“This is the line to go through the security check,” I told her.
“Say what?”
We inched our way along again. I had a low-?grade headache from the terminal noise and the tedium and I had a backache from an hour of carrying the tote on my shoulder. Twenty minutes ago I'd dropped the tote onto the floor and now I kicked it along ahead of me. I suspected I was growing pale and in another twenty minutes I'd look like I'd spent fifteen years at TriBro testing nuts and bolts.
I was first in line. Lula stood behind me. Then Connie. Tank was in line behind Connie. We showed our tickets. We flashed our photo IDs. I approached the conveyor belt leading to the scanner. I placed my tote and my purse on the belt.
A security attendant asked me to place my shoes on the belt, as well. I looked down at the strappy sandals I'd put on first thing this morning. Brown leather and not a single part of the shoe thicker than an eighth of an inch with the exception of the slim wood stacked stiletto heel, which was a quarter of an inch. Guess security thought I had a bomb in the shoe. Bombs must frequently be hidden in women's strappy sandals.
I took the shoes off and shuffled barefoot along the filthy floor, through the metal detector. I didn't set the detector off but the security attendant told me I was a random female, so I was pulled aside and asked to stand spread eagle. I supposed they thought I had box cutters hidden under my skintight, slightly see-?through white stretchy shirt. I was wanded and released. My shoes were returned to me after careful scrutiny.
An attendant in rubber gloves extracted all the items from my tote. Two pairs of bikini panties, a pair of jeans, two little white T-?shirts, white socks, sneakers, a travel box of tampons (just in case), hair spray, roller brush, assorted cosmetics. Forty or fifty people passing by admired the panties and a couple women suggested a different brand of tampon.
The items were returned to my bag and I was told I could continue on my way. Lula was causing a scene behind me. She had to go through the same routine and they found fried chicken in her purse.
“You're not allowed to take unpackaged food past security,” the attendant said to Lula.
“What am I supposed to eat?” Lula wanted to know. “I'm on a diet to be a supermodel. I need this fried chicken. Suppose they don't feed me on the plane?”
“There are kiosks by the gate that sell food,” Lula was told.
I looked at the fried chicken displayed on the examining table. A leg and a breast. I guess security was on the lookout for chicken leg bombs.
“I don't like this,” Lula said, shouldering her bags. “Had to take my shoes off, my jacket off, got felt up under my bra clip. Had to take my belt off. And look at this, I can't button the top snap on my stretch pants and now everybody knows. This here's been a humiliating experience. And on top of it all they took my chicken.”
Connie had breezed through without a hitch. “That's the way it is now,” Connie said. “You want to be safe, right? This is just a small thing to keep us safe.”
“Shut up,” Lula said. “I hate people who don't get searched.” Her eyes were wild and her lower lip was jutting out. “I'm feeling a lot of anxiety,” Lula said. “If this was supposed to make me feel safe it isn't working. All I can think of now is terrorists. I wasn't thinking of terrorists before. I need some ham. Where's the place they sell ham?”
It was announced that our plane was boarding and Tank still hadn't cleared security. I knew he didn't have weapons on him. He'd locked everything in the truck when we parked. They brought a dog in and two armed guards moved closer. Apparently they were picking up traces of explosives on his shoes and clothes. Wow, big surprise there. He had his identification displayed, including a license to carry, but security was having none of it.
He cut his eyes to me and I sent him a blank-?faced look back. No way was I going to come to his rescue. I wasn't taking any chances on guilt by association. I was afraid the airport gestapo would haul my ass off to a back room and give me a body cavity search.
I grabbed Lula and pulled her along. Connie followed. We only had a couple minutes until boarding.
“What about Tank?” Lula asked.
“He'll catch up with us.” Maybe.
We got to the gate and Lula was wide-?eyed, looking everywhere. “I don't see no kiosk with fried chicken,” she said. “I just see doughnuts and ice cream and bagels and big pretzels. I can't eat none of that food. Where's the friggin' meat?”
“Maybe we'll get something on the plane,” I said. “We'll be in the air over dinnertime, so maybe we'll get some dinner.” Yeah, right. If we were flying first class we might get a bag of peanuts.
We were seated three across, six rows back in coach. Lula was on the aisle. I sat next to her. Tank's seat was empty. Connie sat on the other side of the aisle.
I called Morelli and told him about the photos.
“And here's the thing,” I said to Morelli. “I'm sort of on a plane. Singh is in Vegas and I'm going out to apprehend him. So I was thinking maybe you could just let yourself in and, uh, take charge.”
Silence.
“Joe?”
“This is the sort of thing Ranger usually takes.”
“He has a problem with the state of Nevada.”
“Okay, let me rerun this,” Morelli said. “You went home to pack and you found more snuff photos. Then you drove to the airport and waited until you were boarded before calling me so it was impossible for me to bring you back to Trenton.”