Until the Final Verdict (6 page)

H
UERTA AND
G
RANZ CHATTED
in the front seat of the unmarked police car as it crept down the narrow streets from El Ayuntamiento. Mackay gazed silently out the rear-seat window at the tightly packed houses with red tile roofs, but as they approached La Zona Playa, homes yielded to tidy iglesias, mercados barrios, restaurantes, and other commercial structures, all built in the same clean Mediterranean style.

The Beach Zone's main street, Paseo Marítimo, was bordered on the ocean side by Playa del Bojondillo; to landward, standing shoulder to shoulder, were highrise hotels that sprouted from the beach and hillsides like whitewashed stucco weeds.

Huerta pulled into the Meliá Costa del Sol Hotel valet station, switched off the engine, flashed a badge
at the doorman, and held the door open for Mackay.

Granz grabbed their bags and handed them to a bellman, who hovered discreetly.

“We should receive the court order for Simmons' extradition by noon tomorrow,” Huerta told them.

“Should we make flight reservations?”

“I'll do it. Spanish law grants N.P. authority to bump other passengers off any airline, if necessary.”

“Gracias.”

“De nada.” Huerta pointed to the southwest. “If you prefer to not eat at your hotel, La Carihuela—the original fishing village—is a few blocks that way. Along the Paseo are many good marisquerías—seafood restaurants.” He checked his watch. “One of my officers will pick you up at nine
A.M.
tomorrow.”

They entered the huge, marble-floored, open-air lobby and Kathryn excused herself to use the ladies' room. She returned to find Dave watching TV on a lobby sofa, two frosty bottles of beer on the glasstopped table. When he spotted her, he turned off the television.

“The rooms aren't ready yet,” he told her.

She sat down beside him, leaned back to rest her head on the sofa back, closed her eyes, and hugged her arms to her chest.

He studied her for a few seconds, then leaned forward and picked up his beer, which left a wet ring behind. He sipped the beer, wiped the table, and set the bottle back on the damp napkin. “You haven't said a word for the past hour. What's wrong?”

She opened her eyes. “I screwed up by giving up the death penalty so Simmons would waive extradition.
I should have let him stew in the Málaga prison while I petitioned the Spanish Supreme Court.”

“He wouldn't have lived long enough for you to get the order.”

“No big loss.”

“The court could deny your petition.”

“They could, but I'd push the State Department to apply pressure. Under our treaty with Spain, they'd order him extradited eventually.”

“Could've taken months, maybe years.”

“Justice isn't always expedient.”

He slipped his arm around her shoulder. “Your sense of duty and justice sometimes makes you impractical, Babe. The deal made sense because no Santa Rita jury would sentence him to the death penalty.”

She sat up. “The penalty should fit the crime, and if a criminal ever deserved the death penalty, Simmons does. If a jury's too wimpy to give him what he deserves, at least I'd know I did my job.”

“You always do your job.”

“I do my job best by being a strong advocate! I'm not sure I should've listened to you.”

Dave sighed. “I'll take responsibility if it makes you feel better.”

“It doesn't.” She paused. “Oh, damn, I apologize. You didn't talk me into anything, I made my own decision. It's just that in retrospect I think it was the wrong one.”

“Maybe, but you can't second-guess yourself.” He checked his bottle and found it empty. “Aren't you going to drink your beer?” he asked.

“I'm not thirsty.” She surveyed the lobby. “Nice hotel.”

“Don't want to talk about it anymore, right?”

“Right.”

He picked up the TV remote, punched the On button, and scrolled through the channels until he found something he liked.

“How can you watch so much football?”

“This is Europe, Babe. It's soccer.”

“Same thing. Why don't you check on our room.”

“Huerta booked two adjacent rooms.”

“Cancel one of them.”

S
HE HAD NAPPED
for half an hour when Granz sat on the edge of the bed. She was sleeping on her stomach, and he started massaging her back.

She yawned, but made no attempt to roll over. “I must've fallen asleep.”

“You did.”

He kneaded deeply along both sides of her spine, and she moaned contentedly.

“Jazzbo Miller called a few minutes ago,” he told her. “Bonnie Keefe denies being with Sanchez the night Tucker was murdered.”

“Really? I believed him.”

“Me, too.”

“Did they follow up with Sanchez?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, we can't do anything about it from here. Besides, I don't want to talk about work anymore.”

“Me, neither.”

He continued to massage her for several minutes. “Wanta get something to eat?”

“Not yet.”

She rolled over, letting his hand slip inside her robe, then she untied it and pulled it open.

He caressed her breast. “I love you.”

His other hand started at her ankle, moved up to her calf, the back of her knee, then her thigh. Slowly, he massaged both inner thighs in gradually expanding circles, each pass of his fingertips brushing against her pubis with increasing intensity.

She gasped when his fingers found her warm, soft wetness and slipped inside. Her hand squeezed the front of his Levi's. His fingers probed, teased, tantalized. She responded, but then grasped his hand to stop its movement and prolong the moment.

“I want you in me,” she whispered. “I want to make love with my future husband.”

B
Y THE TIME THEY WALKED
to the Paseo de la Carihuela, the deepening purple evening sky had melted into the water at the horizon. Tourists and shoppers crowded the walkway that separated the sand from the cafés and shops, and umbrellas still dotted the beach.

The outdoor courtyard-garden of La Comida de los Pescadores adjoined the esplanade, but wellplaced potted plants shielded their table from the view of passersby. They held hands and sipped Spanish Chablis while they waited for dinner. They ate slowly, and when the waiter cleared the table, Dave asked Kathryn if she wanted dessert.

“No, I want to go to that Catholic church we passed walking here.”

“What for?”

“To speak with the priest.”

“About what?”

“A favor I want him to do for us tomorrow morning.”

“I don't get it. What favor?”

“You'll see.”

“¡B
UENOS DÍAS
!
I apologize that my officer didn't pick you up this morning until almost ten-thirty. Was your evening at the Meliá satisfactory?”

Granz and Mackay sat in high-backed chairs facing Captain Huerta's desk.

“Yes, but this morning was even better,” Granz told him.

“Did you walk to La Carihuela for breakfast?”

“We went to church.”

“Many people visit our ancient church to admire its beauty. Did you enjoy it?”

“We sure did.” Granz glanced at Mackay, who nodded permission. “We were married there this morning.”

“Married! Congratulations!”

“Gracias.”

Huerta handed Granz an official National Police envelope. “After your news, this seems rather ordinary, but the Tribunal Supremo—the Supreme Court—faxed Simmons' extradition order from Madrid about fifteen minutes ago.”

Granz opened it and pulled out a stack of papers.

“Three sets of travel documents,” Huerta explained, “exit visas, departure-tax exemptions, airline tickets and boarding passes—seats 6A, B, and C on each flight. I assumed you prefer to sit in the forward section of the plane, with your prisoner between you.”

Granz passed the envelope to Mackay. “Excellent.”

“From Málaga to Barcelona you fly on Air Europa Líneas Aéreas, then British Airways from Barcelona to London, and London to San Francisco. You arrive at four twenty-five this afternoon, California time.”

Huerta stood and extended his hand to Granz, then to Mackay. “If you will wait here while I place Simmons in restraints, one of my officers will drive you to the airport, help you clear Customs, and secure the prisoner on board the plane. Shortly before takeoff, he will release Simmons to you, and ask you to sign a custody receipt.”

He walked to the door, opened it, then turned. “It has been my pleasure to work with you. You have a long, tiring flight ahead of you. Vaya con Dios. And again, my congratulations on your marriage.”

“W
HAT TH
'
FUCK YOU MEAN
I can't have another beer? I paid for my ticket.”
The man's voice was loud and deep, his words slurred. In the aft cabin, two flightcrew members talked to the unruly passenger.

The elderly woman across the aisle from Granz leaned over and wiggled her finger.
“Psst.”

Granz leaned into the aisle toward her and caught a whiff of alcohol on her breath. “Yes, ma'am?”

“My name's Priscilla.” She pointed at Simmons. “What'd he do?”

“I'm not at liberty to say, Priscilla.”

She nodded conspiratorially. “Official police business. I understand.”

“I told you to get me a beer!”

“My husband Nigel always drank too much
when he flew, too, God rest his soul,” Priscilla whispered. “Maybe they shouldn't serve liquor on airplanes.”

“No, ma'am.”

She opened her purse enough to show him her tiny flask. “I always carry my own.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Granz sat back up.

The flight attendant's name tag said
andrea
. She waited for Granz and Priscilla's conversation to end, then pushed her cart past them, stopped it between seats 8C and 8D, and locked the wheels. “What would you like to drink?” she asked Mackay.

“Diet Coke, please.”

A loud crash from the aft cabin was followed by a stream of obscenities.

Andrea checked her watch, then scooped ice into the plastic cup and filled it with Diet Coke. “Less than an hour to San Francisco. He started acting up about an hour ago when the steward told him he'd had enough alcohol.” She handed the cup to Granz. “Lately it seems we don't make a transatlantic flight without at least one obnoxious drunk.”

Granz passed the drink to Mackay, lowered the tray on the back of the middle seat for Simmons, then did the same for himself.

“I don't want nothin' to eat, I want a beer.”

Simmons smiled at the stewardess. “I don't think I want a Diet Coke, Andrea. I'll have whatever that guy's drinking.” He tried to point toward the commotion with his right hand, but the handcuff attached to the armrest kept it from moving more than a few inches.

“We'll stick with Diet Cokes,” Granz told her.

“I'll get my own beer!”

Andrea poured two more cups of Diet Coke. Before she could hand one to Simmons, a huge, shaggy-haired man with a bushy black beard, florid cheeks, and a huge beer belly hanging out of his black T-shirt charged up the aisle. He staggered around the cart, grabbed a handful of plastic straws and two cans of Coors, popped a tab, and downed half a beer in a single gulp, then spilled the rest on Priscilla. He handed her a wad of napkins. “ 'Scuse me.”

Andrea set the cups on the cart and reached for the drunk's beer, but he pushed her away. Granz stood up, grabbed at the drunk, but missed.

The drunk flipped Granz the finger. “Mind yer own bizness, asshole.” Then he ran up the aisle, smashed into the partition between coach and first class, stumbled into the forward lavatory, and locked the door.

Granz ran forward and pressed his ear against the lavatory wall. He heard a beer-can tab snap open, and banged on the door.

No answer.

He knocked again.

“Get . . .” He heard the man burp, retch, and throw, then the toilet flush. “Get lost.”

Granz heard a beer can fall to the deck and waited several minutes, then rapped on the door again.

No answer.

Andrea peered cautiously over Granz' shoulder. He raised his voice. “Police! Open the door.”

No answer.

Andrea tapped Granz on the shoulder. “Officer?” She was holding the service phone. “Should I call the cockpit?”

“Not yet. Let's see if I can handle this without any further trouble. Can you check the manifest and tell me the man's name?”

“I did, as soon as he started acting up. Jeremiah Randall.”

Granz nodded and knocked on the door. “Mr. Randall?”

No answer.

Granz heard a crash. He knocked again, harder. “Randall, open the door so we can talk.”

No answer.

“You can open this door from the outside, right?”

Andrea handed him a key. Granz inserted it slowly and silently, listened, then twisted. When the lock snicked open, he cracked the door and looked inside, then motioned for the flight attendant. “Give me a hand, please, Andrea.”

Randall had passed out, wedged in the corner of the tiny room, his head resting on the commode. Vomit stained the front of his T-shirt and dripped from his beard, and a smelly stain spread from the crotch of his Levi's. Two empty beer cans rolled around on the deck between his legs.

Granz, Andrea, and a steward dragged him to an empty row in first class, laid him across the seats, and snugged the seat belt over his waist.

Granz handcuffed him to the armrest and returned to the bathroom, picked up the empty beer cans and dumped them in the trash. “I'll be damned,” he muttered.
He locked the door and told Andrea, “Don't let anyone use the lavatory.”

“Kathryn, can you come with me for a minute?” Granz called out. “And bring your camera.”

She pulled her tiny Elph from her purse. When she stepped over Simmons, he reached up with his unshackled left hand and touched her crotch.

“Keep your hands to yourself.”

“You used to like it.”

In the lavatory, Granz showed her a neat line of white powder about a quarter-inch wide by an inch long and a razor blade on the vanity.

“Cocaine,” Mackay said. “He was snorting.”

“Looks like he passed out before he could snort the other line. Shoot a few photos before I secure this as a crime scene.”

“Done.”

When she finished, he swung the lavatory door closed. “I'll have the flight crew radio ahead to arrange for FAA investigators to meet the plane in San Francisco.”

“Okay. If you've got things under control, I'd better get back and keep my eye on Simmons. Who knows what he's up to.”

When she returned, she sat in Granz' aisle seat. Simmons was chewing on a piece of ice from an empty cup. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes.

He reached out for the cup, picked it up, then suddenly dropped it. He collapsed against Mackay, his eyes widened, his face blanched. Then he groaned. Frothy saliva ran from the corners of his mouth. “My . . . pain . . . chest.”

He grabbed his shirt collar, convulsed, then released a deep breath, convulsed again, stiffened, fell face forward against the seat in front of him, and lay still.

Kathryn reached up and punched the flight attendant Call button, groped in her purse, pulled out a small cylindrical key, and unlocked the handcuffs.

Granz heard the commotion and raced back. “He's having a heart attack,” she told him. “Help me get him on the floor.”

They slid him into the aisle and rolled him onto his back. Granz looked up. “Andrea, find a first-aid kit and get an airway. Fast!”

He pressed his fingers against Simmons' throat. “No heartbeat.”

Andrea returned and handed him a flat, curved, clear plastic tube. He inserted it into Simmons' throat and told Mackay, “Start heart compressions while I resuscitate him.” Then he told Andrea, “Find out if there's a doctor or paramedic on board.”

Minutes later, Andrea leaned over his shoulder. “I'm sorry,” she told them. “Flight attendants asked every passenger, and I checked the passenger list. There's no medical personnel on the plane.”

Simmons' lifeless face was white, his eyes open, vacant, and glazed. Granz removed the airway and put his hand on Mackay's arm. “It's no use, he's dead.”

“Damn!”

“Help me put him in a seat.”

When Simmons' body was secured in the firstclass section across the aisle from Randall, Granz led
Mackay to the passageway behind the cockpit and hugged her.

“You okay?”

“Not really.”

“You did everything possible.”

“I guess.”

“I'll ask the flight crew to radio ahead and have the San Francisco Coroner stand by.”

She pulled back and shook her head. “I want Nelson to do the autopsy.”

“He had a heart attack. Let San Francisco autopsy him and send Nelson the protocol.”

“He was our prisoner.”

“The San Francisco Coroner's gonna be pissed.”

“Just be one less autopsy they have to do.” She checked her watch. “It's only four
P.M.,
the courts are still open. If you think they'll be a problem, I can get a court order before we land.”

He thought it over. “No need. I'll call my deputy coroner and arrange for him to pick up the body at baggage.”

“Thanks.”

“It's going to take a while in San Francisco to make all our reports.”

She glanced at Simmons' corpse. “What's the hurry? He isn't going anyplace.”