Chapter 6 - The Trap on the Tarmac
Rain began to fall in sheets over the gray tarmac of Teterboro Airport in New Jersey. The smell of burning aviation fuel hung thick in the cold air.
Inside Hangar 4, a sleek, unmarked Gulfstream G550 sat with its engines idling in a low, subterranean whine.
Celeste—or Clara—stood beside the boarding stairs, wearing a dark cashmere coat, oversized designer sunglasses, and carrying a black duffel bag stuffed with emergency bearer bonds and foreign currency. Her ankle monitor had already been sheared off; it lay crushed beneath the rear tire of a black Cadillac Escalade parked near the wing.
She checked her diamond Cartier watch. Her breath plumed in the freezing dampness.
“Why aren't we airborne yet?” she shouted over the turbine roar at the pilot, who was inspecting the fuselage.
“Waiting on final clearance from air traffic control, ma'am!” the pilot yelled back. “Five more minutes!”
“We don’t have five minutes!” she screamed, her voice cracking with fury. “Take off now, or I’ll ensure you never fly a commercial or private craft again!”
“I’m afraid he can’t do that, Clara.”
A clear, steady voice echoed through the vast, hollow hangar.
Clara spun around.
Walking through the open hangar doors, flanked by six federal marshals and four New Jersey state troopers, were Frank Miller and me. Behind us, stepping out from the rain, was an older woman with silver hair and severe, sorrowful eyes.
Clara froze. Her eyes locked onto the older woman, and for the first time, her iron composure completely shattered.
“Eleanor?” Clara gasped, stumbling backward against the aluminum boarding stairs.
“Hello, Clara,” the older woman said, her voice shaking with righteous fury. “Or should I call you Helena? It’s been three years since you put my husband, Arthur Pendelton, in the ground.”
“You... you can’t be here,” Clara whispered, shaking her head violently. “The settlement was closed! You signed the non-disclosure agreement!”
“Non-disclosure agreements don’t protect against capital murder charges, Clara,” I said, walking toward her across the oil-stained concrete. “Marcus flew Eleanor down from Boston this morning. And unlike three years ago, Arthur’s body was exhumed two hours ago under a federal warrant. They’re running a mass spectrometry screen for digitalis as we speak.”
Clara clutched her duffel bag to her chest like a shield. Her teeth chattered, whether from the freezing rain or the walls closing in, I couldn't tell.
“You have nothing on me!” she cried out desperately. “The cake was contaminated by the caterers! Paul Hendricks fabricated those financial documents! I am Jonathan Ashford’s legitimate fiancée! I loved him!”
“You loved his money,” I said, stopping ten feet from her. “You loved the power of poisoning men who were too kind to suspect that evil could wear a smile like yours.”
Clara’s face darkened. The last vestige of her aristocratic performance melted away, leaving behind the venomous, cornered predator she truly was.
“Your father was a pathetic, sentimental fool,” she spat, her eyes flashing with pure hatred. “He was desperate for someone to look at him like he was still a king. It was so easy, Evelyn. All I had to do was tell him how strong he was, how brilliant he was, and he gave me the keys to his empire. He would have died tonight, and the whole world would have cried for the grieving young widow!”
She laughed—a high, manic, broken sound.
“And you know what the best part is?” she mocked, glaring at me. “He loved me more than he ever loved you. In the end, he trusted me over his own blood!”
“Is that so?” I said softly.
I reached into my pocket, pulled out a small black earpiece, and tapped it.
From the shadow of the black Escalade parked near the hangar wall, a passenger door opened.
A man stepped out into the cold air. He leaned heavily on a polished wooden cane, wrapped in a heavy wool overcoat, but his spine was straight, and his eyes were completely clear.
May you like
It was my father.
***
