First Class Killing

by Lynne Heitman

  “I don’t like to be pushed.”

  “No shit.”

  “And it’s my choice whether I want to see him or not.”

  “Mine, too.”

  “I know, but why would you—” He was right. He was right, and I was right. We were both entitled to our choices, and we had to respect each other’s. It was just that I wanted his choice to be the same as mine. “Just make sure you want him around for the right reasons.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I think you’re still trying to prove yourself to him and what better way to do it than to show him all your stuff?”

  “My stuff?”

  “Your cars and your big house and your big job.”

  He stared across to the Frog Pond. It was still too early, but within months, it would be frozen over and used for a public skating rink. I didn’t skate, but I still thought that was one of the nicer things about winter in Boston.

  “Sometimes,” he said, “I think the reason I have all those things is that he made me want to work harder.”

  “Oh, please. Don’t tell me that’s what you think. What he did to you was—” I put my hands on my knees and waited until I didn’t feel as if my face were on fire. “Parents are supposed to make life easier for their children. You know that. You have your own now. All he ever did was make yours harder.”

  “Yours, too, Za.”

  I looked at him, and he was grinning. Za was my family name, and Jamie was the only one who ever used it anymore. He had given it to me when he was learning to talk, because he could never get all the way to the end of Alexandra, which was what he heard my mother call me. In that strange and magical alchemy that exists only in the minds of toddlers, Alexandra begat Zandra, which became Za. He could be pretty damned disarming when he wanted to.

  “Jamie, you are a good person, and you are what you are in spite of him. I can’t stand for you to give him credit for all of your hard work.”

  He leaned forward again and stared into the ground. “It doesn’t mean I give you any less.”

  “I’m not…it’s not about…” But it was. He was right. He’d gotten me again. I put my hand on his back and let it settle there, and that felt about right. “Jamie, I’ve got my own issues with Walter, and someday when I grow up, I’ll deal with them. If you want him around, then you have to deal with him on your own. But I give you a lot of credit for trying. It’s more than I’m willing to do.”

  He nodded. We sat for a few minutes in silence. It was nice to be able to sit quietly together. I had so much I wanted to tell him, but not tonight. I wanted to stay in the space we were in right then. He might have felt the same way, because I knew he had questions, but he didn’t ask any.

  “Where do you live?” Not the hard ones, anyway.

  “Down Beacon.” I pointed west. “A few blocks that way. Not far. Where are you staying?”

  “In a corporate apartment downtown.” Which meant we were walking in opposite directions. Speaking of home and directions seemed to be the cue to stand. He reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a snazzy business card holder and a pen and started jotting. “These are all my numbers. Call me when you’re free. Gina and the kids want to see you. You can come down and spend the night with us. We have plenty of space in the new house.”

  “So…” I took the card and looked it over. “How was it, anyway?”

  “How was what?”

  “With Walter at Christmas. How did it go?”

  He looked toward a streetlight, and his shoulders dipped just enough to make me angry at my father all over again. “It was…complicated. That’s a longer conversation.”

  “Jamie…”

  “What?”

  “Please don’t make me have to forgive him, or be with him to be with you.”

  It seemed like a long time before he answered. “I’m glad you called,” he said, and hugged me tight.

  As I walked home, the evening felt fresh and promising, like a shiny new CD that hadn’t been played yet. On my way there, I saw things—a beautiful bay window with Irish lace curtains, a building’s delicately sculpted façade that featured a pineapple theme, a lavishly landscaped yard. I had noticed none of these things in the year I had lived there. It was as if I were seeing my own neighborhood through new eyes.

  Inside my apartment, the red message light on my answering machine blinked. I punched it up and listened.

  It was a woman’s voice but not Angel’s. I didn’t know who it was, but I knew what it was. Flight 1807. Chicago. Tomorrow afternoon. Code wordsSaturn andMercury. The swap had been arranged for both outbound and inbound flights. I played it again and saved it; then I called Harvey.

  “Hello?” He sounded sleepy.

  “Harvey, the date is on.”

  “For when?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?I am not ready. I have had no time to prepare. You said it would not be for a day at least.” Now he was awake.

  “Yes, you are ready, and this is good for us. The sooner, the better, right? The flight is not until three in the afternoon. I should get in around five-thirty, and I’m sure the date wouldn’t be until quite a bit later than that. That gives us all night tonight and most of tomorrow. I’ll help you. I’m heading out to the airport right now to pull the reservation records. I’ll bring them over to you, and we’ll get started. Don’t worry. You’re ready.”

  He might have been ready, but he was not happy when we hung up.

  I put the phone aside and went in to change my clothes. This thing was happening. It was really happening, and I couldn’t help but feel that I was about to pass a point of no return.

  Chapter

  20

  FORTUNATELY, THE EQUIPMENT OPERATING ASflight 1807 to Chicago was an older narrow-body, which meant there were only twelve first-class seats. I stood in the galley, watching the face of every man who boarded, wondering which ones went with the four names Harvey had researched so thoroughly for me.

  It had been a tour de force performance on his part last night as he’d orchestrated data from multiple sources, both legal and illegal, to research the backgrounds of all the men booked on the flight in first class. We worked on the assumption that one of them would be my date, so doing all of them was the safest bet. Nine seats had been booked in advance. After eliminating the women and the other half of a Mr. and Mrs. duo, six men were left. We crossed off two of those on the basis of age. One was eighty-two. The other was in high school. Granted, age in itself didn’t eliminate either one, but it was hard to dig up dirt on a kid too young to have any or a man too old to care if he did.

  That left the four potentials, all of which Harvey had researched with skill, confidence, and even a bit of cunning at times. It had been fun to watch him do something he liked for a change.

  As everyone settled in for the flight, I took my clipboard and went out to meet the candidates. It was an odd-numbered day of the month, which meant snack orders were to be taken from the back forward. That put 5E up first.

  Aaron Sayer was twenty-eight years old. In his starched white shirt and suspenders, he looked like a baby titan of industry. He was single, had graduated from Columbia Law School, owned a condo in the Back Bay not far from my place, and was a member of the University Club, where he liked to play squash and swim. If he was my date, I was in trouble. So far, the only threat we could make would be to call and tell the partners at his law firm that he had hired a prostitute. They would probably promote him.

  He was doing this thing with his cell phone, flipping it open and shut with one hand as he squinted through the porthole window.

  “Good afternoon. I’m Alex, and I’ll be serving you today. Welcome ab—”

  “Gin and tonic. Light on the tonic, and toss in a lime. Not a twist. A slice.” He did the whole thing without breaking rhythm on the phone flipping and without looking at me.

  “Certainly. Would you care for—”

  “Nothing to eat.” At s
ome point, he hit upon the idea of using his cell phone as a communication device. He covered one of the buttons with his thumb and pressed. “Just keep the GTs coming.”

  He put the phone to his ear, and I was thinking what an annoying little prick he was, when he turned his head and I saw something curious. The eyelashes at the corner of his left eye were damp and clumped together, the way they get when a teardrop has rolled by. His face was drawn and pale, and he looked like a man, a boy, really, who had lost something important. Girlfriend…best friend…the firm’s biggest client. When I looked more closely, his eyes hinted at a deeper reservoir of feeling than I would have given him credit for. He reminded me of my brother, which gave me a great big reason to hope he wasn’t my guy.

  “Is there anything I can get for you? Would you like an aspirin? A glass of water before we take off?”

  “No.” He closed the phone quietly and turned toward the window. Whoever he had called had not answered. “No, thank you.”

  The second of my mystery men was seated in 4B. His name was Malcolm Bryce, and when I pulled up next to him to take his order, he actually looked up from his paper and acknowledged my presence.

  “How are you?” he asked, and I could have sworn by the intense way he looked at me that he really wanted to know.

  “I’m good, thank you, and welcome aboard. Would you like a snack after we take off, Mr. Bryce?”

  “I’ll pass, but thank you. Are you new on this flight? I haven’t seen you before.”

  “It’s my first time working this flight.”

  He was in his early to mid-forties. He had a widow’s peak and wore his almost-black hair pushed off his face as if the sheer abundance of it were a nuisance. His eyes were a pale, elusive shade of green set off nicely by the deep jade color of his shirt. He was excitingly handsome and, at least on paper, my top pick for the man who had purchased my services for the evening.

  He was a sports agent, which put him in the company of severely wealthy, high-profile athletes who lived the life of the rich, famous, and indulged. It also made him easy to Google. He had his own profile on the Internet. He was good at his job, which made him respected and loathed in equal measure, depending on who was asked. Wealthy in his own right, he was also a super-duper frequent flier. Malcolm Bryce fit the profile of Angel’s clients perfectly, and the longer I looked into those intelligent green eyes, the more I hoped he wasn’t the guy, because all I could think about was how that richly woven shirt lay across his chest and what it might be like to slip a hand underneath. I thought I might be getting some vibes from him, too, but I had to shake it off. I was working.

  “How about something to drink after we take off, Mr. Bryce?”

  “Call me Malcolm, and I’ll have whatever you recommend in the way of a nice red wine.”

  “I’ll check the wine cellar and see what I can come up with.”

  His easy grin revealed a row of perfectly charming, slightly imperfect teeth. I checked for a wedding band—none—and reserved the right to come back and hit on him later if he wasn’t the guy.

  My interactions with the two men in the bulkhead row, Dr. Dal Pressman in the window seat and Curt Guransky on the aisle, were dull by comparison. They ordered beers to drink and pasta salad to eat and otherwise seemed to have absolutely nothing in common. Dr. Pressman was thin and wispy and typed his computer keys very quickly with smooth, manicured nails. According to Harvey, he was a reasonably prominent business ethics professor at a reasonably prestigious university in town. Harvey had been most impressed by some of his articles. He was also married. If it turned out that he was my date, I looked forward to the philosophical discussion that would ensue.

  Mr. Guransky was chubby and abrupt and bored-looking. He was a thirty-eight-year-old divorced chiropractor with his own practice and not much else. The split with his wife had cleaned him out and left him living in a rented apartment in Waltham. So far, Harvey had been frustrated in his search for dirt on this guy. He was easily the least-attractive candidate and the one who got me thinking about what it would be like to do this thing for real.

  When I got to the galley to prepare for takeoff, I looked back at my four potentials. I pictured their bodies under their clothes and all the different ways they could feel—soft, bony, hairy, taut, smooth, sweaty, dry, and oily. I looked at their faces and their hands and thought about what it would be like to have one of them touch me in the most intimate way. The idea brought forth so many disruptive images and feelings I barely noticed the two passengers hustling onboard as I closed the door. But when I did my final walk-through, it was impossible not to notice that both of them had settled into first-class seats, one next to the baby titan and the other next to the eighty-two-year-old man.

  I went back to the galley, tossed the cups I’d collected in the vicinity of the trash, and missed. This was exactly what I didn’t need, and one of the things Harvey had worried about. Last-minute upgrades. Wild cards about which we knew absolutely nothing.

  With the door shut and taxiing under way, I couldn’t call him. I would have to try him on the Airfone once we were at altitude, always a dicey proposition. Half the time, I couldn’t make the damn thing work. I didn’t like this. Nope, I didn’t like it at all, and if Harvey knew about it, he would hate it.

  I strapped myself into the jumpseat and stared out at the only two passengers I could see from where I was: Dr. Pressman and the chiropractor. The doctor was reading a journal. The chiropractor was tossing goldfish crackers into his mouth. I was partway to a good sulk when the answer came to me. The only reason we had researched all of them was that we didn’t know which guy it was. If I could get my date to raise his hand and identify himself, problem solved. If it turned out to be one of the wild cards, I would call Harvey and give him the name. If it was one of the original four, we were already set.

  By the time we were airborne and I was released to the galley, I had a plan.

  I fixed the kid’s “double GTs” with an extra slice of lime and put a couple of Advils on the side. I poured Malcolm’s red wine, opened the two beers, and got a scotch and water, orange juice, and club soda for the other passengers. While the almonds were heating, I found a pen in the pocket of my apron, smoothed out six cocktail napkins, and wrote the password on each:Saturn.

  When they were ready, I gathered the nuts, picked up the tray, and emerged into the den of possibilities. I served the passengers in the sequence I’d taken the orders. The baby titan was asleep. One of the wild cards, a guy named Leland Cole, was in the window seat next to him. He was reasonably young but seemed determined to discourage anyone from thinking so. His lightweight short-sleeved shirt was buttoned one button too high and was made of the same lightweight suburban madras plaid my father used to wear to barbecue in the backyard. When I put the marked napkin in front of him, he handed it right back.

  “May I have one that’s not been used?”

  “Of course.” Cross him off the list.

  Malcolm didn’t even notice the napkin I placed on his tray. He was busy looking at me. I set his drink down and served the woman next to him her orange juice.

  I dropped the other two marked napkins in front of the bulkhead boys. Dr. Ethics didn’t even look up from his screen. The chiropractor saw that his napkin had something written on it and flipped it over, apparently eager to get his pudgy fingers around his beer.

  No sooner had I returned to the galley then I turned to find Malcolm, hands in his pockets, relaxed against the coat closet. I was disappointed but not surprised. I stacked some cups that didn’t need stacking. “The seat belt sign is still on,” I said. “You’re in violation of about twelve different FAA regulations.”

  “You wouldn’t turn me in, would you?”

  “I’d be taking a risk not to. There could be an inspector onboard.”

  He gave me a look that made me believe the risk might have been worth it. He was clearly the kind of man who didn’t have much use for rules.

  “Would you be
available to join me for a drink this evening in Chicago?”

  I stared at him. He was disarmingly flushed and a little nervous. He was obviously flirting, yet he offered no password. What was I to make of this?

  “Well…that depends.”

  “On what?”

  “It’s possible I will be otherwise engaged this evening.”

  “Is that true, or are you giving me the brush-off?”

  I lowered my voice. “I’m not brushing you off. I’m waiting for verification.”

  “Verification?”

  When he said it back to me, I realized what an odd choice of words that must have seemed if he wasn’t the guy. Maybe he wasn’t. That would be nice. “I’m waiting to hear back from a friend. We’re supposed to get together tonight. Otherwise, I would love to get a drink with you.”

  He grinned. “Do you mind if I check back with you later, then?”

  “Please do. I expect to hear something soon.”

  After he’d gone back to his seat, the cockpit called to say they were hungry. I was setting up their trays when I heard the curtains rattle behind me and felt a hand on my butt.

  “Hey—”

  I whipped around, expecting that Malcolm had finally made his move. Instead, I found myself eye to eye with the pudgy chiropractor. He didn’t look bored anymore. He held his empty beer glass in the hand he wasn’t using to grope me.

  “Just sampling the merchandise. So far, I like what I see.”

  He set the glass down and started to reach for me again. I grabbed his wrist. “I’m not exactly on the clock right now. Not yours, anyway.”

  His blue eyes danced in his raspberry soufflé face as he leaned in close enough for me to smell his deodorant. “You like it rough, right?” He let out a low groan that might have been aiming for sexy but sounded as if he had sciatica. “That’s what I asked for.”