Suspect, p.38
Suspect, page 38
“And it was Ritz who grabbed her?”
“You can’t see for sure.”
“And you say she just collapsed?”
“I asked,” Tonya says, “if it looked like she was drugged, maybe injected with something, and they said that’s exactly how it looked.”
“Oh fuck,” I say.
“And you’re sure Ritz isn’t there?” Tonya asks.
I look back through the glass entry to see if anybody else has come in another door. The family is still chatting, except for Grandpa, who’s now slumped to the left. He was wearing those big wraparound shades for macular degeneration before, but now his hat has slipped down over his face. I study him from the distance.
“Hey,” I say to Tonya, “while we’re on the phone, can you have your buddies at Customs and Border Protection check the passenger manifests for any plane due to leave here in the next thirty minutes.”
“Sure, hold on.”
She’s gone about three minutes.
“They’re still looking for the rest of the flights,” she says, “but there’s a Gulfstream scheduled to take off any minute that’s carrying a family named Green.”
“Like Yolanda Green?”
“Exactly. She’s the first name on the list. How did you know?”
“That’s Jewell’s niece. The lawyer for VVM.”
“Shit. And what about the Greenwood deputy out there? What’s he doing?”
“Waiting to retire from the looks of it.” The guy has never set foot in the terminal in the time I’ve been here. I suggest to Tonya that she call the Greenwood officers headed here and have them direct their guy to do what he can to keep the Green family from boarding.
Sure enough, within two minutes he picks the radio off his belt. He throws aside another cigarette he just lit and nods emphatically while he stares down the sidewalk toward me. He hitches up his trousers and starts my way quickly.
“You the PI working with Highland?” he asks me. He says he couldn’t understand what they were trying to explain over the radio. He’s filling in for someone named McGonnigle who called in sick. “They said I should just follow your lead. Something about a fugitive?”
As we head in, I tell him to ask the Green family to show their IDs. Just as we arrive, their pilot emerges through the security door, with a small window, that leads to the aircraft. The pilot is a middle-aged white guy, lean and completely bald-headed, dressed in a white shirt with epaulets. He makes a wide beckoning motion to the Greens, who all stand, except of course for the old man in the wheelchair. The deputy—Wronka, according to his nameplate—and I basically block the way between the family and the door.
“Need to check your IDs again, folks,” Wronka says.
Yolanda speaks up. She’s closing in on forty, in a fashionable lime dress with a contrasting yellow belt and low heels. Very professional and collected.
“They already checked them at the desk,” she says.
Wronka shrugs, nothing he can do. “My lieutenant wants me to double-check everybody leaving for the next hour.”
Yolanda and her husband, who has the staid well-groomed look of a banker, both produce their driver’s licenses. After rooting in her ostrich handbag, Yolanda also pulls out copies of the children’s birth certificates.
“And what about him?” I direct this to Wronka, gesturing to the old guy in the wheelchair, who’s seated no more than two feet from where I stand. I have been checking him out, and he appeared to stir when Wronka mentioned IDs, but I still can’t see much of his face. His tweed hat is all the way over his nose. And below that, his mouth is covered by a blue surgical mask, the COVID precaution you’d still expect for an old person traveling.
“My great uncle?” Yolanda asks. “He’s asleep.”
“Where’s his ID?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” she answers. “I think he’s got it. No, wait. Here.” She finds his driver’s license in her purse and hands it to Wronka. It’s expired—a nice touch—but looks real enough, which is what I’d expect. It identifies the man in the wheelchair as Morris Sloane.
“Can we see his face?” I ask.
“He’s asleep,” Yolanda repeats. “He’s a sick old man. Leave him be.”
I turn to Wronka, who backs me and repeats that we have to get a look at the old guy.
“I’m not putting up with this,” Yolanda Green says. She points at the pilot behind us and tells him, “Let’s go.”
Her husband and kids immediately slide a couple steps toward the runway exit, while she grabs the stainless-steel handles on the wheelchair, preparing to push it herself.
I quickly lift Mr. Sloane’s hat from his face.
“What are you doing!” Yolanda yells. “That’s illegal.”
Whoever he is still appears to be sleeping, and even now, I can’t see much of his face behind the shades and the mask. There are several days’ growth, the start of a whitish beard, around the edges of the light blue material. Then again, there’s one thing for sure I notice, looking at his forehead. He’s white.
I ask Yolanda to please remove his glasses and mask.
“I’ll do no such thing. We’re leaving.” She motions the pilot forward to help her with the wheelchair.
“Arrest them all,” I tell Wronka.
Wronka looks at me dubiously.
“At least him,” I say, and with no more said, I reach down again and pull off the sunglasses. It’s definitely Ritz. I bend forward from the waist and say, “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Vojczek, but there’s a federal warrant for your arrest.”
“That him?” Wronka asks me.
“That’s him.”
“Okay, then. You’re under arrest, sir.” Wronka to his credit starts reciting the Miranda rights. Ritz’s gray eyes spring open, fixing me with that inhuman look Koob warned me about.
“Where’s the nail?” he asks me. “Did you grow up?”
“Don’t rush me,” I answer. “But if it ever happens, I’ll come see you at Marion. You heard the deputy. You’re under arrest, Mr. Vojczek.”
He laughs once, a brief arrogant snort, and slowly comes to his feet. Wronka steps back but puts his hand on the buckled holster to his service weapon.
“You can’t arrest me,” he tells Wronka. “You just saw my ID. My name is Sloane. Whoever she thinks I am, this is a mistake.”
I can see a qualm pass through Wronka’s heavy face.
“Let’s go,” Ritz announces to the four Greens, who are watching in silence. Vojczek steps up to the pilot.
“Grab him,” I tell Wronka.
“I did see his ID,” he answers.
“For Godsake. He was posing as a sick old man in a wheelchair. Do you want him to carry a sign, too, that says ‘I’m a fugitive’? Use your cell phone and look at the front page of the Tribune. His picture has been there for four days.”
“Okay, just hold on,” Wronka answers, addressing all of us. “That’s a good idea. Let me get a look at the paper.”
Ritz slides past the pilot and opens the door to the runway. The huge noise of the engines and the smell of exhaust flood into the lounge.
I reach under the open blouse I am wearing over a tank top and remove my Glock. Yolanda Green’s daughter, nine or so, shrieks at the sight of the weapon.
“You’re under arrest,” I repeat to Ritz in the doorway.
“How I remember,” Ritz answers, “you’re not sworn. You flunked out of the academy, didn’t you? This gentleman, he’s the police officer, and he’s not arresting me. Let’s go,” Ritz repeats to the pilot. “She’s upsetting people.”
“Stop,” I say, “or I’ll shoot.”
“You can’t shoot me,” Ritz answers. “My name is Sloane. The officer isn’t detaining me. And nobody’s life is in danger. You shoot me, you’re the one who’ll end up in prison.”
He waves to the Greens and steps around the pilot and out onto the tarmac, walking deliberately toward the stairs of the Gulfstream, about a hundred feet away. I push past Yolanda and run until I can position myself between the plane and Vojczek. I assume a shooting posture, knees slightly bent, bracing my wrist with my left hand.
Ritz smiles faintly. As part of his disguise, Ritz even lost his sport coat. He’s wearing a blue blazer instead, but I see his right fingers drifting down toward its hem.
“Stop!” I scream. “Hands in the air, Ritz. Get down on your knees.”
He shakes his head confidently.
“Get down,” I say again. “If I have to shoot you, I will, Ritz. I can’t let you get on that plane.”
“Neh,” he says. “You’re not shooting me and I’m not shooting you. I got something you want. So you’re going to let us go.”
I feel a wave of shock. With all the adrenaline flowing and the way I have been concentrating on Ritz and the Greens, I lost any thought of the Chief.
“Where is she?” I ask.
“Now, why would I tell you that, when you’re trying to arrest me? You step aside and let us board, and before the door closes, I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
“I don’t think that’s how this works. After you’re in custody, you can try to bargain with the prosecutors. Unless it’s murder. That’ll be the needle for sure.”
“She’s alive,” he says. “For now. I wouldn’t wait long, if I were you.”
“You’re under arrest,” I repeat. “Get down on your knees.” I’m basically vamping, because I truly have no idea what to do. The FBI agents are trained for these situations. They can’t be more than a couple minutes away.
“You’re killing her that way,” he says. “Your choice.”
“Get down, Ritz.”
“Tell you what,” he says. “I’ll give you something right now. Sign of good faith. And I’ll tell you the rest when I’m on the top of the stairs, right before the door closes.”
His right hand moves back again slowly, now creeping under his coat.
“Don’t!” I scream. “Don’t, Ritz!” My finger tightens on the trigger. Then I hear the reports of a gun, an enormous sound that feels absolutely shattering—two quick shots, bang bang, their force tearing apart the air. I am astounded as I look down, wondering how I could have been so fucked up that I fired. The Glock has no safety, but when I touch the barrel gingerly, it’s cool. Meanwhile, the Ritz is completely still—then I see him waver, like a wheat stalk in the breeze, and fall face forward onto the tarmac before rolling to his shoulder.
At that point, I finally notice Walter Cornish, at the chain-link fence that secures the runway area from the parking lot. He’s about thirty feet away, and his pistol, a silver revolver, is extended in both hands. He kicks open a locked gate in the fence and quickly reaches the Ritz, who lies within a swelling circle of his own blood.
With the toe of his shoe, Walter nudges Ritz’s foot, which, in response, shows no movement. Walter looks up at me with that greedy smile.
“How’s that for fucking cooperation?” he asks.
42. The Greenwood Sheriff’s Police Arrive
The Greenwood sheriff’s deputies arrive—one cruiser with lights spinning—before the ambulance does. My gun has been holstered for several minutes, while Walter immediately identifies himself as the shooter and surrenders his weapon before he’s handcuffed. As that’s happening, he adds with considerable pride, “I’m a cooperating witness for the FBI.”
“Better be, for your sake,” the senior of the two Greenwood deputies answers. She’s around my height and solidly built like me, with sergeant’s stripes over her delts. “Their agents are about one minute away.”
The little airport has come to a total standstill. The field personnel, the luggage handlers and the runway workers, have crept closer, and almost everyone inside the terminal is surrounding the open door to the runway to watch, including Yolanda Green, who is weeping. I don’t know whether she’s mourning dear old Uncle Ritz, or is simply reacting to the speed and drama of the way things unfolded, or if she’s realized her life has just taken a very dark turn.
As everyone in law enforcement is trained to do, Walter aimed for the thorax—the biggest target—and I can now see signs of the exit wound, as blood wells from the center of the back of Ritz’s blazer. Every couple minutes, I take a step or two away, trying to avoid two thick lines of Ritz’s blood that are running down toward my boots.
I beckon Wronka, who finally eased outside through the doorway after the other Greenwood officers arrived. Lowering my voice, and without pointing at Yolanda, I tell him, “You better detain the lady who was giving us all that back talk. The FBI will be taking her into custody for aiding and abetting unlawful flight, and somebody will blame you if she disappears.”
Wronka nods gratefully and heads inside with his left hand on the cuffs on his belt. Even with all of this going on, I am stifling an urge to scream and beg everybody to stop so we can all concentrate on the Chief.
In the meantime, Walter is explaining what happened with Ritz to the sergeant.
“He was reaching for his weapon,” Walter tells her. “I know this guy, I know him too well. He was going to kill that girl there,” Walter says, apparently referring to me. He delivers a lingering glance in my direction, clearly beseeching me to support him. The sergeant also turns my way.
Whether or not I should be, I’m grateful to Walter. He didn’t save me the way he thinks. I’d have squeezed the trigger at the first sight of Ritz’s gun, but I had no idea what to do if he didn’t draw, if he just kept giving me a line about the Chief and headed up the stairway to the plane. Walter probably thought a ‘girl’ would never have the guts to fire, so maybe he believed he had to shoot to save me.
“I definitely thought Vojczek was going for his weapon,” I say. “And Walter knows a lot more about the man than I do. So yeah,” I add.
The three FBI agents from the field office, all in their dark suits, have finally appeared. I tell them about Yolanda, and two of them head in to take over with her, their creds already in their hands. When Wronka returns, the second deputy takes him aside to get his version about the shooting.
“What about the Chief?” I ask the third agent, a woman, Latina from the look of her. We know one another by sight from the occasional meetings with the Chief I’ve attended at their field office. The Greenwood sergeant is beside us, and I try to make sure I’m talking to her, too. “Ritz said he was going to give me some information about her, the Chief. I thought he meant a bullet, frankly, but maybe he was reaching for something else, instead of his gun.”
The sergeant nods and double-times to their cruiser. It’s parked very close to the spot at the fence where Walter shot from, and no one has bothered to turn off the car’s spinning lights. She returns with blue rubber gloves and hands a pair to the male officer she arrived with. Everybody, inside and out, gets a little closer as the deputies turn the Ritz slightly to his side and roll up his sport coat with extreme care to avoid disturbing anything else. They find the back holster and the weapon he was carrying, which looks like a .32 Beretta, like the Chief’s.
Walter is nodding the whole time.
“I told you I know this guy,” he says to the deputies, then he turns to the FBI agent and me, about ten feet from him. “Once I was at Jewell’s, I knew just where that fuck would be heading. He always talked about how great it was, flying private, even though he’d done it maybe twice. And it suddenly hit me, you know, while I was driving out here. My insides have been in a knot for weeks about diming him out, and this motherfucker was going somewhere to live off the zillions he’s got in crypto, while he let the whole weight for Blanco fall on me. Loyal, my aching ass.”
He smiles again, but he’s the same dumb Walter who’s just said more than he should have. He made it sound like maybe he raced out here intent on smoking Ritz the second he saw him. The prosecutors can figure it out.
The ambulance, siren blaring, finally comes to a screeching stop before the terminal doors. I can hear a second siren getting closer. It has the pitch they use in Highland Isle. The EMTs sprint over to the small group encircling Ritz. Gowned and gloved, the two medical technicians do a quick exam. Ritz has no pulse, and I guess his pupils aren’t responsive either. They put an oxygen mask on him but one of the EMTs just shakes her head. The other one dashes back to the ambulance and returns, pushing the rolling stretcher. While the EMTs are scraping up the Ritz, Tonya arrives.
She looks at Ritz’s pale body strapped to the stretcher and says, “Holy fuck. Did you have to shoot him?”
“Walter,” I say.
“No shit,” says Tonya.
The Greenwood sergeant, who clearly knows Tonya, walks up with something in her gloved hand.
“You think this might be what he was reaching for?” she asks me. “They were in his back pocket.”
It’s two brass keys on a ring. I fill in Tonya quickly on what Ritz said about the Chief.
“You think he has her tied up in some apartment?” Tonya asks. It will take forever to search every Vojczek property in Highland Isle.
I ask the sergeant to step closer so I can get a better look at the keys without touching them. They’re shorter than house keys but somehow familiar. Then the nodes connect—I saw keys just like this when I was trying to figure how to get into Koob’s cage in the basement at the Archer.
“They’re for a padlock,” I say. “I think the brand is called Superlock.”
“A padlock?” Toy asks. “So she’s in like a storage locker?”
