First Class Killing by Lynne Heitman

you’re at it, ask him for a list of earnings for everyone at the base. I’d get last year’s and this year’s earnings to date.”
    “Income versus lifestyle analysis,” he said, anticipating where I was going. “I can match salaries to asset purchases, estimate a cost of living, and see if they can afford what they have on their reported salaries.”
    “Exactly what I was thinking. It should be easy, too. These women are not shy about spending money. They wear expensive jewelry, have second homes down on the Cape or on the Vineyard, and there is a lot of plastic surgery going on, which is not cheap.”
    “Nor,” he said, like the accountant he was, “is it covered by health benefits.”
    “Right.” I came up out of the tunnel and into the chaos of the Big Dig, the massive roadway rearrangement project designed to rationalize Boston’s interstate highway system and sink most of it underground. It was already years in the making and years from completion, which made it one of the world’s largest semipermanent construction sites. From a practical standpoint, they changed the detours almost every night, so you had to pay close attention if you didn’t want to end up in New Hampshire. I made the crossing successfully and headed toward my neighborhood.
    “So, what do you think, Harvey?”
    “It could work. It would be fast.”
    “Your enthusiasm is killing me. I thought it was brilliant.”
    “Alex, even if we do come up with a list of names, none of this necessarily proves anything.”
    “You said it yourself. We’re not trying to convict them. We’re trying to scare them, which won’t be easy. The more we know about them, the better chance we have. There’s something else I think we should do.”
    “What?”
    “Look into an unsolved murder in Omaha. An OrangeAir flight attendant named Robin Sevitch got her head bashed in there. Tristan says Angel arranged it.”
    “Dear Lord.”
    “I know. It could be urban legend, but he implied she did it to send a message about who was in charge.”
    “I will see what I can dig up.”
    “Good.” I spotted a space on the street almost too late and had to throw it into reverse and barrel backward for half a block, a maneuver that required my full attention.
    “Harvey, I have to go. I’m at the pharmacy.”
    “The pharmacy? What is the matter? Are you sick?”
    “Not sick,” I said, looking down at my smart linen pants and silk blouse. “Just dull and flat-chested. I’ll call you later.”

    I heard my phone ringing through my closed door as I stepped off the elevator. The answering machine picked up as I fumbled my keys out and unlocked the dead bolt. I tried to hook the dry cleaning on the bedroom door-knob as I hurried past but missed and ended up with piles of OrangeAir uniforms and plastic sheathing on the floor.
    “Hey, Shanahan, where the fuck are you? Too bad, because you’re gonna want to hear this. Anyway, call me when—”
    It was Dan, and I had a matter of seconds before he hung up. I lunged toward the phone. “I’m here. I’m here, Dan. Don’t hang up.”
    “What the fuck? Are you screening your calls?”
    “I just walked in.” I dumped my bags on the counter and my backpack on the floor. One of the shopping bags fell over, spilling out my do-it-at-home hair color kit and a new bottle of fingernail polish. “What’s going on?”
    “Ask and you shall receive.”
    “You talked to our guy?”
    “I had to hunt him down. He’s in Dubai on business. I got him on his cell phone.” That was one of the great things about Dan. Once he committed, you knew he wouldn’t stop until he came through for you. “He thought I was calling asking him for a job, but then I had to tell him no, I was calling about getting laid.”
    “How did it go?”
    “I sweated through my shirt and my suit jacket and had to take an hour after I hung up to go walk around on the ramp. I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to look this guy in the eye