The 19th Christmas (Women's Murder Club #19)(50)

We crossed the passageway from the entrance and the wall of ticketing stations and shops to where Herz waited for us in front of the travel agency.

I took note of the twenty-five-foot-wide entrance, the size of an average airport shop. The long counter was at a right angle to the front, and a conveyor belt traveled through an opening in the back wall and out to luggage handling in the rear. I also noted a stack of six black nylon suitcases in front of the counter and two uniformed airport cops going through them.

Herz was wiry and tanned and had a steely handshake. There were laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, but he was deadly serious as he briefed us. He explained that short-term baggage storage, twenty-four hours or less, was available only at this location. All left bags were x-rayed before being accepted for storage.

The captain said, “We found a bag outside the doorway this morning, unlocked, no ID tags. Inside the bag were plastic-wrapped kilos of white powder. It could be anything—drugs, anthrax, talcum powder, I don’t know.”

I thought how damned easy it was for anyone to bring anything into an airport terminal. Unknown white powder. Semiautomatic weapons. Explosives. Bags weren’t x-rayed unless people tried to check them in or take them through security.

Herz went on. “Forensics just picked up the lot of it. We’ve now gone through all of the bags in storage. Nothing looks hazardous or particularly valuable. Everything is labeled. But …”

I tried to wait him out, but after ten seconds or so, I had to say, “But what?”

He said, “But a tip just came in to airport security, a woman saying that there could be a nerve-gas attack coming over the HVAC system. The operator said, ‘Please repeat that,’ and the caller said, ‘Loman is targeting the cargo area,’ then hung up,” Herz said. “We couldn’t trace the call.”





CHAPTER 73





I WAS STARING at Herz, imagining nerve gas billowing through air-conditioning vents, paralyzing airport personnel and travelers—to what end? I pictured rows of body bags.

I could see it in Herz’s eyes. He, too, was trying to part the fog surrounding this terror threat, figure out what it was and how to shut it down.

“I’ve got guys going through HVAC, and the surveillance room is working overtime.”

Herz went over the basics, and even though I had a pretty good idea that there were cameras in every niche of this terminal, including the baggage areas and the bathrooms, it was reassuring to hear him describe the pit.

I could see it in my mind’s eye: the whiteboards around the room covered with notations, the names of security officers and the number assigned to the unsubs—unidentified subjects—they would follow through the airport.

Until the unsubs were cleared, they were active and would have tails listening to their conversations, looking over their shoulders to see their tickets, following them into restrooms, and staying with them to security check-ins; TSA would take it from there.

Thousands of people an hour had legitimate reasons to be in the airport. It took only one with a weapon to turn the terminal into hell.

Herz said, “Along with the assigned undercover operators, we’ve got thirty plainclothes on this floor. Homeland Security is working the rest of the terminal, including all points out to the gates. TSA has been notified. Customs has been notified. SWAT is on standby.”

I said, “Good, good,” as I stared up through the artwork hanging from the high ceiling to the mezzanine levels and then back down to the terminal’s vast Main Hall.

“Seeing around corners is one thing,” Herz said. “Looking into the minds of psychos is something else. I’d like to shut the whole place down, but I can’t. Not based on an unconfirmed tip from an unidentified tipster.”

I thought about that as the Ronettes’ version of “Sleigh Ride” filled the hall.

Herz continued, “I sent a uniformed detail out to the cargo terminal.” He indicated the far end of the hall, where open-sided escalators carried passengers up to the higher floors and the AirTrain station.

“That was fifteen minutes ago,” Herz said. “So far my guys have seen nothing suspicious.”

I told Herz that although the phoned-in tip sounded typical of false leads we’d gotten over the past four days, sometimes the tips led to killings. I was saying, “We’ll head out to the cargo area—” when a woman yelled, “Gun!” and three sharp reports rang out across the terminal.

Adrenaline shot through me before the echoes died out. I drew my nine and Conklin did the same. The woman yelled again, this time saying, “Police. Drop your guns.”

I couldn’t see her. I couldn’t locate the cop.

People screamed and dived for the floor, threw themselves on top of their children, jumped behind counters, or raced into shops for cover. Others froze, immobilized by fear.

Conklin and I exchanged looks, each knowing what the other was thinking.

Loman’s rumored Christmas Day attack had just become real.





CHAPTER 74





MY PARTNER AND I stood shoulder to shoulder, trying to see past obstacles and through a moving scene of terrified and screaming people.

A female cop had shouted, “Police. Drop your guns.”

Guns had fired. Had she been hit? Where was she?