3

At the TSA checkpoint Jack waited in line until he reached an Arabic looking man with a bad toupee who matched the name on the boarding pass with that on the license, initialed the pass, and waved Jack through. He waited on line again and reached the scanning area where he doffed his work boots and belt, placed them in a bin, then deposited that and his carry-on bag on the conveyor belt. He breezed through the metal detector, retrieved his boots and belt, and that was it.

Simps. What had he been so worried about?

He looked back at the cadre of TSA workers, the armed guards, all the humming technology, and no one had a clue about the seven-inch composite dagger strapped to his left triceps.

He needed to get out more often.

He found Alice Laverty, looking better in person than in the photo, already seated at the gate when he arrived.

Good. She might have changed her plans, making this whole trip an exercise in futility.

Had she been involved in her mother’s death? If not, what could her father have said to keep her from hating him?

He wandered back to the bookstore and browsed the shelves. He found copies of P. Frank Winslow’s Rakshasa! and Berzerk! in all their exclamatory glory. He’d skimmed through those months ago and the way they paralleled episodes in his life still gave him the chills. He had no desire to revisit them, but he might want to revisit the author and find out what he’d been dreaming lately.

He found a Travis McGee novel he didn’t remember reading—all those colors in the titles ran together after a while—and bought that.

The boarding announcement came and, after standing on line again, he found himself sitting two rows ahead of Alice Laverty. The doors closed, the plane taxied out and took off a mere ten minutes late.

Now this was the way to tail someone—no way he could lose her between here and L.A.

The hours dragged by. After almost six of them—during which he drank three cups of coffee, ate a tiny sandwich of cold mystery meat on a cold roll, and napped during an unwatchable romantic comedy—the head attendant announced that the plane was making its final approach into LAX.

Perfect timing, he thought as he finished the last page and closed the cover on the McGee novel. Good story, but though McGee’s MO resembled Jack’s somewhat, he seemed to run into a better class of people during the course of his jobs. And all of them so well spoken, at times verging on eloquent. In fact, they all talked like McGee.

He followed Alice off the plane and stayed a ways behind her as she hurried along the concourse. He lost sight of her for a few seconds but found her again on the far side of the security area in a tearful reunion embrace with an older man.

Ernest Goren had aged considerably since his photo—completely gray now, with a heavily lined face. Jack might not have recognized him without his daughter.

They looked close. Real close. Co-conspirators or . . . what?

As he passed, Jack noticed that even in the clinch Goren was watching the passersby with a wary, darting gaze. Still an alert fugitive. Why? After all these years, did he think the cops would be in active pursuit?

Or maybe cops weren’t what he was afraid of.

Jack continued on to the baggage area. Alice’d been carrying only a shoulder bag, so he assumed she’d checked her luggage. He was right. She and her father showed up moments later.

Jack ignored them and joined the thickest cluster of waiting passengers, feigning avid interest as the chute began to vomit bags of all shapes and sizes onto the rattling carousel.

Out of the corner of his eye he watched Alice point to a large green bag. Goren lifted it free and wheeled it behind them as they headed for the exit.

Now the dicey part: following them home. Jack knew this was the weak link in his plan, where he’d lose them unless his timing was perfect. No problem if they took a cab. Easy to follow them then, but from what he understood about L.A., birthplace of the car culture, you needed a car to survive.

If he’d known someone out here he could trust, he might have arranged to be picked up, and he’d follow that way. But he knew no one. Abe had arranged a weapon for him, but couldn’t do more than that on such short notice.

So no big surprise when Goren led his daughter into the parking area. Jack followed until he saw them get into a rattletrap Ford of uncertain vintage and mismatched front fenders. A second man sat behind the wheel. Goren put his daughter in the rear, then got in the front passenger seat. Jack memorized the license plate out of habit—couldn’t imagine another car like that in the entire airport.

He hurried back and found a line for the taxis. Took ten teeth-grinding minutes to reach one. Too late to follow.

Damn. Tailing would have saved him a ton of legwork.

He turned away and crossed over to where the rental car vans were picking up and disgorging customers. He hopped on the first to come along.