Behind The Veil: A Gina Harwood Novel Page 15

  It never even occurred to him that, merely three years later, they could possibly be partnered up in Homicide.

  Gina Harwood was the most aggravating partner he could imagine. She was often flighty, usually correct, and terribly domineering. She had an uncanny sense of what was, able to look right past what appeared to be, or even what should be. He had to grudgingly admit that she was an excellent detective, but she needed a partner to remind her of the rules she too often wanted to flout. She needed someone to ground her, or she flew up too high, too near the sun.

  Morgan groaned against the wheel. She was going to go, he was sure of it. And unless he'd mistaken the conversation he eavesdropped upon, there was danger waiting for her. He agreed with Hanagawa. He wasn't sure she could handle whatever was waiting.

  At least, not alone.

  He groaned again. There were only two homicide detectives in the Tulsa department, and one of them was off on approved leave. That left him. If he couldn't stop her... then what? Accompanying her would endanger his career in just about every way he could imagine. Unapproved time off. Unapproved case.

  Morgan flipped open his cell without looking at it, and dialed his boss.

  “Yeah, Chief? I'm sorry to bother you. It's Snyder, sir.”

  Gruff grumbling answered his identification.

  Gripping the steering wheel for support, he gritted his teeth and continued. “I really need to take some of my vacation.”

  15

  Carry-on luggage was easier to deal with than checked baggage, but Gina didn't want to leave her gun behind, and she wasn't on “official” business, so she had to check her bag and bring along her hard case for the handgun. It was a drag, but it was better than the alternative. She waited patiently at the check-in counter while the hostess flagged down a TSA official to go over her baggage with her present. She had intentionally arrived an hour earlier than necessary to handle the paperwork.

  Unfortunately, law enforcement officers traveling with handguns and ammunition weren't a terribly common occurrence at Tulsa International Airport. Gina saw several more TSA officials bundling over, and the airline manager on duty was called in. She repeated her story several times as each of them took the opportunity to check her statements and situation against the official policies – “Yes, I am police detective, here is my badge, here is my paperwork, yes, there is an unloaded firearm in my baggage. Yes, it is in a hard container. Yes, the ammunition is separate. Yes, I am off-duty, and out of uniform. Thank you for noticing. No, I do not have any anti-personnel spray or other firearms. No other contraband. No.”

  Finally, all seemed in order, and the officials and the manager all nodded to each other, apparently to congratulate themselves on handling such a difficult and needy customer. Gina sighed and passed through the inspection gates with only her purse. She felt naked without the solid metal weight of her handgun, but pressed on and sat primly at the gate in her civvies, trying to blend in with the few other passengers. There was a frazzled looking mother corralling an obviously exhausted child, but most of the other people sitting at her gate were middle-aged men in comfortable clothes. Sweatpants and tracksuits. She could tell they were businessmen, though, because all of them were reading some sort of newspaper or business magazine – Forbes, the strangely pink Financial Times, the Wall Street Journal, the New York Times.

  The flight didn't look like it would be full to Gina unless it was a very small plane, but this flight was only a 45 minute hop to Dallas, where she would have a two-hour layover before boarding her flight to Baltimore, and then another two-hour layover before she could board her final flight to the by-all-accounts tiny Wicomoco Regional Airport. She whipped out her notebook and jotted down a reminder note to pick up a map of the area in Baltimore, in case she couldn't find one at the regional airport. For all she knew, it might just be a few dirt runways. There certainly were enough of those variety in Oklahoma.

  Sleep was already tugging at her eyelids, and Gina walked over to the airport bar to grab a cocktail before boarding; it was the only way she'd ever been able to sleep on a flight. Otherwise, no matter how tired, she would find herself immediately wide-awake as the plane lifted off, with some annoying part of her convinced that only her remaining conscious could keep them safely in the air. Alcohol was needed to dull that edge and let her get some blissful sleep.

  ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼

  The hours ticked by, punctuated only by occasional snores from Jake and the whirrs of other cars passing them on the highway. Marcus wasn't pushing the car very hard, hovering a few miles under the speed limit. He alternated between wishing he had his sunglasses, wishing he had his music, wishing he was home in his own bed, and wishing he had some cigarettes. Every few minutes, he closed his eyes in a mute prayer before opening them and peering into the rear view mirror, hoping to see another cop car tailing him. It never happened.

  “Hey, man, thanks for letting me sleep so long...” A sleepy Jake smacked his lips and stretched as far as the small car would allow. Marcus kept a wary eye on him, although he was relieved to hear his friend sound so normal.

  “No problem,” muttered Marcus.

  “Where we at?” Jake peered out the windows, and Marcus pushed the car a little closer to the speed limit.

  Marcus frowned. “I'm not really sure. I saw a sign a while back that said we were heading toward West Virginia. Does that even sound right?”

  “Really?” Jake frowned too. “How long was I asleep?” He rolled down the window, and Marcus shivered as a blast of cold wind buffeted the car. Thankfully, Jake rolled it right back up. “Shit! That'll wake you up!” he stammered, and Marcus almost smiled.

  “Dunno, we're almost outta gas, though. I was gonna wake you up the next time I saw a gas sign.”

  Jake nodded. “Maybe five, six hours then?”

  Marcus shrugged. “I dunno, man, you know me and time. I just blank out. I don't do time, especially when I'm driving.” He saw Jake pick up the cell phone and press the power button, but nothing happened. The clock on the dashboard had been broken since Jake had bought the car, and Marcus still didn't have any time-telling device of his own to offer him.

  “I guess it doesn't really matter. I'm starving, though.”

  Marcus considered this. The cramps of anxiety that had doubled him over had mostly passed, leaving a general, bubbling echo of panic in his gut. He examined this more closely and felt the pangs of hunger lying underneath. “Me, too. I could go for a burger.”

  Jake nodded. “Hell, yes. Like four burgers. And a huge vat of coke. Let's pull over on the next exit with signs, okay?”

  Relief washed over Marcus again at this. Jake sounded like he always had, not like the crazed, wild-eyed man that shared the car this morning. 'Maybe he WAS just exhausted,' thought Marcus. 'I know I was.' He felt a tentative smile stretch his cracked lips, and was surprised at how unusual the motion felt. Marcus normally smiled more than just about anyone.

  ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼

  Packing quickly wasn't a problem, and neither was driving (well above the speed limit) to the airport. He arrived with almost two hours to spare, and figured he had everything in hand. What he didn't figure on was how the airport counter employees and TSA officials would overreact regarding his admittedly unusual situation – not only did he need to purchase tickets at the counter, something that apparently wasn't done much anymore, but he also had to check a firearm. The ticket situation wasn't horrible – there were plenty of seats left on the flight, and he had cash ready to pay. But the combination of the two raised eyebrows, and the counter attendant uneasily excused herself to talk to the manager. TSA officials surrounded him. Morgan sighed heavily and presented his badge and his bag for search, after search, after search. They were being unusually thorough. One of them even slit the satin lining of his bag open to search between the liner and the hard shell, although the official did at least have the wherewithal to apologize for the wanton destruction.

  “You know, this is the
second time we've had to do this tonight,” mused one of the TSA officials thoughtfully.

  “Yes, I know,” answered Morgan, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “My partner, Detective Harwood. She's also on this flight.”

  The airline manager pursed his lips. He was a thoroughly unattractive man – short, pudgy, balding and entirely bureaucratic, which was perhaps his worst feature. “That's unusual, isn't it?” he asked, only partially pointing the question at Morgan. “Why didn't you two arrive together? It would have been easier on us, you know.” His gaze turned accusatory.

  Morgan couldn't bring himself to apologize to them for making them do their job.

  “And,” continued the bureaucrat. “She didn't have to buy a ticket at the counter. Most unusual, you know. Most unusual.”

  Morgan closed his eyes and counted to three – he didn't want to waste the time counting to ten. “Yes, I understand. Can you help me or not?”

  “Most unusual, you do understand,” repeated the fat man, but he sighed and began tapping away on his computer.

  The flight ended up costing him nearly twice what he knew Gina had paid, but there was no way around it, and he didn't feel like he could afford to cause a further scene without being thrown out by the still-wary TSA officials. The entire ordeal took nearly 90 minutes, so that by the time he reached the gate, the flight was already almost fully boarded. He didn't see Gina in the dwindling line entering the glass doors to get to the plane. 'She better not have changed her mind,' he growled internally. He pasted a placid smile on his face and handed the ticket to the flight attendant; she had evidently not been informed of his dubious nature, as she smiled back warmly and took his ticket without a second glance.

  He, too, walked through the glass doors, walking briskly down the entry ramp and ducking through the door of the small plane. There were only two seats on each side, and it was one of the 'puddle-jumper' planes with cramped seats in a tiny space. Morgan took a deep breath; he wasn't a fan of flying even on the big jets. Little ones, the ones more likely to feel turbulence, sent chills up his spine. He set his jaw and walked forward, surveying the passengers for a familiar face.

  Harwood was sitting in one of the last rows; her head was down as though she were reading something, or napping. Morgan disregarded his seat number and walked to the empty seat next to her, folding himself into the tiny aisle seat. “Hello,” he said, feeling tongue-tied. He wished he'd rehearsed some great line beforehand, maybe walking up the aisle and bam! “Expecting me? I'm sure you weren't,” or “Someone called the cavalry?” But no, all he could come up with was “Hello.”

  Nonetheless, it seemed to have the desired effect. She started to mutter a quick “Hello” back to the stranger sitting next to her, but as her head lifted and she saw who it was, an entirely gratifying look of shock passed over her features. Her jaw dropped open and Morgan smiled.

  “Thought I'd tag along, keep you out of trouble,” he said, feeling a bit better.

  “Snyder!” she exclaimed, and he felt a pang of irritation that even through her shock, she couldn't bring herself to call him by his first name. “What are you doing here? The Chief...”

  He shuddered involuntarily, but tried to cover it by waving her question away. “He'll get over it,” he said, but his voice lacked the conviction necessary to carry the statement. Gina's mouth contracted into a tiny “o” shape. “I asked for vacation,” he confessed. “He didn't want to give it to me, since you'd taken some, but I said the case had been tough on us both, and it was a slow month. I recommended giving the DUI to Gibbons while we were out, since it's somewhat Vice-related.” His head hung a little lower as he considered the repercussions likely from that conversation. “I didn't get a week, though. Just a few days.” He shrugged, as if endangering his career, the one he'd worked toward his entire life, were nothing. The sweat beading on his brow said otherwise.

  “You...” she started, but looked down and closed the magazine she'd been reading. Morgan raised an eyebrow; she didn't seem the magazine sort, especially not the celebrity gossip rag she had in her hands. She seemed to notice his gaze, and coughed a tiny, embarrassed cough. “I was trying to fit in,” she explained.

  Morgan laughed, throwing his head back and belting out loud guffaws that echoed through the cabin. Harwood looked shocked at first, but began chuckling, too. He noticed the flight attendant look at them disapprovingly, which only made him laugh harder, and before long they had both dissolved into a giggling fit. “We're both gonna get fired,” he chortled, feeling a little bit insane.

  “Probably,” she gasped through laughter. “At least you, definitely.”

  Their mirth waned as the engines roared to life and the stewardess began her safety announcements. She looked at him with large, solemn eyes, and Morgan felt a bit better about his choice. “There's still time to change your mind,” she said in a low, serious voice.

  The plane began taxiing toward the runway. “I don't think there is,” he replied, nodding toward the window. “Besides, this way, you owe me one.”

  “For doing the right thing?” she scoffed, and he couldn't help but smile. Same old Harwood, he thought. “I don't think so.”

  Morgan shrugged, reclined the small seat to provide a little extra room, and tried to tamp down his near-paralyzing fear of small planes and small places. “In for a penny, in for a pound,” he muttered, and ignored her confused glances for the rest of the flight.

  ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼

  There was nothing that felt even remotely adventurous about the next several hours. After getting over the initial shock of her partner's sudden appearance, and the equally bizarre giggling fit that left her feeling like a schoolgirl at a sleepover, Gina resigned herself to a night of air travel. Red-eye flights were filled with the worst sort of fellow passengers – red-faced men who snored as though their lives depended on it, grumbling businesspeople who weren't able to sleep away the flight, and the occasional wailing child. She prayed for sleep, especially after the long day she'd already endured, but it wouldn't come. Even Morgan, who confessed a phobia of flying, was able to drift off (but thankfully didn't snore); she couldn't do it, not even after the cocktail in Tulsa, and another two in Dallas. She felt a bit fuzzy around the edges, but sleep, which dragged on her every muscle, wouldn't grant her its release. Gina felt a terrible jealousy toward the sleeping passengers, including Morgan. The flights to them would be just a blink; they'd wake up and arrive. But for Gina, she felt every minute of the short hop to Dallas, the two hour layover (during which, admittedly, she did drowse off long enough to find her head resting against her partner's shoulder), and the three hours to Baltimore. Every minute that passed set her teeth on edge a little further; the nervousness of her job, the anxiety of whether or not she'd be able to find not only the O'Malley car but perhaps even the fabled commune, the worry over whether or not she'd run into local law enforcement and how she would explain her mission, and the stress of having made an irrevocable decision all weighed upon her, pressing on her chest like a weighty stone. While he was awake, Snyder seemed lost in his own dramas; Gina guessed many of the same stresses pressed down on his shoulders, too. Neither felt it necessary to share their demons with the other.

  The two-hour layover in Baltimore, waiting on what was evidently a tiny prop-plane to take them to the regional airport, was almost too much for Gina. Snyder had drifted back off to sleep in the small coffee shop, resting his head on his forearms, and she glanced at him enviously, fighting the urge to poke him awake simply to share her misery. Instead, she spent her time watching the steady stream of people, normal people, civilians, pass by the shop, all wrapped up in their own little dramas. Gina shook her head. Every life had so many relationships, so many concerns, worries, joys, so much news, so much happiness and sadness. She wondered, as she often did when confronted with a mass of humanity, if there was anyone, any being, who decided which people got which percentage of happiness. If there was any real pattern to it all. If there was eve
r really justice, beyond the veil of justice imposed by man against man. She shook her head again, as if to shake out the philosophical distractions, but her lips drew down into a thoughtful frown. She supposed it didn't matter. She was here to do a job, and that job, at this moment, was to save a young man that had reached out to her. Potentially to catch a killer, which fit right into her job description. Hopefully to understand why things had happened the way they did, which was what she always ultimately yearned for. Last year, when she had interrogated a man that ended up being convicted for the brutal double murder of two complete strangers along the riverside park, she gazed into his eyes and asked why he had done it. His eyes were incomprehensible, windows of frosted glass that she couldn't see through. The words that spilled out of his smiling mouth were equally useless. She suspected he didn't know. Or maybe he did know, but couldn't communicate it.

  All the while, Snyder had seemed to study her instead of the perpetrator. She'd felt his eyes boring holes into her skull, and caught him looking quickly away whenever she directed her gaze in his direction. He didn't seem to feel the same urge to understand why a killer was a killer, information that Gina thought would be invaluable in stopping homicides before they happened (though she admitted that such a revelation may end up putting her out of a job). All Snyder seemed to be interested in was doing his job, following the letter of the law, and then going home at the end of the day. At least, that's what she'd thought; but here he was, inexplicably, joining her on this ill-advised, unregulated hunt for the truth. She couldn't understand this development any more than she could understand the signals coming from that glassy-eyed murderer. It was beyond comprehension.