbait. Boys and girls. Oh—” He checked quickly to see if he had offended me. “I didnot mean you were old. Thirty-four is not old except by the standards of Tinsel Town.” He put his arm around me. “Don’t worry, Cinderella. I’ll take care of you.”

  That was one of the nice things about Tristan. I often didn’t have to fill in the details for him, because he did it himself.

  Work began with the sound of the first-class passengers stampeding down the jetbridge, racing each other for overhead bin space. Boarding went smoothly, and after a slow but steady procession, Tristan worked with the gate agent to close out the flight while I checked in with the cockpit for beverage orders. Behind me, I heard the telltale signs of runners, passengers huffing and puffing as they leaped aboard after an all-out sprint down the concourse. Eventually, the door closed, the jet-bridge retracted, and we were set, sealed in for the long flight west.

  As we pushed back and started our taxi, I did a pass through the c
abin to prepare for takeoff. My focus was on empty cups and seat belts, so mostly what I saw were elbows and laptop keyboards and wristwatches and cuff-links, and then I got to the guy in 4B, who must have been one of the runners, because 4B had been empty last I’d seen, and for some reason I looked at his face and not his elbow, and I saw who it was, and everything stopped, and I started to say something from the shock alone but caught myself because he didn’t see me, and my next thought in a flood of them was that I didn’t want to be seen.

  Not like this. Not by him.

  I spun around and lurched back to the galley, where Tristan was organizing the catering cart. “We don’t have enough beer,” he said. “They never give us enough beer. We’ll be lucky if we make it to the Mississippi on what they gave us.”

  When I didn’t respond, he looked up at my face. “What? What’s the matter?”

  I could barely get the words out. My feet felt heavy, because all my blood had drained down and collected there. “I can’t work up front on this leg. I have to go to the back.”

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  “The passenger who just boarded, the one in 4B, I know him. I can’t work the cabin with him there.”

  “ ‘Him’?” He turned instantly puckish. “Let me see, who could that be? Ex-husband?”

  “You know I don’t have one of those.”

  “Old boyfriend who came home to find you in the shower with your neighbor’s husband? That could be fun. Or maybeyou came home and foundhim in the shower with your neighbor’s husband. Even more fun, for me at least, although probably not for you—”

  “Tristan, please stop.” I was unhinged enough that he knew I wasn’t joking. My heart was up inside my skull, pounding against my eardrums. “I can’t believe this. Where’s the…” I reached for the manifest, but he grabbed it first and scanned it. With the start of a big grin, he stepped outside the galley and checked out 4B. “Oh, my God. I can’t believe it. Dear, he looks just like you.”

  I pulled him back in. He looked at me with eyebrows raised. “James P. Shanahan?”