Chương 4
We lifted.
Miami opened beneath us in fragments of glass, concrete, canals, roofs, and late-afternoon traffic.
From altitude, wealth became strangely democratic.
Mansions and apartment blocks were reduced to geometry.
Swimming pools looked like blue postage stamps.
The bay caught the lowering sun in long streaks.
Jonathan reached across the narrow space and squeezed my hand.
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"I miss this."
"What?"
"Us doing things for no reason."
There was enough truth in his voice to hurt.
I looked at him.
He was watching the city rather than me.
"We stopped doing things because you hated my schedule."
"I hated coming second to your schedule."
"You knew who I was."
"I knew who you were before there were congressional hearings and magazine covers and people applauding when you entered restaurants."
The bitterness surfaced and disappeared so quickly that another person might have missed it.
I did not.
"Is that what this is about?"
His head turned.
"What is what about?"
"This mood."
He smiled.
"What mood?"
I looked back toward the window.
"Nothing."
The exchange had not been planned.
Marcus would probably curse me when he heard it later.
But Jonathan's resentment had slipped out raw enough to tell me something the search history never could.
He did not see himself as greedy.
He saw himself as diminished.
Money was only the measurement.
We flew south.
Owen pointed toward a line of mangrove islands.
Jonathan barely acknowledged him.
Ten minutes later, Jonathan reached down and unfastened his shoulder harness.
Owen glanced into the mirror.
"Sir, please remain secured while we're moving."
"I want a picture."
"You can get one seated."
"The window reflection ruins it."
"Then we circle back after landing and get you a ramp shot."
Jonathan's mouth tightened.
"I've flown helicopters before."
"Then you know why I'm asking."
The tone was respectful.
It was also immovable.
Jonathan refastened the strap.
My pulse hammered against the collar of the Zephyr vest.
A minute passed.
Then two.
Nothing happened.
I began to wonder whether the whole flight had been a test of some kind.
Perhaps he wanted to see whether I would come.
Perhaps the real plan was elsewhere.
Perhaps Marcus and I had built an entire covert operation around a man whose search history reflected fantasies he would never act upon.
I hated how badly I wanted that possibility.
Jonathan opened the overnight bag.
My fingers went cold.
He pulled out a bottle of champagne.
Then two plastic flutes.
I nearly laughed from relief.
He held the bottle up.
"See?"
"Very mysterious."
"I know my audience."
He poured only for himself.
"No champagne for the mother police."
"You're learning."
He drank.
Owen continued along the approved route.
The sun dropped lower.
The bay darkened from blue to pewter.
Jonathan poured again.
That was not part of the version of him I had feared.
He hated drinking before flying.
Even as a passenger.
"Slow down."
"I'm celebrating."
"What?"
He looked at me over the rim of the cup.
"Perspective."
I said nothing.
He finished the drink.
Then he leaned forward.
"Daniel."
Owen's shoulders shifted slightly.
"Yes, sir?"
"Can we go lower?"
"Not here."
"Why?"
"Airspace restriction."
"Five hundred feet?"
"No."
Jonathan sat back.
My heartbeat changed.
Five hundred feet.
The number from the search.
His eyes moved toward me.
"Too bad."
I reached inside my clutch and pressed the silent alert Marcus had assigned to immediate danger.
Once.
Nothing visible happened.
That was the point.
Owen adjusted our heading.
Jonathan looked down at his phone.
No signal.
He cursed under his breath.
"Something wrong?"
"Just trying to send a photo."
"You can send it when we land."
"Always practical."
"You used to like that about me."
"I used to like a lot of things."
The words stayed between us.
Owen spoke into the headset.
"We're approaching the turnaround point."
Jonathan looked sharply forward.
"Already?"
"Flight plan gives us another seven minutes outbound."
"I thought this was an hour."
"It is, including return."
Jonathan's jaw worked.
He had been counting on more time.
I knew it before he said anything.
"Go farther."
"I can't extend without authorization."
"It's not about payment."
Jonathan looked at me.
"Your employees are all like this?"
"Competent?"
"Obedient to rules."
"Usually useful in aviation."
He smiled without humor.
Owen began a gradual turn.
The city was now behind us.
Ahead lay dark water, mangrove shadows, and scattered boats.
Jonathan removed his harness again.
Owen's voice hardened.
"Sir."
"I dropped the cork."
"Leave it."
"It's under my seat."
"Leave it."
Jonathan bent anyway.
His hand disappeared beside his leg.
When it came back, he was holding a compact black pistol.
Everything inside me went still.
Owen saw it in the mirror.
"Keep flying," Jonathan said.
His voice had changed.
No anger.
No panic.
Just exhaustion.
Owen kept both hands visible.
"All right."
"Turn south."
"Jonathan."
His eyes moved to me.
"Don't."
I looked at the gun.
"Was the champagne supposed to make this easier?"
His face twitched.
"Don't make jokes."
"I'm trying not to scream."
"Then don't."
Owen slowly changed course.
"Where are we going?"
"South."
"We need a destination."
"You'll get one."
Jonathan pointed the pistol toward Owen.
"Transponder off."
Owen hesitated.
"That creates an alert."
"I know."
"Then you don't want me doing it."
"Do it."
Owen reached toward the panel.
A small tone sounded.
Jonathan flinched.
"What was that?"
"Terrain advisory."
"Turn it off."
"I can't turn off terrain."
Jonathan's breathing had grown shallow.
This was not the calm killer I had imagined.
His plan was breaking under the weight of reality.
I could almost see the difference between researching murder at two in the morning and sitting four feet from the person you intended to kill.
"Jonathan, look at me."
"No."
"Look at me."
He did.
His eyes were wet.
That scared me more than the gun.
"I found the searches."
His face emptied.
The helicopter seemed to shrink around us.
"What?"
May you like
"I know about the accounts too."
Owen did not move.
