* * *
Lucas was wandering around the crime scene trying not to scratch his scalp and to avoid the rubberneckers when Virgil called.
“We have a problem,” Virgil said. “We got Cattaneo and Lange, Regio’s dead, and Weaver’s team is rounding up the small fry, but it turns out that Behan probably knew we were coming . . .”
He gave Lucas a quick summary of the night so far.
“Sansone called him. He had a silent alarm . . .” Lucas explained, and told him about the arrests and the shootings in New Jersey.
“Well, we don’t have Behan, not yet,” Virgil said. “Turns out he’s a pilot and has a plane down in Miami. We’re on the way . . .”
“I can hear the siren,” Lucas said. “You get Behan and we’ll have a clean sweep. We’ll have set back New York heroin dealing by at least an hour and only cost the American taxpayers a couple of million.”
“But hey, we had a good time doing it and that’s what really counts,” Virgil said. “And we’re gonna put the Coast Guard killers away.”
“Yes, we are. Call me when you’ve got Behan,” Lucas said. “Please tell me you’re not carrying a pistol.”
“Can’t do that,” Virgil said. “I’ve even got seventeen bullets. I know because I counted them. Rae couldn’t come, because she had to talk to the bureaucrats about shooting Regio.”
“Okay, then,” Lucas said. “Take care, Virgie.”
* * *
Miami.
Rush hour was well past but traffic was still snarly as it always was in South Florida, unregimented and fast once they were on I-95 headed south. The FBI driver, whose name was George Hamm, said, “I’d like to be there when they take him, but we’re gonna be late.”
“How long does it take to get an airplane up in the air from an airport?” Virgil asked. “I’ve never been on a private flight out of a major airport.”
“Me, neither,” Hamm said. “I can’t believe you could run in the door and drive the plane out the other side in one minute. There are millions of commercial flights in and out all the time, I expect you’d have to wait at least a little while. Maybe quite a while.”
“I hope,” Virgil said. “Behan would have been the guy who set up the shootings down in Florida City.”
“I’ve been told,” Hamm said. He missed an aging Saab, with Minnesota plates, barely.
* * *
Virgil took a call from a fed at Miami International Airport. “You sure you got good information? We’ve gone through the fixed-base operators here and they never heard of Behan and they don’t recognize a photo.”
“The guy who gave it to us is looking at a murder charge and wants some consideration, so I think he’s probably telling us what he thinks is the truth,” Virgil said. “No guarantees.”
The agent said, “There’s a bunch of general aviation airports around here. We’re told to try the other ones; we’re gonna split up here . . . Where are you at?”
“Broward County on I-95, coming up to the Miami-Dade line . . .”
“All right, there’s an Opa-locka general aviation airport, you’re right on top of it. Go west on 135th Street . . . I hope we’re not screwin’ the pooch . . .”
“You and me both, brother,” Virgil said.
Virgil rang off and Hamm pointed at the navigation screen and said, “We’re two miles from 135th, that must be the airport over here, this blank spot . . . It looks big.”
Virgil got back on the phone and called Weaver in the Fort Lauderdale task force suite and told him what was happening. “You need to call somebody who can hook us up with whatever cops they’ve got at this place . . . It’s the Opa-locka airport . . . I don’t know the real name . . . Hook us up with some cops and get us to a place where small planes go outta . . .”
“Don’t they have to sign up with somebody to fly? The FAA or somebody, file a flight plan? There should be a computer . . .”
“Well, shit, I don’t know, Dale, I’m calling you because I don’t know. You need to call one of your feds, get them on this.”
“I’ll get back to you.”
Hamm: “We’re coming up to 135th. How do you want to do this?”
“I need my iPad so I can look at a map,” Virgil said. “Unfortunately, it’s in Mankato, Minnesota.”
“That’s probably too far to drive,” Hamm said. “You can make the nav map bigger by turning the dial . . . and we’re getting off.”
Virgil screwed around with the dials below the nav map until he managed to enlarge it and move it over the airport. “Okay, when we get there . . . It’s further away than that FBI guy made it sound, we’re not right on top of it, we’re a couple of miles, I think, maybe three or four . . .”
* * *
Traffic wasn’t good; Hamm was snarling at the drivers in front of him, reluctant to move even for the cop lights and siren. “You motherfucker, get out of the fuckin’ way . . . Get your ass . . .”
“You need to turn north on 42nd Avenue when we get there, that should take us right through the middle of the airport,” Virgil said, squinting at the nav screen.
“That’ll probably be tomorrow morning the way it’s going, get out of the way, you cocksucker . . .”
Virgil asked, “You armed?”
“Of course.”
“You ever shoot anybody?”
“No.”
“Okay, let’s sort of follow my lead, huh? We’re a major problem for this guy. If we take him down, he’s going away forever.”
“Got it.” He leaned on the truck’s horn and didn’t get off it until the car in front of them, a Prius, edged off to the right, and the woman in the driver’s seat gave them the finger as they went by.
“At least another mile,” Virgil said. His phone rang: Weaver.
“You there yet?” Weaver asked.
“Couple more minutes, at least.”
“Okay, I called the Miami office, they’ve got links to everyone. There’s a street . . . 42nd Avenue . . .”
“We see it on the map.”
“Okay. There’ll be a cop car sitting at the intersection of 42nd and Curtiss, he’ll have his flashers on. He’ll take you around to wherever it is that you need to go.”