Matt grumbles at me all the way home, Ms. Mankat and a couple of the flight attendants having apparently told all the other flight attendants to avoid Captain Hands, as he is now known. It takes all my skill to keep the poker face on.
No Jen at dispatch, and that's fine by me, because I decided coming home to test my navigation skills. I head for Anaheim, grab the light, speak "
Captain Hands
," harass some molecules of unknown gender, and head west. Once I'm well clear of the coast, I hit the afterburners and head in the direction I think I will find Hawai'i.
If you're wondering how my GPS melted, but my clothes didn't, I'll give you a hint, they did, I just didn't tell you. This time I didn't put them on. If you haven't had your junk out while flying at Mach 6, you have not lived, particularly close enough to the ocean to pick up some spray. My senses turn out to be sharp, I pass the lights of Hilo, make a wide turn, and get back to Starbuck in a total of just over three hours.
Chapter 10
I am a half hour early for my appointment. Homicide, has to be. I'm the first one done, record time. Maybe the narcs or robbery guys rethunk after seeing my test scores. Armstrong's assistant takes me right in, no waiting. He's standing in front of his desk with Lope and Officer Kiana Perez of the frakkin Los Angeles International Airport Patrol. Fuck me. Now I get Sergeant Johnson's "hope we'll work together."
My jaw must have dragged all the way across the floor, because their smiles are not as smiley by the time I get to the desk. I shake all three hands and pull my self together. Sort of.
"I won the LAX patrol?" Not my most sarcastic voice, but pretty close. Armstrong puts his hand on my shoulder.
"If it's any consolation, you had the highest score on every written exam, and in the practical exams last Sunday too. Besides, it's important work, and Kiana will be a great teacher."
"I should have let those assholes break my nose." The three of them laugh.
"That's why I was happy to get you," Perez offers a smile with the compliment, "You are tougher than the SEALs, and smarter than everyone too." She pauses for a second. "I know you wanted to solve some major homicide or crack a Columbian drug ring, but take my word for it that actually patrolling at LAX is far more interesting that doing paperwork and getting donuts for the asshole patrol. And, knowing what you know, you may even be able to teach me a thing or two about the airport."
Armstrong reaches over to his desk, picks up something attached to a blue lanyard emblazoned with the LAPD logo. It's the reserve officer equivalent of a badge: a plastic ID with my picture that gives me access to every office and crime scene. I take it from him. Kiana takes it from me and puts it over my head. She holds out her hand again.
"Deal?"
"Deal," is my reply, taking it and shaking it. I'm still disappointed, but what can I do? No crime scenes at the airport, or at least few and far between, no investigating, but at least I'll have access to the computer system, and LAX does get it's share of inbound drugs.
Lope congratulates me and shakes my hand as well. "I'm starting an advanced class around the first of the year, if you're interested." I tell him I am, and I appreciate the vote of confidence. "I'll send you an email," he says as he heads for the door.
Perez and Armstrong lead me over to his conference table, where we go through technical details. I get a new email address (official business only or it's my ass), a password to the LAPD computer (also my ass if I lose it), and a key to the LAPD facilities at the airport (both legs,
and
my ass if I lose it). Only the sworn officers get keys to LAX (actually, it's an electronic key that they might slip to me one day). I remind them that I already have such a key that lets me into about a fifth of the airport, the 60, 70 and 80 gates.
They hand me a box and tell me to take it to the bathroom. I return a few minutes later, dressed all in blue, with leather accouterments, a black wooden stick, and my very own handcuffs. Perez fixes me up so that I am wearing it correctly, adds the bullet resistant vest, and reminds me to get the right shoes. I get one free uniform a year, she says, don't mess it up. They'll give me a radio when I'm on duty.
We work on my schedule. I want to get going, and put in a lot of hours. Since I am always home on Thursday, we plan on me being in each and every Thursday at 8, plus scattered Wednesdays through the end of December. Since my flight schedule has me returning to LAX from Kona at 9:30 p.m. on New Year's Eve, I also pick up the over night shift then for my holiday time, plus Thanksgiving day.
"Any questions?," she asks, while looking me over again.
I shake my head.
"Good. Get out of those clothes, and I'll see you eight a.m. sharp tomorrow at the office in terminal 7."
I hold out my hand again. "Sorry for the long face, I'll give you my best."
"I know you will," she hits my arm, "or I'll kick your ass." And then she is gone. Armstrong sends me to change back into my civies, and has all of my gear stowed in the box on my return.
"You're going to do more real policing in the next three months than you would have done in three years working the front desk at homicide or narcotics. Be open to whatever comes your way, and you'll find what you were looking for."
What am I looking for? Not sure.
I thank him again, grab my box, and head for Santa Ana in need of shoes and tacos. I get two pairs of shoes and three tacos, chicken, hot sauce, soft shell. I hang at Starbucks (the shop not the car) for a while, catching up on my newspapers, and plan out another trip here as him to replace the phone. I am less sure of the need for a new GPS.
Jen and I do Italian dinner to celebrate my new assignment, though she can't stop laughing about me working at the airport. She laughs a lot less hard when I describe Perez to her. I intentionally under-state her looks, and remind Jen that she kicked my ass more than a few times in training. It works, at least a little.
We get up early in the morning, giving me enough time to have Jen help me make sure I'm dressed right. She pretends I'm her five year old headed off to his first day of school, and tells me not to get into any fights with the other kids.
Instead of parking in the LAPD lot, I park in my usual spot at dispatch so I can show Taylor my snazzy new clothes and ID. She's all smiles, and even comes out from behind her desk to check me out. I've never seen her standing before. She stands only inches from me, and straightens out my leather, which starts to straighten out one of my body parts. She's taller and far more shapely than I thought, and smells as exotic as she looks. I take my leave and head for the shuttle bus to the terminal.
It's 7:45 when I get to the LAPD office, and Perez is already there with Sergeant Johnson. We make pleasantries, then she hands me a radio which I put into its holster on my belt. Have to be careful not to melt it.
"We've assigned you a temporary handle. You're ‘Air Force 1.'" I laugh.
"Never been in the Air Force."
"I know, we were in a hurry. The rest of us are colors and numbers. Eventually, once everyone knows you, you will be too. Enjoy it while you got it. You and I are together today, but we'll rotate you around with different people and different commands on your duty days. Everyone who works LAX can work every station."
"Sounds good to me. Better," I smile at her, "than getting donuts for the asshole patrol."
Turns out, at least today, not that much better. Our patrol zone is Terminal 2, the second international terminal. We walk. We talk. I learn she has eight brothers. I learn her dad and five of the brothers are cops. I learn the other three are still in school, so they probably will be cops. I learn she's a Galactica fan. I help a little girl find her lost mother who wandered off. I help calm down a drunk passenger who got belligerent with the gate staff. I learn Kiana has a gift for dealing with people. I learn she speaks fluent Spanish, and I spend a couple hours practicing mine with her. I learn I need to put padded insoles into my shoes.
I see flight crews headed for 747s and 777s, and then to all parts of the planet. I think maybe I should check into a more global airline than Mountain Pacific, then I think: 949.
We're headed to the west end of the terminal to find our replacements at shift end when Kiana nudges me. There are four men walking down the terminal toward us, one white, two black, and one Middle Eastern. Nice grey or black suits, white or black designer shirts, some with ties, some with out. All carrying metal briefcases. It's as if Moses is leading and the sea of passengers heading from their flights to baggage claim just parts before them. The four of them all have the size and demeanor of the special forces guys in our class, or Lope. I see why they attracted her attention, and I kick myself for not picking up on it.
"Shall we launch Vipers?" That's Galactica talk for "go get them."
"No." She steers me over toward the food court, and we try to look busy while we observe. She hits my arm. "Stop staring. The uniforms are enough of an attention getter without you focusing on them." I do my best to memorize the faces without looking at them directly. I did get a 99 per cent in Patrol Procedure.
One by one, they drift away, stopping at a several different gates, all Canadian bound flights. Odd, but not illegal. And leaving, not coming in.
"Come on." Kiana's walking at high speed into the terminal. The white man stopped at the pole near gate 21, talking on his phone, we appear headed toward him, but not directly. He ends his conversation and turns into the gate, sits in one of the uncomfortable chairs, away from everyone else. She walks right toward him and then past without slowing down, me at her side, her leg six inches from his.
We make a wide turn toward the wall, and stop. She grabs her notebook, checks her watch, looks over at the flight counter, and scribbles furiously. Then we head off toward the higher number gates.
"What was that?" My question. Don't remember not talking to someone as a valid interrogation technique.
"He made a phone call at 4:42 p.m. from gate 21, he's headed to Toronto on Air Canada 213. He didn't flinch when we approached him, better not to alert him by talking to him unless I think he's nervous." Not covered in my Patrol Procedures class. Neither is her walking speed, or her neglect to tell me when she decides she needs to be somewhere.
"Now we're headed down to check out his friends?" She nods, and grabs the notebook again. One of the men appears headed to Toronto on WestJet, two gates down. We find the final two split as well, headed to Vancouver, again one each on Air Canada and WestJet. We position ourselves just off of the security door at gate 23, which gives us a good view of the gates 24, 26, and 28 where our new friends are seated. Just before boarding, the Toronto bound man in the WestJet gate goes back and joins his friend at gate 21, and the Vancouver bound man at the WestJet gate goes over to join his comrade at Air Canada. Odd.
We stand and watch. I'm not sure why until another one picks up his phone. Perez jots down the time and gate. Three of the four at these gates use their phones before departure. The last flight out is Vancouver, Air Canada. As our last two persons of interest, a black man and a Middle Eastern man, head down the jetway to the aircraft, Perez sets out at her usual ten mile an hour walk. I almost have to fly to catch up.
"We waited until neither of the others were left to see us?"
"Smart boy. I told you LAX was more fun than homicide." We don't even flash our badges, just walk past the airline staff, down the jetway, and on to the aircraft. The men we're after boarded with only a few people left, so they are still in the aisle when we get there, backs to us. They are stopping in first class at the only two open seats. I barely have time to check the numbers before Perez shoves me back off the plane. We jog up the jetway far enough that we're invisible through the window, and Perez writes in the notebook again.
She looks at her watch, then at me. "Shift was over an hour ago. You got somewhere to be, or are you up for the boring part?"
"I'll send a text. Let's go." I text Jen that I have been given homework, will be coming in late, and the usual ‘love you.' She gives me an LOL and authorizes my deployment until nine.
"I've been given three hours, is that enough?"
"Plenty. Odds are we'll find out they all work for the same company and had to make last second reservations, or some other crazy thing."
We walk back to the office in Terminal 7 and pull up chairs to the computer terminal. Perez enters her password, then calls up the phone log database. She enters the times and terminals of the three phones we saw in use, copying phone numbers into her notebook from the screens that appear. All of the calls were short, making them easy to identify from the logs. None of the phones has a name attached. I used to have a phone just like that.
Next, she pulls up the passenger lists from the flights. The last two, seated on Air Canada 550 to Vancouver, first class, seats 5A and 5B, are Sergei Romanov and his brother, Nikolai, Russian passports. Perez searches for the names on the flight database. They flew in last Thursday morning from Moscow.
