Final Approach (18 page)

Chapter Thirty-six

“I lied before,” I told Richard, once we connected via phone. “I never went to the FBI field office for an interview.”

“I know.”

“It’s because Trish knows where Annette is. She’ll trade her for the money. Casey too.”

Jeannie and I were laying low in a park near the Houston Zoo. Richard was my second call. First, we’d called Vince to thank him for his help at the hospital and bring him up to speed. He wanted to help and I’d promised to keep him posted.

“Your emotions are clouding your judgment.” My low-battery warning interrupted him but Richard’s tone came through; his words snapped with the harsh bite of concern. “What you’re planning is suicide. She’ll never let you walk out of there with those kids.”

“I think she’s greedy enough to do it.”

“Think. She gives you the kids. You give her the money. What’s to say she’ll let you leave? She’ll kill you, take her money, take the kids—probably sell them
again
—and be back in business before dinner.”

I explained where I’d hidden half of her money. Richard wasn’t persuaded.

“When’s this happening?” he asked.

“She’ll call me. The only way she’d do it was for me to let her set it up.”

“Jesus.” He exhaled. “You know I have to tell the FBI.”

From my seat at a picnic table, I spotted Jeannie at the playground, surrounded by a gaggle of little girls.

Richard continued. “By the way, I know what you did at the hospital.”

“Look, I want to call Clement, but I’m afraid that if I do, the FBI will track me down before I get Annette.”

“You need their help.”

I nodded. “I know. But I’m afraid to ask for it. They might accidentally tip off Trish. Or maybe arrest me. I don’t know what to do.”

“Clement wants Trish,” Richard said. “And you’re talking to her. That should help. Where are you?”

“Hermann Park. We’re waiting for her instructions.”

“
We
? You didn’t trust me or the FBI, but
Jeannie’s
competent?”

I looked up in time to see her “shake it all about” with a group of Hoky-Pokying preschoolers.

I shrugged. “She busted me out of the hospital.”

“Stay put,” he said. “I’ll call Clement, see what he says.”

Shortly after we hung up, Kurt’s phone rang. Trish was ready.

The plan she laid out wasn’t what I expected: “Go to Neiman Marcus in the Galleria and tell them you lost a beaded red bag. Get there by 5:30. Bring the money.”

It was 4:35 and I didn’t know how long it took to get to the Galleria, or where the Neiman Marcus was. Trish didn’t stay on the line long enough to ask her.

“Come on!” I waved Jeannie toward the car. She trotted after me, kids waving goodbye as she hurried away. We asked a speed walker for directions. She seemed to answer in slow motion.

We got to the Galleria in a half hour. I recognized some street names—Richmond, West Alabama, Westpark. It was the neighborhood I’d jogged my first morning in Houston.

Traffic near the high-dollar mega mall was a problem. Cars were gridlocked around the block, turn signals blinking. I feared the wait would eat up the time I had left.

“Go ahead,” Jeannie said at the corner of Westheimer and Post Oak. “I’ll park. Give me your phone. When you have the mysterious handbag, call me. We’ll hook up that way.”

I pulled Kurt’s cell phone out of the bag, lighter with half its cash missing, and handed it to Jeannie.

“No,” she said, “You need that one incase Trish calls again. Give me yours.”

“I need mine incase Richard calls.”

Impatient, she snatched the backpack from me and took out my phone. We saved the critical numbers—mine, Richard’s, Trish’s, Vince’s, and the new pre-paid—into all the models. Jeannie kept my cell and I took the new temporary phone along with Kurt’s. Then I let myself out of the car, waited for a Number 33 Metro bus to pass, and crossed the street toward the mall.

At Neiman Marcus, I passed a security guard at the door and was promptly met by a dignified older woman in a non-descript black suit. A shiny gold nametag I couldn’t read was pinned to her lapel.

“Is there a lost and found? I left my purse.”

She directed me to an elevator bank between Cosmetics and Shoes and suggested I try Customer Service, downstairs. On my way, I glimpsed a sale price of $1300 on a handbag discreetly chained to its display shelf.

When the associate downstairs handed over my “lost” bag, I was struck by its lightness. I stepped behind a Baccarat crystal display and unsnapped the little purse. A note and key were inside.

Leave the mall through the far end of the food court. Exit to the Yellow Garage. I’ll know if you’re alone. A white Lexus is parked in area LL1, Zone H, two rows from the door. License plate V72 BNT. Use the key to take it north to Huntsville on I-45. Call when you pass Exit 60
.

I found a ladies room tucked in the back of the China department, but the elegant, full-length doors inside made it difficult to know for sure that I was alone. I listened for a few moments, and convinced I had no company, closed myself in a stall and called Jeannie to read her the note. She said she’d tell the plan to Richard and Vince.

She’d try to get to the Yellow Garage and watch for the white Lexus, but she was gridlocked in so much traffic she figured I’d get there first.

“If I wait,” I said, “it’ll look suspicious.”

“No, don’t do that. Head up the highway like she said and tell me where you exit. We can help you if we know where you are.”

I exited Neiman Marcus and found myself on the second of three floors, all open to an elaborate arched skylight that ran the length of the enormous corridor. On my way to the food court, I passed dozens of elite shops: Chanel, Tiffany & Co., Fendi, Cartier, Ralph Lauren, Giorgio Armani, Versace, Coach. At each storefront, I wondered whether someone were watching from inside. Below, a full-size ice skating rink was built right in the middle of the mall with the food court surrounding it on both sides. The blended scent of frying onions and grilled meat dominated the food court, where space was so limited several people ate standing, watching figure skaters spin and jump below.

I took the escalator to the lower level and followed signs to the Yellow Garage. A video arcade on my left pumped out peppy, electronic tunes that faded when I eased open a glass door and stepped outside, into the garage. Cigarette smoke lingered in the space around me, but the only people I saw were motorists jockeying for a place to park. For a moment, I worried that a henchman or sniper, or perhaps Trish herself, might have me in a gun sight. Then I relaxed a little, figuring they wouldn’t kill someone who still had half their money. I surveyed the parking area, but found only innocuous rows of cars, a Sparkletts delivery truck, and drivers too preoccupied to notice me.

I wasn’t surprised Jeannie hadn’t made it. Through a nearby street exit, I could see traffic outside was still bumper-to-bumper.

I paced two rows of cars and found the Lexus with the right plate. Before getting inside, I checked the back seat. Only immaculate leather and pristine floor mats waited behind the tinted glass.

Twenty-five minutes later, I accelerated up the I-610 ramp on my way to I-45. According to Jeannie, Huntsville was seventy miles north of Houston. The drop zone was seventy miles south. I thought about the extensive cross-city travel and wondered what Trish was planning.

Exit Sixty caught me by surprise because it was nowhere close to Huntsville. In fact, I wasn’t even out of Houston when I passed its sign.

I called Trish.

“The next exit is Beltway 8,” she said. “Take it east. Follow the signs for Bush Intercontinental.” Houston’s largest airport, the one I’d flown into with Richard.

“Park in Terminal C,” she continued. “Wear the sweater that’s in your trunk. Put the money in the pillow.”

“The pillow?”

“There’s a boarding pass in your glove box. Use it to—”

“A boarding pass to go where?”

“It doesn’t matter. You’re not getting on the plane. Use the boarding pass to get through the security checkpoint in Terminal C. When I’m satisfied you’re not armed or wired, I’ll be in touch.”

“But I don’t have—”

She hung up.

“Shit.” My driver’s license was at the motel in Freeport with the rest of my things. Without it, I’d never get past security.

My palms slipped over the leather-wrapped wheel. Beltway 8 came up quickly, and I took it east like she’d said. Within minutes, I saw signs for the airport. At the first red light, I leaned over the seat, opened the glove box, and removed an envelope. Inside was a ticket to New Orleans
and my driver’s license
. Trish’s pervasive ways of doing business chilled me. I grew more worried with each new, meticulous detail.

I set the envelope on the seat and called Jeannie.

“Don’t go in,” she said. “Wait for help.”

“If I take too long, she’ll know something’s up.”

“It’s a bad idea.”

“Tell Richard to make sure the FBI knows what’s going on. The airport’s packed. I don’t think she’d hurt me in front of all these people.”

“She’s capable of anything. You should wait for the FBI.”

I followed overhead signs for Terminal C and tried to stay out of the way of parking lot shuttle busses.

“I won’t risk botching this trade. Tell them where I am. I’m sure they can move fast when they want to.”

My lane veered to the left and took me under a set of bridges meant for planes, not cars. At the terminal, a long series of identical airplanes waited at the gates, parked in neat rows. I followed signs for short-term parking and drove up a spiral ramp into the garage.

“I’m here,” I said. “I’ll call you when I get through security.”

I parked in the first parking space I saw, marked for compact cars only, and popped the trunk. Inside, a sweater and a flesh-colored pillow in the shape of a half-oval were neatly arranged in a plastic grocery store sack. The pillow had an elastic band that looked like a belt, and when I lifted it and realized what it was, I felt queasy. The tag inside the sweater confirmed my fear: GapMaternity.

I’d worn a similar faux-belly once—maternity stores keep them in dressing rooms so expectant moms can see how the clothes will fit later. What troubled me about Trish’s model was the careful stitching and added zipper that concealed a hollowed-out cavity. Grime along the lining and frayed edges near the clasp told me I wasn’t the first to wear it.

I returned to the driver’s seat, stuffed the cash bundles into the pillow, and zipped it. Satisfied that no one was looking, I pulled off my cardigan and buckled the fake belly over the camisole I was wearing. Then I pulled the maternity sweater over my head, making sure to smooth it over my new baby bump. I locked the car and took the elevator to ground level. Even from a distance, jet fuel and exhaust fumes were unmistakable.

Skycaps at the terminal entrance ignored me because I didn’t have a bag to check. I walked straight past customer check-in lines, computerized self-check kiosks, and bag check-in stations and stepped into the security line with a backpack containing two phones and a cardigan. A young mother in front of me collapsed a stroller with one swift stomp on its frame.

“Guess this’ll be you soon,” she said, bending to lift it. “How much longer?”

“Two months.”

She gave a tired smile. “Prepare to haul a lot of stuff.”

Behind her, a TSA officer patted down a Muslim passenger at the metal detector. I got nervous watching the officer’s blue latex gloves feel the back of a woman’s head through her hijab. Then the passenger raised her arms to the side and the gloved hands smoothed over each sleeve one at a time before running down the sides of her body. The gravity of what I was about to do overwhelmed me and it was an effort just to breathe. I acted like I was adjusting my waist band and discreetly moved the strap of my belly-pillow down so that it would overlay on the waistline of my Capris.

At the x-ray machine, I put my shoes into a gray plastic bin and set them on the conveyer belt next to my bag. Then I took a slow, deep breath—careful to be subtle about it—looked straight ahead, and waited to be waved through the metal detector.

The officer on the other side motioned me forward and nothing beeped.

“Raise your arms to the sides, please.”

I did what she said and willed myself not to sweat. She ran her hands along each of my arms as she’d done to the passengers before me. Then she ran them straight down my back and over my hips. She felt my ankles. Wordlessly, she nodded me through.

I stepped to the side, put my shoes on, and headed toward my gate with the bag slung over one shoulder. To my right, an enormous longhorn steer head was mounted over the entrance to some kind of ranch-themed gift shop. A phone rang, muffled in the backpack.

“That was good,” Trish said. “Now turn around and go back the way you came. Go downstairs to baggage claim.”

I looked up and down the wide corridor and didn’t see her anywhere. Above me, an overhead walkway extended from the elevators and escalators toward the parking garage I’d come from. A glass half-wall ran the length of the banister, and I could see she wasn’t up there either, but a wide concrete pillar spanning both levels near the elevator bank worried me. Anyone could be hiding behind it.

“How much longer?”

“Go to baggage claim. If you do what you’re told, you’ll have the kids within the hour.”

The phone’s line went silent.
Within the hour
repeated in my mind. I imagined Annette in my arms and stepped onto the escalator, thankful to not have to limp down the steps.

When the baggage claim area came into view, I counted eleven carousels. Unsure where to go, I dropped into a seat near the Visitor Information desk and watched a kid with light-up shoes chase his sister. A woman next to me complained to her friend that Newark was always a mess. She was chewing some potent spearmint gum. Trish called again.

“See the ladies room in the corner behind Carousel 10?”

I looked around and found it about ten yards ahead on the left.

“Yes.”

“See the pay phones?”