Dick Russell took note of the active police presence as he drove slowly along the arrival lane outside the International Terminal.
Cruisers lingered in the taxi lanes. Uniformed officers talked to each other as they stood near curbside check-ins. No one even glanced at the seven-year-old gray Prius.
Then again, a number of these “cops” were on Willy’s payroll.
There was rapid movement up ahead: Willy sprinting across the street to the curb and hailing him. Dick brought the car to a stop but kept the motor running as his partner got into the passenger seat.
Dick quipped, “I guess I should ask you: How was the trip?”
“Short and sweet,” said Willy, snorting a laugh.
Dick had dropped Willy off an hour earlier, then parked in a short-term lot and waited for his partner to inspect the site one last time, making sure it was all a go.
“I had a latte and did some people-watching,” Willy said.
Both men were dressed in casual business attire, sports jackets and ties. Willy had on wraparound sunglasses and a billed cap, Dick a toupee and a fake mustache, items that were good enough to thwart facial-recognition software if the security footage was scrutinized.
But the airport was teeming with travelers taking the last possible flights to their family Christmases. No one was watching them. They wouldn’t stand out on video.
Dick said to Willy, “Let’s take another spin around the terminal. We still have plenty of time.”
Willy said, “Sure. Let’s go.”
He buckled his seat belt, then tapped a number into his burner phone. A sweet young voice said, “Hi there, Mr. Loman.”
“Hi, Cheryl. How’d it go?”
“In my humble opinion, I think I was very good. Even I started to believe it. Poor me, losing Julian like that. I felt sorry for myself.”
She laughed, and Willy said, “I’m sure he would have liked you. Now tell me everything.”
Cheryl described it all, how she’d called the hotline, spoken to Sergeant Boxer, one of the cops who had arrested Julian. She told Mr. Loman about being interviewed in the Homicide interrogation room and how she’d cried over her dead boyfriend.
“I let them drag the airport job out of me,” she said. “They totally bought it, Mr. L.”
“And why do you think they believed you?”
“Because they didn’t grill me. They didn’t hold me. They didn’t give me a polygraph. They gave me green tea and a cab ride home. Oh, and they’ll keep me posted on how the case goes.”
“Very good, Cheryl. Proud of you.”
He told the girl where to find the key to the box at Mailbox Inc. that held her packet of cash, and he thanked her.
“Be safe, Mr. Loman,” she said. “Call if you need anything.”
“Will do.”
He would never see her or talk to her again. Twenty-four hours from now he and Imogene, using the names he’d bought and paid for, would be flying out of San Rafael Airport. No wait times, runway lit and open twenty-four hours; their private jet would take them to New York, and from there, they’d go to Zurich.
But they weren’t in the air yet.
Willy was satisfied that the planning stage was over. Everything on the list was checked off and now they were counting down to the execution phase, which was complicated and risky.
He and Dick still had a lot of work to do.