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“No good,” Cross said. “The lock works both ways. Maybe I should just shoot them.”
“How about the wine cellar?” Georgio said. “The new one you just put in the game room. It has a padlock.”
We were marched into the game room. Cross unlocked the padlock and motioned us in.
“Wow, this is amazing,” Lula said. “It’s a real wine cellar. There must be a thousand bottles of wine here. And there’s a little wine-tasting bistro table and everything.”
There was also a glass door.
“You’re looking at the glass door,” Cross said. “Don’t get your hopes up. It’s impact glass. Bulletproof. No good to you even if your friend ever finds her gun. You can make a phone call, but by the time someone crowbars you out of there we’ll be long gone.”
Cross attached the padlock and waved goodbye.
“Good thing he looks like David Niven,” I said, “because that’s all he’s got. He isn’t very smart. And the hairdresser isn’t a rocket scientist, either. The door might be impact glass, but it’s not thick enough to be completely bulletproof,” I said to Lula. “Empty a clip into it while I call Connie.”
I went to the back of the wine cellar, dialed Connie, and told her to find Cross’s plane. “It sounds like he’s flying private,” I said. “Does he have his own plane? Does his credit show any action with a charter company? We need to get to him before he takes off.”
“The closest airport would be Trenton-Mercer,” Connie said. “If he’s flying private, he’d be flying out of an FBO. I think Signature is there. I’ll see what I can do to stop him, and I’ll get back to you.”
“How’s it going?” I asked Lula.
“I’ve run out of bullets, and the glass got all these spiderwebs going through it, but it didn’t break.”
I found a magnum of champagne and swung it at the door. The bottle broke, spraying champagne everywhere, and a small hole appeared in the door. I hit the door with another bottle and the door shattered. Lula and I cleared the door, bolted out of the house, and ran for the Porsche.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
WE CROSSED THE DELAWARE and were back in New Jersey. Lula had the map app programmed for Signature Flight Support at Trenton-Mercer Airport. I hadn’t heard from Connie, so I was going with my best guess.
“He has a good head start on us,” Lula said.
“I’m counting on him wanting to use the restroom and visit the popcorn machine before he gets on the plane.”
I was also flying in the Porsche, getting it into the nineties when I had open road. I knew it had a radar detector and a laser scrambler, and I was counting on them working.
I got a call from Connie just as I pulled into the Signature lot and screeched to a stop.
“Sorry this took so long,” Connie said, “but I’m new at this airplane-tracking thing. I’m texting you his tail number. His plane is at Signature. Looks like he hasn’t left yet. I’m trying to get a delay put on his plane, but so far, I haven’t been able to get through to the right person. How close are you? I’m on hold with airport security.”
“I’m on the ground and running,” I said.
Lula was some distance behind me, trying to run in her stupid platform sandals. I pushed through the entrance door and stopped to look around. I didn’t see Cross or Georgio.
“I’m looking for Steven Cross,” I said to the woman at the reception desk. “I have papers for him.”
She motioned at the side door. “He just walked through. You should be able to catch him.”
I looked through the glass and saw Cross and Georgio and a uniformed pilot heading for a plane with the boarding steps down. The receptionist buzzed me out and I ran toward Cross. He was talking to the pilot and holding a big box of popcorn from the lobby machine. I was wearing my messenger bag across my body, and I had my cuffs tucked into the back of my jeans. Cross turned when I was about fifteen feet away. He one-handed the popcorn and reached inside his jacket with the other. I closed the distance and tackled him. There was an explosion of popcorn, his gun discharged, and was knocked out of his hand when we hit the pavement. I got one bracelet on his wrist before the pilot and Georgio wrestled me away. Lula burst out of the FBO followed by a security guy. She was running full steam ahead in her green spandex tights, waving her arms in the air, yelling, “Stop! Police!”
“She misspoke in her excitement,” I said to the security guard. “We aren’t police. We’re apprehension agents. This man is in violation of his bond agreement and is attempting to flee.”
“We’re almost police,” Lula said.
Georgio shook his head at Cross. “You just had to get popcorn. I told you there was food on the plane, but you insisted on using the restroom and getting popcorn. And then you had to pick out a magazine.”
“I should have shot them when I had the chance,” Cross said.
“You’re no David Niven,” Lula said. “You probably don’t even play tennis.”
