We burned rubber as our car shot out into stop-and-go traffic. I flipped on the lights and the siren, then called the radio room and asked for a dedicated channel for communications with Brady and airport PD.
“You’re blue channel, Sergeant,” I was told.
Traffic slowed us down when we hit the intersection of Sixth and the 280 Freeway. Richie swerved, jumped lanes, and sped ahead. I gripped the dash, fighting carsickness, until we pulled off the highway onto the airport access road. We stopped minutes later under the International Terminal’s swooping marquee that glowed with the holiday light display.
I buzzed down my window and took a few deep breaths. The airport’s curbside looked as crowded as it always did during a holiday.
Travelers arrived and disembarked from cabs and hired cars with their luggage and families. They wheeled and humped their bags to airport check-in, unaware that cameras were on them, that some of the porters were undercover cops, that some of their fellow travelers were likewise plainclothes law enforcement dressed to blend in, all of them connected by wireless coms to the surveillance headquarters below the ground floor of the terminal.
I tried to remember if I had kissed my husband good-bye. Yes, I remembered his whiskery kiss and pat on my rump at the door. But I’d left Julie sleeping under the tree with her arm over Martha. I hadn’t said good-bye to Julie.
Conklin turned to me. “Ready?”
An airport cop rounded the front of our car, banged on the roof, and, while blocking my door, shouted, “Move your vehicle. You can’t park here.”
I tugged on the chain around my neck and showed him my badge, saying, “Sergeant Boxer, Homicide. Step aside.”
Brady’s voice came over the radio. “Conklin. Boxer. Captain Gerald Herz from airport security is commanding this operation. Good luck.”
Conklin crossed himself.
I checked that my vest was lying flat under my jacket.
Together, we got out of the car.