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the chartered plane didn’t leave on schedule.
    Sydney sighed in the darkness. “I thought you knew what you were doing, counselor.”
    “Hard to foresee a mob attack on a Sydney Bennett look-alike,” Jack said.
    “I bet it’s all a publicity stunt. Five hours from now she’ll be on the Today Show with her lawyer grabbing her fifteen minutes of fame. Taking my time slot, no less. Little bitch.”
    The paramedic grumbled in the darkness. “For your information, that young woman will be lucky to be alive in the morning.”
    The prognosis cut through Jack like razor wire.
    “Oh,” said Sydney, “and I suppose that’s my fault, right?”
    “Sydney, please stop talking,” said Jack.
    “Why should I? You know I’m right. The prosecutor will write a book and blame me. The investigators and psychiatrists will do the talk shows and blame me. Faith Corso will do a two-hour special during prime time and blame me. They’ll all blame me, and they’ll all get rich. Why shouldn’t I get rich?”
    Jack was officially over her. “Sydney, shut up.”
    The ambulance stopped. The driver got out, walked around the back of the vehicle, and yanked open the doors. Jack climbed out and helped Sydney step down. Before Jack could even thank them, the paramedics jumped into the front seat, and the ambulance pulled away.
    Opa-locka Executive is a three-runway facility that serves as a designated reliever for nearby and much busier Miami International Airport. Jack had flown into Opa-locka only once in his life, years before on a private plane with his father. Upon their descent, then Governor Swyteck had commandeered the microphone and subjected all twelve passengers to a narrated, bird’s-eye tour of Hialeah, a largely Hispanic community south of the airport, a city with numerous points of interest but which also ranked as the most densely populated U.S. city without a skyscraper. Harry Swyteck was a veritable walking encyclopedia of Florida history, and he’d recounted with particular interest that Opa-locka Executive was just north of former Miami Municipal Airport, where in 1937 Amelia Earhart had begun her ill-fated journey around the world, never to be heard from again.
    Jack thought his client could have taken a cue or two from Amelia.
    “This way,” said Jack, leading her toward the gate.
    At two A.M. the 1,800-acre facility was mostly dark and quiet. The major exception was the U.S. Coast Guard Station, one of the busiest in the country, which was abuzz with activity of some sort that required a helicopter. It had nothing to do with Sydney, though it was not beyond the realm of possibility that it involved a future client of Jack’s. The only other sign of life was the Piper aircraft on Runway 1, lights on and twin engines running.
    “Thank God they’re here,” said Sydney.
    Jack and his client were still outside the security gate, about twenty yards away from the plane. A man stepped out from behind the tail. Jack had been expecting to meet Geoffrey Bennett, but this man was much younger.
    “That’s not your father,” said Jack.
    “Nope.”
    “Who is it?”
    Sydney turned and looked him in the eye. “Are you jealous?”
    “That’s a really stupid thing to say. Who are you flying with?”
    She paused, as if savoring the fact that her lawyer wasn’t in on the family secret. “I know you don’t approve, Jack. It probably even makes you feel a little better about yourself to think that tonight’s screwup killed any chance I had at a movie deal or book. For sure, the TV shows tomorrow were supposed to be all about where am I, what am I doing, when will I talk. Now it’ll be nonstop from the hospital about some stupid girl and her costume party. But it’s just a hiccup. She’s either going to get better . . . or not. Whichever way it cuts, the spotlight will swing back to me. Whether you like it or not, this is going to make me a rich woman.”
    “Don’t kid yourself. That young woman is in the hospital