Free The Pandora Key by Lynne Heitman Page A

survivors of how he tried to ransom himself off the plane with a laptop computer.”
    “A computer?”
    “He claimed it was worth a billion dollars. They laughed at him, and they didn’t let him off.”
    “How could his computer be worth a billion dollars?”
    “I don’t know. No one has ever found him to ask him. He survived the storming of the aircraft, and no one ever saw him again. That’s why I think he could be your man. And that’s all I know.” He pushed away from the control counter and started to get up.
    “Wait. What about Blackthorne?”
    “I won’t talk to you about Blackthorne.”
    “Why not?”
    The receptionist knocked on the door and opened it. We both flinched. “Big Man is looking for you,” she said. “He wants to know if you resigned and didn’t tell him. He needs you on the air right now.”
    “I’m coming.”
    Lyle unfolded himself. I stood up, too.
    “It’s Blackthorne, right? That’s who you’re afraid of. Did they come after you? Is that why you left the paper?”
    “I dug too deep. That’s all you need to know. That’s all you want to know. But you should know this. If you start looking into Blackthorne in any kind of significant way, you will be at risk. People you love will be at risk. Don’t do it lightly.” He reached for the door. “And don’t ever come back here again.”
     
    Back in the Durango, I sat quietly and looked at every car, trying to figure out if there were any I had seen before. If Lyle Burquart had been trying to scare me, he had succeeded, and more. I got out my notebook again. The pages were filling fast. I copied off the Gilbert Bernays name and then started writing in notes on the hijacking. Then I called Dan. When he didn’t answer the first time, I hung up and called him again. He was not happy when he finally picked up.
    “What do you want, Shanahan? I’m in the middle of an arbitration hearing.”
    “Let me just ask you something really quickly. What do you know about Salanna 809?”
    “Hijacking. Fucked up.”
    “Have you heard anything about it lately?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I’m not sure. It keeps coming up.”
    “In what way? Wait. Don’t answer that. I don’t have time. I’ll see what I can find and call you later. Don’t call me again. Hey…”
    “What?”
    “What about Harvey?”
    “Not yet.”
    He hung up.
    My phone was still in my hand when it started ringing. I checked the caller ID and answered.
    “Felix?”
    “Hey, Miss Shanahan, guess what?”
    “What?”
    “Someone just turned on Harvey’s phone. Do you want to know where he is?”

9
    DJURO BULATOVIC HAD NEVER BEEN TO MY HOME, AND I had never been to his. I didn’t even know if he was domiciled in Boston. I knew we were friends, though, because only his friends got to call him Bo, and there hadn’t been a single time in three years that I had called for help that he didn’t either show up or send a very capable proxy. He was known for his pastel sport coats, but tonight he wore his work clothes—all black.
    Bo was an enforcer, a gun for hire, a person who used every tool at his disposal to persuade individuals to adopt his clients’ point of view. The first time we’d met, he had wrapped his big hand around my throat and squeezed until I passed out. But that had been a case of mistaken identity. He had been deeply remorseful about strangling the wrong woman nearly to death, which is how I had apparently established my permanent marker with him.
    Through me, he had also met Harvey. Harvey did his taxes for him, which provided me with one of the few interesting personal details I knew about Bo. He earned in the mid-six figures annually from Djuro Bulatovic, LLC, which he described as a “consulting company.”
    Actually, I knew a few more things. He was a big man who came from violence. It was obvious in the way he moved, in the way he always seemed to be looking ahead to the next problem or looking back to make sure the last one wasn’t