Zero Separation (6 page)

“They needed you both out of the picture,” Montero said. “Mr. Ross was just the first, and may have been more combative than they anticipated.”

“What about security cameras?”

“Nothing, and the communication with the control tower was normal, relaxed, professional.”

“I gather they didn't file a flight plan. Any idea where they went?”

“They told the tower they were going to reposition from Boca Raton down to Opa-Locka Airport in Miami. Airplanes do that all the time, and run down the coast, no flight plan needed. When I checked with Miami Center, they said they tracked what they assumed was a small airplane that left Boca Raton and flew out to the eastern edge of their airspace. At some point the transponder was lost or switched off, and the target turned south and flew out of radar range.”

“From your phone conversation I gathered you found the Bristol Technologies crew still in Florida?”

“They're present and accounted for at a local hotel. They told us that they'd fueled their Gulfstream when they landed due to an early-morning departure later in the week. The paramedics reported that Mr. Ross had some mild bruising on the knuckles of his right hand. The marks were consistent with someone who'd been in a fistfight. Can you tell me if Mr. Ross had those marks earlier in the evening?”

“No.”

“It would seem Mr. Ross managed to get in at least one punch before he went down. He no doubt got a good look at his assailant.”

“I overheard the police at the airport say that it was probably drug smugglers. If you would have asked me before tonight what
kind of airplanes drug smugglers were interested in, my answer wouldn't be fifty-million-dollar business jets.”

“There's been an alarming new trend among drug cartels, and we're starting to see this switch in methodology. A Gulfstream crashed in Mexico; it was loaded with almost four tons of cocaine. Two other Gulfstream jets have been seized prior to flights to West Africa from Venezuela, and we've seen evidence of traffickers using forty-year-old former airliners to fly drugs.”

“They used to do that back in the seventies. I remember the stories of farmers in Kansas finding empty, deserted transport airplanes out on remote roads, the shipments long gone.”

“Today a DC-8 can be bought for less than three hundred thousand dollars, loaded with tens of millions of dollars worth of cocaine, flown thousands of miles, and discarded in the same manner. Outside of the developed nations, radar is virtually nonexistent and these aircraft can easily move unnoticed. We've also noticed a disturbing trend in the pilots we've apprehended for drug smuggling in the last year or so. They're older, better trained, and have a far higher level of experience than we've seen in the past. A trend that will probably get worse before it gets better. With the sorry condition of the airlines, more and more pilots have been put out of work, or lost pensions. A small percentage of them will use their skills to make a fast buck. Smuggling pays very well. Depending on the trip, pilots could easily make a half million dollars cash.”

“How do you know so much about airplanes?” Donovan asked.

“Since nine eleven, the FBI takes a great interest in stolen aircraft.” Montero brushed a stray lock of hair back behind her ear. “This isn't my first dance, Mr. Nash.”

“So, what do you think happened tonight?”

“In the past, jets were involved in a different caliber of theft than typical drug traffic. As you know, not just any weekend pilot can jump in and fly a jet, so right off the bat we can eliminate almost ninety percent of the licensed pilots in the country. The most recent jet thefts in this country have involved alcohol, disgruntled pilots, and even a few who take off with the company jet to avoid
being arrested for other crimes. They change the registration number and then attempt to sell the plane in South America, Central America, or some other offshore location. We usually locate the airplane later when the new owner takes it someplace for maintenance. But this particular theft does raise some eyebrows.”

“In what way?”

“It was premeditated. Whoever took the plane was watching the airport. They waited for the perfect set of conditions. It was dark; Boca Raton has no commercial air traffic, so the security is nothing more than a chain-link fence with a little barbed wire along the top. The chaos of the weather made it easy.”

“They took an airplane that had been fueled. They'd been watching who fueled and who didn't. Or they had access to that information. Could it have been an inside job, someone who works at Boca Raton Aviation?” Donovan asked as he began to consider the details.

“We're looking at that already,” Montero said. “My guess is in a week or so this airplane will be found at a remote airfield in Mexico or the Bahamas—or we'll get a call from a legitimate repair shop somewhere in South America where someone has matched up some serial numbers to a stolen aircraft watch list.”

“So this sounds like drug traffickers to you?”

Montero's phone rang again. She glanced briefly at the incoming number and answered. She had a brief exchange with someone and moments later hung up. “Detective Turner, someone from my office is faxing over some information. Could you go find it and bring it to me, please?”

Donovan watched as Turner excused himself. Montero eyed him warily, as if she were sizing him up for the first time. Whatever was going on, this felt more like an interrogation as opposed to a simple statement. What he wanted was to get out of here, but he also wanted to collect as much information as possible, because the moment everyone close to him was safe, he was going after the people who'd done this to Michael.

The door opened and Turner let himself back in and handed a
folder to Montero. The detective took his seat, once again well out of the line of fire—this was clearly Montero's deal.

Donovan waited as Montero skimmed through the paperwork. Over the years, he'd honed his people skills against the best and the brightest big business and politics had to offer. He watched as Montero read the first two pages and set them aside. His carefully altered history should stand up to Montero's investigation, but there was always the threat that a loose piece of thread, no matter how small, could unravel everything if it was pulled hard enough.

As Montero flipped to the next page Donovan saw a brief flash of what could best be described as surprise. Her eyes widened and a sudden rush of color rose up her neck. She looked up from the paper and studied him, then down again. Donovan watched her intently and realized that she wasn't reading, her eyes weren't going left to right: she was thinking, processing—or comparing something. She glanced up one more time, then, as if immensely pleased with herself, slid her chair back. Something had piqued her interest and Donovan couldn't help but feel like the stakes had escalated.

“You know what? I think we're finished here. You can go now, Mr. Nash,” Montero said. “I think I have what I need.”

Donovan was instantly suspicious of her sudden shift of demeanor. He stood before Montero could slide the papers inside her folder and managed to see what she'd been looking at. The top sheet held six photos—mug shots. At the sight of the photo on the upper-right corner, he was forced to use every ounce of his self-control to remain passive. The photo was of Robert Huntington—the man Donovan used to be. He saw the word “deceased” stamped across the top. Montero closed the folder, snatched the recorder, and their eyes met. She tipped her head slightly and strode from the room.

“I guess that's it, Mr. Nash. We're almost finished.” Turner stood. “Wait here while I get someone to type up your statement, and then I'll need you to sign it for me.”

Donovan nodded absently and tried to gather his thoughts, put
everything into perspective. His heart sank when he remembered the flashlight; it had no doubt been logged into evidence and dusted for prints. They'd run what was probably a partial print and gotten multiple hits. He tried to imagine what Montero was thinking. Surely she'd dismiss Robert Huntington as belonging to the print. How could she possibly think for a moment that a dead man had left a fresh fingerprint at a crime scene?

Since the mug shot had been taken, he'd aged nearly twenty-five years and undergone months of facial reconstructive surgery. He'd changed his name, and possessed not only a complete new identity, but a carefully thought out past as well. With nearly unlimited financial resources at his disposal, it was as perfect as it could be. He'd never seen any reason to bother altering his finger-prints. But once, a long time ago, he'd been arrested and finger-printed.

As with most memories involving Meredith, he could remember it like it was yesterday. The images never dulled or faded with time. In fact, they seemed to expand and sharpen in his mind. Details he wished he could forget were but a thought away.

It was a Friday afternoon when they raced north out of Los Angeles in his meticulously restored 1961 Ferrari 250 GT. The gleaming red convertible was the latest addition to his car collection, the special roar from the V-12 engine brought a smile to his face each time he pushed the gas pedal. She'd insisted that they both needed to get away and a road trip would be a perfect way to unwind. Once they were out of the city they picked up the Pacific Coast Highway and headed north. Meredith loved the speed and the adventure and egged him on. Donovan could easily picture the scene. They roared down the breathtaking ribbon of highway with the top down, her auburn hair whipping in the wind as she raised her hands into the slipstream and let out a yell of pure joy.

A city limit sign flashed past, and before he could slow down, he was clocked going sixty miles an hour over the speed limit. The police immediately arrested him and threw him in jail. Meredith
was a different story; they recognized her and she was treated like visiting royalty. She'd signed autographs while Donovan sat in a cell. It had taken a few hours before she'd been able to secure his release, but the damage had been done.

Whatever joy his memories of Meredith brought him was always short lived. As usual, he paid for his visits with the inevitable countdown toward her murder. Their trip in the Ferrari took place six months before she was murdered. The contrast of her happiness on the wind-whipped Pacific Coast Highway, followed by the image her broken body in a field in Costa Rica, was the price he paid for remembering.

They were the only people in the small intensive care waiting room. Lauren sat between Susan and William, waiting for word about Michael. All three kids were dozing. Susan was a wreck, and conversation ground to a halt as they fell into their own silent worrying.

Lauren turned her cell phone over and over in her hand. She kept touching the display, as if willing Donovan to call.

They'd landed over an hour ago and she'd expected him to be waiting when they'd gotten off the chartered plane. Instead, the police told her that he'd been taken to the station to make a formal statement. William had arranged a limo to whisk them to the hospital, so there had been very little time to ask the police more. Each time she tried to call Donovan, his phone had gone straight to voice mail.

“Excuse me.”

Lauren, lost in her thoughts of Donovan, was momentarily startled. She looked up and found a woman standing in the doorway. She was tall, her straight blonde hair tied in a ponytail.

“Can I help you?”

“I'm FBI Special Agent Montero.” She flashed her credentials. “I'm looking for Mrs. Susan Ross.”

“I'm Mrs. Ross,” Susan said, rising to her feet.

“Mrs. Ross, I know this is a difficult time. But I need to ask you some questions.”

“Okay,” Susan replied.

“In private,” Montero added.

“I need to stay here. In case the doctor shows up with news about my husband.”

“I understand. Is everyone here with you?” Montero said as she looked around the room.

“Yes,” Lauren replied. “We all flew down as soon as we heard what happened.”

“Your name, please?” Montero asked.

“I'm Dr. Lauren McKenna.”

Montero turned to face William. “And you are?”

“William VanGelder.”

Lauren saw Montero's eyes flare momentarily. She wasn't sure exactly why Montero had reacted to William's name, but something had registered. There was another voice behind Montero and two people, both wearing scrubs, came into the waiting room.

“Hello. I'm Dr. Richardson.” He waited until he had everyone's attention. “Is everyone here part of the Ross family?”

“Everyone except me, I'm Special Agent Montero, FBI. Do you have news?”

“Yes. Mr. Ross is doing very well. He came through surgery without any major problems. All things considered, he's a lucky man. The bullet was most likely from a small-caliber handgun. Fortunately, the bullet's angle was such that it didn't penetrate his skull; instead, it glanced off, slowed down, and then traveled under the skin and lodged in his neck near the cervical spine. When we got in there to retrieve the bullet, we discovered tissue damage, but no permanent injury. We're watching closely for any further brain swelling, but I think we've seen the worst. He's in the recovery room right now. We're still being cautious and we'll know more in the next twelve to twenty-four hours.”

“I'm his wife. When can I see him?” Susan asked, brushing away tears of joy and relief.

“The nurse will be happy to take you now. But I'm afraid the rest of you will have to wait.”

“I'll stay here with the boys,” Lauren said to Susan. “Take all the time you need.”

“Right this way,” the nurse said, ushering Susan from the room.

“Doctor, how long do you think it might be until Mr. Ross will be able to give a statement?” Montero asked. “Will he be able to remember the attack?”