The Four Corners of the Sky_ A Novel - Michael Malone [66]
Sam said they had just this minute left Annie at Destin Airworks. “She’s taking off for St. Louis to see her father.”
Hart’s attitude changed. “Give me her flight number. Where’s Destin Airworks?”
“It’s her own plane.” Sam caught her breath. “Oh, wait, wait a minute, Hart. Sergeant Hart. You’re the Miami police detective!”
“Yeah, I just flew in here. Can you confirm her father’s in St. Louis?” His tone was challenging.
Clark whispered at Sam, “What’s the matter? What’s going on?”
She waved the phone at Clark to be quiet. “Listen, Sergeant Hart. What kind of fraud are you accusing Jack of? Does he have a lawyer? If he doesn’t, I want to find one for him.”
“You ask a lot of questions, ma’am.”
“So do you, Sergeant.”
He laughed but cut it off. “If you talk to your niece, have her phone me at Miami Police, Vice and Fraud.”
“She knows nothing about any fraud. She’s just trying to get Jack medical help. My brother’s very ill.”
Hart took on an even more official briskness. “Then the best thing his family can do is assist the law in finding him. Have her phone me. Nice to speak to you, Mrs. Goode.”
“My brother is not a criminal and my name’s Peregrine. Sam Peregrine.”
The pleasant voice returned. “Ah, Sam, like Grace Kelly, Tracy Samantha Lord.”
“What?”
“High Society. Philadelphia Story.”
Sam gripped the phone. “You like old movies?”
“Love ’em.”
“Wait a minute. How old are you, Mr. Hart?”
“Twenty-six.”
“That’s a good age. Don’t waste it.”
“‘Stuff that dreams are made of.’” He hung up.
Sam recounted the conversation. “If I’d known he was a cop, I wouldn’t have told him about St. Louis.”
“Sam, you’d tell Goldfinger where you kept Agamemnon’s mask.” Clark dimmed his lights at a fast-approaching car.
“That young man knew his movies,” murmured Sam.
The speeding car whooshed past them in the opposite direction, headed toward Destin Airworks so fast that Clark felt the pull of the wind tunnel buffeting the Volvo. The fast-moving car swerved onto the exit ramp to the airfield and slammed to a stop beside Destin’s “business office” in front of which sat D. K.’s pickup truck, decorated with caustic bumper stickers about the government and with a big medallion of his trademark black eagle spread across the hood.
A young man jumped out of the car, ran through the rain, and exploded into the office. He was a good-looking young man, tawny-haired, wearing jeans and a blue T-shirt. “Excuse me, sorry to bother you. I’m looking for Lt. Annie Goode,” he said with a friendly smile. He began stretching his legs as if they’d been cramped.
D. K. Destin sat perched in his wheelchair, smacking the side of a transmitter radio in the expectation that repeated blows would solve the problem. He yelled at the young man, “Who are you?” as he rolled out from behind the desk.
“My name’s Dan Hart.” The tawny-haired man spoke affably. “Her aunt just told me she was here at the airfield. Is that her jet there on the runway?”
D. K. shook his cornrows, bemused. “No. It’s her husband’s. She’s divorcing him. Thank the fuck God.”
Hart pulled out an old photo of a handsome man seated in an elegant restaurant banquette with a little girl of six or seven. “That’s Annie, right?” D. K. took the picture and laughed at it. “I mean I know she’s a lot older now.”
“Try twenty years,” advised D. K. “But that’s her. Where’d you get this?”
“It’s got her phone number on it. She still got that smile?”
“What’s it to you?” asked the grouchy vet in the wheelchair.
“I need to talk to her. Are you the Destin of Destin Airworks?” Hart held out his hand to shake.
“Damn right.” D. K. studied the young man for a moment. “What do you want Annie for? ’Cause it’s not just to shoot the breeze.”
Hart met D. K.’s stare. “I’m with the Miami Police Department. I’ve got a warrant on Jack Peregrine. I was just told she was flying out of your place to go get him in St. Louis. She may think she’s helping her dad. But this is more complicated than she knows and she could get hurt. I mean bad hurt.”
D. K. thought this information