I’ve never added killing as one of my qualifications on my resume. I wasn’t prepared to do that now. I persuaded Mrs. Hanady to go with me into the main house. The cook embraced her and began fussing over her. I took advantage of this mothering to get to a phone in the den. Turns out the phone wasn’t necessary. There was a banging on the front door followed by “Police! Open up!” It sounded like Officer Hamilton. I got up to answer the door, but the cook beat me to it. She looked accusingly at me before opening the door. I stood a few steps behind her. At that moment, I couldn’t see Mrs. Hanady.
Hamilton lurched in, bristling for action, gun drawn. Behind him, I saw another cruiser come ripping up the driveway and plunge to a stop next to Hamilton’s car. Officer Enshaw jumped from his vehicle and headed toward the door, while Hamilton, ignoring the cook, trained his gun on me and snarled, “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Let’s say I was abducted,” I said.
“Put your hands up.”
I still held the folder and the journal in my right hand.
“Put your hands up.”
“Officer Hamilton, you’re gonna want to look at this.” Still, I held one hand up, but raised my other hand holding the papers as an offering. About this time Enshaw came in. The cook looked disapprovingly at all of us, then returned to the kitchen.
“Ma’am, come back here,” Hamilton ordered.
The woman didn’t stop. “I got a stew on that I gotta stir,” she called back.
Enshaw looked questioningly at Hamilton, who shook his head. “Cover him,” Hamilton barked. Enshaw eagerly complied. Hamilton jerked the folder from me and went to sit on a divan. He flipped through the loose pages. His expression betrayed neither understanding nor confusion. Next, he opened the journal. His face reddened as if he’d been caught red-handed reading porn.
“What is this?” Hamilton asked.
“Those dates on the pages.” I pointed to them. “They mean anything to you?”
Hamilton looked back down at the paper. The returning redness revealed they did not. He looked back up at me.
I put my hands down. “The first column contains only first names. Notice they’re American. Those are the children. The second column contains Spanish names only. Those are the mothers. The third column indicates the dates Tom Hanady slept with the women. And the fourth….”
“Birth dates,” he said dully.
“On the money. I think Tom Hanady's cashing in on their adoptions. His daughter Rachel is proof the process works. And … is appealing to men with certain tastes, and who don’t want the law worrying after them.”
“Jesus.”
I noticed an absence. “Where’s Mrs. Hanady?”
His slack jaw closed on the words. “She’s here?”
“Yes. I’m assuming it was you in hot pursuit of the Caddy? She‘s the one turned Highway 40 into the Autobahn. Her car is parked on the other side of the property. She was just in the kitchen.”
Hamilton turned to Enshaw. “Get her in here.” Enshaw strode toward the kitchen, his gun still in his hand. I heard him exchange words with the cook. In a moment he was back.
“She’s gone.”
“What the hell?” said Hamilton.
I looked at Hamilton. “I know where she went. If you’ll follow me, I can show you. We might be able to catch her.” He stood up reluctantly. I led the way and Hamilton and Enshaw followed me. I didn’t know if their guns were still at ready, and I didn’t care. I figured they were curious enough not to shoot me in the back. Outside, both officers snapped on their flashlights. I led them behind the garage and down to the footpath that ended at the shack. Before we could walk ten paces, the familiar roar of Mrs. Hanady’s sports car engine rolled up the hillside.
“We’re too late,” I exclaimed. “C’mon. She’ll have a head start.”
“Where are we going?” asked Enshaw.
I thought a second. “The airport. I’ve got a bad feeling I know what she wants to do.”
The officers exchanged quick glances, then Hamilton said, “Let’s go.” We ran back toward the house, around to the front. Enshaw jumped in his cruiser and tore out before Hamilton and I reached his car. I opened the passenger door and got in. Hamilton said nothing to this but flipped on his siren and took off after Enshaw.
As we reached the outer road, Hamilton picked up his radio and communicated with the police dispatch that we were in hot pursuit. “Adam-Eight, Adam-Eight, code 10-50. Repeat, code 10-50.” He gave the make, model, and color of Mrs. Hanady’s car, and a physical description of her as well. I stared at the lit blacktop road ahead of us and said nothing. We reached Route 40 and punched it going east. At Lindbergh Boulevard, Hamilton careened around the clover-leaf exit and floored the car northward toward the airport. There was little traffic. Despite the high speed, Hamilton drove smoothly. Good thing, too. My gut still wasn’t in the best shape. He blew through every red light, and accelerated through every green one.
We reached the outer road along the airport and continued speeding toward the terminal. A mix of prop drone and jet roar washed over the car. Ahead, we could see Enshaw burst from his car and run up to a man dressed in coat and tie: Detective Marconi. They conferred as they watched Hamilton’s cruiser bump the curb and come to a stop. Hamilton was out of the car before I could open my door.
Marconi turned to Hamilton and me. “Go to the Trans World desk. Enshaw and I will cover the other airlines.”
“You got any more backup?” I asked. We needed more than four men to search the terminal.
“Coming,” said Marconi. “We're dealing with the Sixth. Let’s move it.”
We badged our way through the lines. No one scrutinized them. We gave each agent a description of Jerri Hanady. None had seen her. Several minutes passed with more of the same. We walked out into a waiting area. Enshaw joined us.
“No luck?” he asked.
“No,” Hamilton said flatly.
“Let’s find Marconi,” I said. They followed me, seeming to accept some authority I normally didn’t own with cops.
He was ahead, at the counter of some puddle-jumping outfit. When he saw us, he gestured for us to hurry it up. Just as we approached him, we heard the agent say, “Yes, sir. I told you already. I’m positive it was her.”
“Has that plane taken off yet?” Marconi asked.
“Not yet, sir. But it’s due to taxi any minute.”
“Which gate?”
“C-18. Just down this concourse.”
Marconi started running and we followed. For a guy about my age, he was swift. We reached C-18 just as an agent was closing a door to the outside. Out the large window we could see a two-engine prop plane. One of the tarmac guys was rolling the staircase away from it. Marconi flashed his badge, saying there was a wanted woman on the plane. The agent moved aside and we ran through the door onto the tarmac. Marconi kept his badge out and hustled toward the men rolling away the staircase. “Police!” he shouted. “We need to get on that plane!” The workers seemed to get him over the engine noise. As they rolled the staircase back in place, Hamilton and Enshaw waved their hands in the air up at the pilot to cut the engine.
I bounded up the stairs behind Marconi. Hamilton and Enshaw were hot on my heels. At the top they both clamored for me to get out of their way and let them on first. We stepped onto the plane past a cute, and surprised, stewardess. The plane was small, but full. Hamilton and Enshaw pushed past me. As I passed one businessman, he snarled,“What’s going on here?” Another up ahead complained, “I’ve got an impor-
tant—” Hamilton told him to can it. A couple of children were giving their mother a squirrelly time of it. We scanned every passenger as we all four walked down the aisle. By the time we got to the back of the plane it was clear: no Jerri Hanady. The plane was smaller inside than it looked from the outside. And all faces were turned on us, some, now more amused at our haplessness, than annoyed. I’d have suggested we give “Sweet Adelide” the barbershop treatment if I thought the cops could hold a tune.
I turned and headed toward the cockpit. The annoyed passengers were still muttering. One business type already a few cups in, called out, “Let’s get this goddamn bird off the ground!” The stewardess up front was smiling at them sweetly, but concern showed in her eyes. I asked her if she had seen a woman that fit Jerri Hanady’s description.
She furrowed her brow slightly and then the smile returned. “No, I’m afraid not, sir!”
Ah, if only I had the leisure to take a seat right here and let this beauty wait on me all across the continent. Instead, I tried the captain next. He was standing at the front of the plane, his blue cap centered squarely atop a sculpted mask of blue-eyed, glinting American muscle and bone. On one crisp collar, the golden pilot’s wings strained to escape their pinning. On the other, some type of combat ribbon rested with valiant restraint. His authoritarian manner reminded me of Broad Jimmy.
“There’s no one of that description,” he said preemptively. “Now, I need you gentlemen to exit the plane. We are behind schedule as it is, and we’re flying against the wind.”
Can’t argue against grim determination spiffed up with epaulets. I stood at attention, gave him a stiff salute, and exclaimed, “Safe to fly sir.” His eyes narrowed at me but he said nothing.
Marconi, after pushing past Hamilton and Enshaw, joined me up front, grim-faced. He gestured to the door, and we all exited the plane.
Back inside the terminal we found two other officers and Bertie Albanese. As Detective Marconi filled Bertie in on Jerri Hanady’s disappearance, I studied Bertie's face. He had dark circles under his eyes, probably just like mine, but he looked alert. I added the sordid details of Tom Hanady’s business life.
“Shit. Think Mrs. Hanady’s on another plane?” he asked.
“Fifty-fifty,” I replied. “If so, that was pretty damn smooth.”
“All right. Let’s find out if other flights connect to Colombia. Also, I need men to get a hold of the women in Hanady’s charity. See if they’ve spoken to her, seen her, anything. Also, I want a stakeout at the Hanady home. And maybe not in plain view this time? I need someone at Limited Imports, too. What am I missing?”
No one said anything.
Bertie grunted. Marconi sent Enshaw and Hamilton back to the Hanady estate. The other two officers who had come with Bertie would head out to Limited Imports, after checking on other flights that might connect to Colombia. Marconi would start the rounds of the charity women. As we went outside the terminal, I asked Bertie if I could hook another ride with him back to the office.
“Let’s not make this a habit. I’ll start charging you for gas.”
“Deal.”
Bertie started the car and we headed back south along Lindbergh. The next three minutes of silence felt like half-an-hour.
“I have an idea,” he said.
“Shoot.”
“I don’t think Jerri Hanady got on a plane.”
“Okay,” I said, “Why not?”
“Think about it. She’s upset. Murderous, even. She finds out what her husband’s into, and it destroys her. She cries awhile. Then her emotions rocket to revenge, and she makes up her mind to find you. She’s driving blind. Figuratively, of course. She gave the other coppers a helluva chase. She takes you out to her place in a fury. She has to know at some point the police are going to show up. When they do, she ducks out her back door and makes for the airport.”
“A ruse?”
“You bet. A damn good one at that. Look at us.”
He had a point. “Think she’s that smart?”
“Who knows? I wouldn’t put it past her. And she’s just gotten the burn of her life.”
“Convince me.”
“I think she knows where her husband is. And he’s not in Colombia.”
I looked over. “Bertie. Better skip my office and head straight to the secretary’s place.”
“You read my mind.”