“Seems to be a genetic thing.”
“Did you notice anything that can be construed as a weapon?”
“We’ve got silverware.” Smiling. “Mrs. Wydette just upgraded to Christofle.”
“Nothing else?”
“Everything’s in the hold,” said Brewer. “Except their iPods, Hustler magazine, and Silver Patrón. They’re already half stoned, don’t know if that works in your favor or the opposite.”
“They get nasty when they’re drunk?”
“Not really. Mostly they sleep.”
“Parents allow them to drink?”
“When they’re with their parents they drink Red Bull.”
“How many times have they flown without their parents?”
“This is the first.”
“But Daddy authorized the trip.”
“Mommy.”
“She say why the boys were flying to Aspen by themselves?”
“No one explains anything to me,” said Brewer. “I’m furniture.”
“Furniture who holds their lives in the balance.”
“Lieutenant, people in their circumstances see the world differently. There’s them, then there’s everyone else.”
“Okay, thanks. Pop that door, please.”
“No prob,” said Brewer. “Before you go in, you might want to check the hold. This is the first time they insisted on loading their own stuff.”
The two duffels lay on the tarmac, black nylon, all-weather sturdy, stainless-steel fittings glinting in the untrammeled sun.
Milo had gloved up and unloaded them by himself, continued to sweat and pant.
Captain Rod Brewer watched him the way an anesthesiologist watches oxygen levels.
Milo touched one of the duffels. Patted it along the length, repeated the same for the other.
Arching his eyebrows, he unzipped.
Inside were layers of thick plastic sheeting, milky and opaque. Kneeling, he peered closely. Took out a pocketknife that he wiped with a sterile cloth.
Slicing carefully, he peeled back each layer.
Captain Rod Brewer said, “My God.”
A face stared up at us.
Young, male, greenish-gray, slack-jawed. Flat, clouded cellophane disks where eyes had once functioned.
What the techies call a “defect” was visible in the center of the corpse’s unlined forehead.
Entry wound, small and neat, probably a .22.
The body nested in a cloud of white pellets that began vaporizing the moment they impacted with warm air.
“What the hell is that, dry ice?” said Brewer.
“It sublimates,” said Milo, wielding his blade and lengthening the slit.
The pilot blinked, looked away. An unflappable man but something had finally perturbed him and I knew what it was.
No normal-sized human being could fit into either of the duffels.
Milo finished peeling back the plastic. Stared.
Rod Brewer crossed himself.
The body had been severed just above the hips.
Not a clean job; the edges of the separation were ragged, bone ends had shredded like used firecrackers, exposed muscle resembled marbled steak, viscera had been frozen mid-action as they tumbled out of the torso, coalescing as horrid, olive-green sausage.
Something serrated and high-powered; my guess was a chain saw.
Milo stared, marched to the second duffel.
Solved the jigsaw puzzle that had once been Trey Franck.
CHAPTER
38
The Gulfstream’s cabin smelled of fresh flowers, apples, and tequila.
Tristram Wydette’s long frame stretched the length of a brocade sofa on the plane’s port side, a copy of Hustler tented over his face. Breathing slowly, evenly. One manicured hand brushed the carpet. Near his fingers sat a chrome-plated iPod.
Quinn Glover, larger and heavier in real life, with the bland good looks of a budding politico, sat with his feet up, wearing eyeshades, sucking from a bottle of Silver Patrón and bopping in time to whatever tune-buzz his gold-plated iPod was offering.
Both boys wore camouflage cargo pants and tight black T-shirts that showcased muscular builds. Combat boots and dirty white socks littered the aisle.
Uniformed for a mission.
Milo yanked Quinn up first, had him cuffed, belted into his chair, eyes and ears exposed, before his mouth could close.
Tristram remained asleep. Milo flipped him like a pancake, yanked out his earbuds.
Both boys gaped.
Milo said, “You guys watch a lot of TV?”
Blank stares.
“I’m sure you know the drill, but here goes: Tristram Wydette, you are under arrest for murder. You have the right to keep your stupid mouth shut, whether or not you talk really doesn’t matter squat to me…”
The evolution of each boy’s facial expression was as uniform as their getup: drowsy surprise morphing to cornered-animal shock, upgrading to terror, then tears.
Milo called for backup and we watched them sob.
Worth the price of admission.
CHAPTER
39
Battalion One: high-priced lawyers.
Battalion Two: high-priced publicists.
An attempt to curry favor at the Times because Myron Wydette played golf with the publisher backfired and the resulting self-righteous indignation was borderline slapstick. Wags insisted the real problem was Wydette cheated at the game and his greens buddy finally had enough.
The palm print found on Sal Fidella’s garage matched Quinn Glover’s hand. Faced with that addition to the mountain of eyewitness and forensic evidence, Quinn’s legal commandos tried selling out Tristram Wydette in return for a lighter sentence, pushing the notion that Quinn was a weak-willed follower caught in the spell of Tristram Wydette’s evil charisma.
Tristram, his former best friend claimed, had masterminded the whole thing because getting into Stanford was the most important thing in the world to him, he felt like the stupid kid in the family, Aidan was the brainiac.
When told that Aidan had also used Trey Franck as an SAT surrogate, the boy was genuinely surprised. “No shit. What was his problem?”
“You tell me, Quinn,” said Milo.
“He always seemed smart to me.”
“Maybe he just wasn’t smart enough.”
“Yeah. Sir. You’re right.” Laughter.
“Something funny, Quinn?”
“I guess he just fucked up. Sir. I guess we all did.”
“That’s a fair assessment.”
“Assessment,” said Quinn. “That’s an SAT vocab word. ‘The act or instance of evaluating.’”
“How do you assess your situation, Quinn?”
“It was T’s idea, sir. I didn’t like it, what could I do?”
“No choice at all.”
“Exactly, sir. T thought of the dee-ice, T put her—Ms. Freeman—in it. He also bashed in that loser’s head—we were gonna shoot him—T was gonna shoot him but we forgot the gun at T’s house and we already drove all the way there so T said let’s just do it.”
“How’d it go down?”
“Loser came to the door, we—T pushed him in, saw the pool cue and bashed him.”
Milo said, “There was no sign of a serious struggle, Quinn. That means Mr. Fidella was restrained.”
“If you say so, sir.”
“Be a lot easier for two big guys to restrain one middle-aged loser.”
The boy’s lawyer, silent and working his iPhone till now, said, “I’d prefer he doesn’t answer that.”
Milo didn’t protest. “So T bashed in the loser’s head. Then what?”
“Then T got into the Jag.”
“And you drove away in the loser’s Corvette.”
The lawyer said, “I’d prefer if—”