Stone Barrington 27 - Doing Hard Time

hand and let the weapon fall to the floor.” Smolensky did so. “Now kick it behind you.” He followed instructions.
    “Mr. Burnett, I presume.”
    “Quite right. Now tell me, why are you so eager to make my acquaintance?”
    “It is the man I work for who wishes to meet you.”
    “And who might he be?”
    “His name is Yuri Majorov. He is intrigued that you managed to deal with two others in his employ back at Mesa Grande. He is in Las Vegas as we speak, and he would like you to accompany me there for a meeting.”
    “Who, exactly, is Mr. Majorov?”
    “He is a businessman with worldwide interests.”
    “And why is he interested in Peter Barrington?”
    “Not the boy—his father. He and Mr. Majorov have a mutual business interest.”
    “And he thought that if he murdered the son, the father would become more cooperative? Why would Mr. Barrington wish to cooperate with the Russian Mob?”
    “Mr. Majorov would find that an unkind characterization, and I would urge that, when you meet him you not speak in that manner.”
    “Where is your car?” Teddy asked.
    “Over there, to the right—a silver Toyota Camry.”
    “Give me the keys, very carefully.”
    Smolensky reached into a pocket and came up with a car key. Teddy pushed him ahead, then picked up the man’s gun and slipped it into his own pocket. As they approached the car, Teddy pressed the trunk button and the lid opened. “Climb inside,” he said. “I’ll drive us to Las Vegas. Which hotel?”
    “The New Desert Inn,” Smolensky said. “But this is hardly necessary—I’ve no wish to harm you.”
    “Climb inside, or I will find it necessary to harm
you
.”
    Smolensky climbed inside.
    “Make yourself comfortable, now,” Teddy said, then he removed the man’s gun from his pocket, held it against his temple, and fired once. He wiped the gun down, then dropped it into the trunk with the body, put the car key next to it, dropped the GPS locator inside, and closed the trunk with an elbow.
    Teddy got into his car and drove back to Santa Monica Airport, thinking all the way. It seemed likely that Smolensky had put the locator into his airplane only the evening before, so there was only one other way he could have found the aircraft earlier: through flight tracking. He went into the Cloverfield office, paid his bill, and asked that his airplane be moved to the ramp; then he went into the flight planning room and sat down at the computer. He went to the FlightAware website and filled out a form requesting that his tail number be blocked to viewers, then he went out to the airplane and from one of his bags, took out a single airplane number, a 3. He glued it over the 2 in his tail number and did the same on the other side of the airplane, so that now his number was N133TF.
    Teddy then got out the airplane’s avionics manual and looked up the instructions for changing the tail number in the transponder. He turned on the avionics power switch, and ten minutes later he had changed the number that the transponder would broadcast whenever it was on. He had already listed the new tail number on the FAA registry, along with a number of others, listing a corporation as the owner.
    He started the airplane, then called Santa Monica ground control and, using the new tail number, requested a VFR takeoff and vectors to Hawthorne Airport, only a few miles away. After a short flight he landed there and inquired about hangar space, made a deal for it, and rented a car.
    He drove back to Santa Monica and looked around for a real estate agency. Having found one, he parked, went inside, and had a conversation with the woman in charge about rental apartments.
    He selected two from photographs for viewing, and after he had seen both, chose one on the top floor of a six-floor condominium. The owner of the penthouse was out of the country, and Teddy rented the place for three months, using another identity from his store of documents. He paid in advance, in cash, and accepted a receipt.
    Half an hour later, he was unpacked and ensconced in his new home. It was spacious and sunlit and beautifully furnished. He even liked the art on the walls. He got out his cell phone and called Charmaine at the New Desert Inn.
    “Hi, there, I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon,” she said.
    “I’ve found a very nice place to live,” he told her, “but now I have to ask you if I can trust you not to tell Pete Genaro where I live or my new phone number.”
    She was