Perfect killer

CHAPTER 33

I stood away from the crowd in the Jackson airport's baggage claim area and dialed Vince Sloane's cell number. He picked up on the fourth ring.

"Where the hell are you, Doc? All hell's breaking loose here."

There were times when I longed for the old, anonymous pre-caller-ID days.

"Mississippi. Jackson." I tried to shake the fatigue from my head.

"Figures."

"What kind of hell?"

"Jeez, it's hard to know where to start."

"How about with Chris? How is he?"

"Dead."

All during the flight I had hoped the cop at the roadblock had been wrong.

"It's all over the media and they're connecting it to the crap with your boat."

"Wonderful."

"That's not all The Army spooks did a walk-through of your house and got LAPD looking for angles."

"Angles?"

"You know how cops think. All this stuff coming down one thing after another doesn't just happen to innocent people"

Dread sifted down into my gut like lead shot.

"You're the only link they can find connecting all the dots. And you've fled the scene."

"Fled!"

"Whoa! Whoa! It's not me saying that; it's them. Take off your victim hat and look at it from the viewpoint of a detective."

Luggage thudded into the pickup area. I realized he was right.

"You have now become a person of interest," Vince continued.

"A person of-"

"They're taking your place apart with tweezers. I imagine they'll have people over to UCLA pretty soon."

"Oh, hell." I slumped against the wall.

"I also imagine that pretty soon they'll be contacting the local cops in Mississippi about the death of your young lady's mother."

"But that was my mother's funeral. I had no idea Vanessa was even coming."

"I know that, and you do. But their theory is that the slug which killed Vanessa Thompson was meant for you."

"For me? Why do they think someone wanted to kill me?"

"They don't know, but they're fabricating a theory about some sort of drug operation-you know, your boat, the attack-"

"That's insane!"

Silence hung heavy between us.

"Vince? You still there?"

"Still here." He cleared his throat. "If I didn't know you… really know you, I'd probably connect the dots the same way."

"Oh, man," I said quietly. "I agree something's wrong and none of this is coincidence, but it's tied to this Talmadge thing."

"I hope you can make your case… fast."

Jasmine's bag and my duffel thudded into view. I made my way through the crowd toward them.

"Me too."

"Keep in touch."

"Roger that."

Jael St. Clair pulled her rented Ford Explorer into an empty slot in the short-term parking lot at the Jackson airport terminal where she could watch traffic exiting the rentalcar lot. She swept the blond hair from her face with one hand, then stretched her arms and untangled the knots in her back that had accumulated during the flight from Los Angeles. The Citation was an okay corporate jet, she thought, but as a bedroom, it left a lot to be desired.

She reached over to the substantial saddlebag purse on the seat and, without taking her eyes off the rental lot, sorted through the bag's contents. Her fingers quickly found her cell phone, then the Heckler amp; Koch, HK4 semiautomatic pistol with the. 380 ACP barrel and seven-round magazine, the Garmin, and finally the powerful, compact Zeiss binoculars. She pulled the binoculars out, raised them to her eyes, and adjusted the focus.

Bradford Stone made his way toward a white Ford pickup truck in the rental car lot. He had used a credit card for his flight from L.A. to Jackson, his vehicle here, and his hotel in Greenwood. He might as well be wearing a strobe on his head. Stone put his bags in the jump seat of the truck and got into the driver's seat. After several moments of adjusting mirrors and seats, he drove out of the rental lot.

Stone drove past her. Jael waited for a moment, allowing a battered Chevy truck and a midsixties Toronado listing from a broken suspension to pass, then pulled into traffic behind them, heading toward I-20.