Princeton Wells thought of everything. At five thirty I got a call from a man named Matéo, who asked me what I’d care to eat en route.
“I’m easy,” I said. “Whatever you’ve got on the plane.”
“At the moment the cupboard is bare, but I’m about to call our in-flight catering service,” he said. “They feed some of the world’s most demanding clientele, so please tell me what foods you enjoy, and they will be on board.”
I gave him a few of my favorites.
“Is that all?” He sounded disappointed.
“I’m sure my traveling companion will give you a much more challenging shopping list,” I said.
“She already has,” he said. “A car will pick you up shortly. I’ll meet you on the tarmac.”
The car turned out to be a custom-built stretch Bentley complete with the obligatory bar in the back. Kylie had already popped the cork on a cold bottle of champagne, and a crystal flute of golden bubbly was waiting for me as soon as I got in.
“To police work,” she said, raising her glass in a toast. “Somebody’s got to do it.”
Traffic was heavy, and we arrived at the airport in Teterboro, New Jersey, about fifteen minutes before flight time. A no-no in real life, but perfectly acceptable when your limo pulls up to the nose of your Gulfstream G650.
Matéo gave us a grand tour of the aircraft. I’d been on corporate jets before. Comfortable reclining leather seats, highly efficient tables that can be adjusted for work or for meals, a well-stocked bar, and a number of available options for in-flight entertainment. Very corporate chic.
This was not that. This was Princeton Wells’s fantasy bachelor pad with wings—decadence on a grand scale, high in the sky at six hundred miles an hour. The main cabin was a sumptuous living and dining area with some of the same decorating influences I remembered from Wells’s apartment in The Pierre. At the rear of the plane, hidden from sight by a sweeping frosted-glass bulkhead, was a large master bedroom with a king-size bed, and behind that a spacious bathroom with polished marble countertops, a heated floor, and a shower big enough for two.
“What do you think?” Matéo asked.
“Mind-boggling,” I said.
Kylie shrugged. “It’ll do.”
I could see in his eyes that Matéo, like men everywhere, was dazzled by her.
“Your flight will be approximately seventeen hours,” he said. “We have three pilots on board. Captain Dan Fennessy is in command. Normally there would be only two in the cockpit, and a second team would be flown commercially to relieve them when we set down to refuel. But Mr. Wells pulled this together in such a hurry that there was no time to get a relief crew in place.”
“Pretty sloppy way to run an airline,” Kylie said.
“I’ll make a note to management,” Matéo said, half smiling, half drooling. “Can I get you anything to drink before takeoff?”
“A glass of water,” I said, clearly disappointing him again.
“I’ll stick with champagne,” Kylie said.
We sat down, buckled up, and Matéo brought our drinks.
“Water?” Kylie said to me. “You’re an embarrassment to freeloading cops everywhere.”
Cheryl had given me an Ambien, and I popped it.
Five minutes later, we were airborne, and Matéo invited us to make ourselves comfortable in the main cabin, where he’d set out platters of cheese, caviar, and seafood.
“This looks great,” I said, “but I could use a before-dinner nap. Do you mind if I stretch out back there?”
“This is your airplane, Detective Jordan,” he said. “Think of it as a hotel at fifty-one thousand feet. There are fresh linens on the bed, and there’s an assortment of nightwear in the closet.”
“Zach, you are no fun at all,” Kylie said, spooning caviar onto a toast point.
“Wake me in half an hour,” I said. “I promise to be more fun then.”
I went to the bedroom and found a supply of men’s silk pajamas, all black. I changed, donned an eye mask and a pair of Bose noise-canceling headphones, and crawled into bed under a thick comforter.
People actually live like this, I thought as I drifted off. The next thing I knew, I was jolted awake. It took a few seconds to remember that I was on an airplane, and I figured that the bump I’d felt was turbulence. I took off the headphones, and I could hear the hum of the tires on a runway. We’d landed. I had no idea where or why.
I peeled off my eye mask and got hit by a second jolt. There was a body, also wearing black silk pajamas, lying next to me in bed. Kylie.
She put her hand to her head. “I think I drank too much.”
There was a knock on the glass bulkhead, and Matéo called our names.
Kylie muttered something that sounded like an invitation for him to come in. He did.
“Good morning, Detectives,” he said. “Welcome to Helsinki. Can I start you off with some coffee and fresh-baked korvapuustit?”
I didn’t answer. I was still staring at the woman in my bed.