Death, Taxes, and Peach Sangria (29 page)

The e-mail from Southwest Airlines confirming his flight to Las Vegas caught my eye.
I opened the communication and looked over his electronic ticket. The flight was scheduled
to leave in two hours.

Surely Beauregard had abandoned his plans to make this trip, right? I mean, heck,
the guy was living out of his car. He had no available credit and little, if any,
cash. What kind of vacation could a guy who was totally broke have in Vegas?

Then again, the ticket to Vegas had already been paid for. If he was going to be penniless
and sleeping in parking lots, he could do that just as well in Vegas as he could in
Dallas, right? At least it would be a change of scenery, and he might be able to finagle
his way to a free buffet.

I picked up my phone and dialed Eddie’s office. “Beau’s flight to Vegas leaves in
two hours. Want to see if he’s on it?”

Eddie agreed. We met at the elevators, snagged my car from the parking lot, and hurried
onto the freeway, trying to beat the looming rush-hour traffic. As we neared the airport,
several planes were visible in the sky, many of them circling in a holding pattern,
waiting for their chance to land at the busy airport. I supposed that’s what I planned
to do with Brett, put him in a holding pattern until I decided whether to let him
land or divert him to another airport. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t the best metaphor
ever, but it was how I felt. And I felt damn guilty about it, too.

Eddie pulled up the Southwest Airlines Web site on his phone, keyed in Beau’s flight
information, and learned the flight was running on time and was scheduled to take
off from gate 14 in Terminal C. We exited the freeway, pulled through the tollbooth
at the entrance to the DFW airport, and continued on to the short-term parking garage,
picking a spot near the doors that led to the C terminal.

Rather than go through the hassle of obtaining permission to carry our guns into the
airport, we locked them up in the glove compartment. Ditto for our metal handcuffs
and pepper spray. We’d use pliable plastic FlexiCuffs to restrain Beauregard instead.
I’d ordered some a while back figuring they’d come in handy someday. Looked like today
was someday.

We went inside the terminal and walked through the baggage claim area. People encircled
the machines like the Whos in Whoville when they formed their circle on Christmas
morning and sang that sweet, sappy song. “Christmas day is in our grasp, so long as
we have hands to clasp.” However, unlike the Whos, who maintained their spiritual
centers despite the Grinch having absconded with their floo-floobers, surely those
surrounding the baggage carousel hoped their stuff would arrive intact and stood ready
to tear an airline employee a new jing-tingler if it didn’t.

One of the machines blasted an obnoxious
eert-eert
sound and, with a lurch, the baggage claim kicked into motion, the metal plates sliding
across each other like an oversized meat slicer awaiting a two-ton ham. The luggage
began to slide down the chute and clunked onto the carousel. A set of golf clubs in
a hard-sided travel case clinked down the chute, followed by a pink polka-dotted suitcase.
Someone had been having some fun. It sure as hell wasn’t me.

Lord, I needed a vacation.

Eddie and I made our way to the escalators and rode up to the second floor. We checked
in with airport police to let them know we were on-site and what we were up to. In
case Beauregard resisted arrest and we had to use force to bring him down, we wanted
the cops to know we were the good guys. It wasn’t always easy to tell when officers
came upon a tangle of tussling bodies and, since we were dressed in street clothes
rather than law enforcement uniforms, we didn’t want to take any chances of being
misidentified. The last thing Eddie and I needed was a cop smacking us with a baton
or treating us to a faceful of pepper spray. The tear gas at Bulls-Eye had been more
than enough for me.

Eddie and I made our way past the row of check-in counters to see if Beauregard might
be there, checking a bag. Nope. No sign of the guy at the counters or in the line
of people snaking through the belted lanes. No sign of him at those annoying do-it-yourself
stations, either.

We walked to the nearest security checkpoint. The man checking tickets had expected
us. We showed him our identification and he let us through and into the line awaiting
screening. Apparently being a federal agent only got you so far. You could get through
Security without a ticket, but you were still required to be screened. Probably not
a bad policy given the history of disgruntled postal workers who’d gone on shooting
rampages. Being a government employee didn’t necessarily mean you weren’t a threat.

We waited in line for ten minutes before reaching the pile of rectangular plastic
tubs stacked near the belt for the X-ray machine. A young woman in front of me grabbed
one of the small jewelry bowls, lifted her tank top, and yanked a silver ring out
of her belly button. She dropped the ring into the bowl, set it down on the table,
then reached up higher under her top, lifting her bra and wriggling loose a nipple
ring. If she put her hand down her pants next, I was changing lines. Fortunately,
she seemed to be metal free now and moved forward.

Eddie and I grabbed several tubs, lined them up on the aluminum table, and began preparing
for the elaborate screening process. While Eddie unbuckled his belt and slid out of
his loafers, I removed my earrings and shoes and stuck them in a tub. My blazer and
cell phone went into a second tub.

Ugh.
Time to deal with the fifteen-pound portable storage unit I called a purse. I really
needed to clean the darn thing out. Carrying the heavy thing around made my shoulder
and back ache.

I plopped my purse down on the table and began to sort through the mishmash inside,
removing the items that would require special screening. A tiny tube of toothpaste.
A small bottle of liquid hand sanitizer. My nephew’s metal orthodontic retainer. How
the hell did that end up in my purse? I hadn’t seen him in weeks. His teeth must be
all out of whack by now.

As I pulled my small zippered makeup pouch from the bag, the leather wallet holding
my badge fell to the floor. I picked it up and slipped it into the front pocket of
my pants so I could continue to empty my purse. Would they want me to remove my solar-powered
calculator? It seemed harmless enough, but it did have a battery.
Hmm.
Better to err on the side of caution. Into the tub it went.

I continued to rummage in the purse, my hand wrapping itself around something long
and cylindrical shaped and made of latex.

Oh, crap! The vibrators!

I wasn’t sure what to do. Should I take them out and put them in a tub? God, that
would be so embarrassing! But it would be even more embarrassing to have them discovered
by the security screeners.

I looked around for a trash can, hoping I could discreetly ditch the contraptions.
No such luck. The closest trash can was way back by the guy checking IDs and tickets.

I decided to leave them in my purse and hope for the best.

Eddie and I glanced around as we inched forward toward the metal detection machines.
Still no sign of Beauregard. Maybe he’d decided to forego his vacation and cashed
in his ticket. Maybe we were squandering our time here. I decided if Beau didn’t show
I’d buy a pretzel at the place by the gates for dinner. Wouldn’t want the trip out
here to be a total waste, and they smelled damn good.

A man two people ahead of me was pulled aside for further screening. The TSA agent
ran a wand up and down his legs, torso, and arms before deeming him worthy of air
travel.

I glanced over at the X-ray machine. My purse had made it down the belt and through
the screening process. It was sitting on the other side of the machine, waiting for
me to pick it up.

What a relief.

The woman in the tank top went right through the metal detector, no problems. I waited
for the agent to wave me forward and stepped through the device, expecting smooth
sailing, too.

No such luck.

Beep.

“Maybe it’s your nipple ring,” Eddie teased from behind me.

Had I worn an underwire bra today? I put my hands to my rib cage. Nope, no wire. But
I did realize then I was still wearing a silver bangle bracelet.

I pulled the bracelet off and handed it to the attendant. “Sorry.”

She gave me an irritated look as she took the bracelet from me.
Sheesh. Cut me some slack, will ya?
I didn’t travel much. Besides, the rules seemed to constantly change. Quart bags?
Four ounces? Two ounces? The regulations for air travel were nearly as complicated
as the Internal Revenue Code. Who could keep up?

A commotion at the X-ray machine caught my eye. A tub had come through after my purse
had slammed against it. The impact had apparently activated the vibrator’s jackhammer
button. My purse gyrated back and forth on the table. A male security screener lifted
my purse off the table and began to sift through the contents.

Damn!

“Ma’am!” the woman manning the metal detector demanded. “I told you to step forward.”

“Sorry.” I felt the heat of humiliation burn my face as I turned back to her. “I was
distracted.”

I took a step back then moved forward again.

Beep.

What the heck?

The man with the wand motioned for me to step his way. Just as I did, Richard Beauregard
sauntered by in the terminal ahead.

The guy had evaded us twice before. There was no way I’d let him get away this time.

I cupped my hands around my mouth. “Beauregard!” I shouted.

On hearing his name, Beau turned toward me. When his gaze met mine, I saw his lips
form the words,
Oh, shit!

He turned back in the direction he’d been headed and took off running. I took off
running after him. The distance between us quickly increased. Not only did he have
much longer legs than I did; he also had the benefit of rubber-soled shoes. The only
things I had on my feet were a thin pair of trouser socks that not only failed to
provide traction but were actually quite slippery.

I heard a whistle blow behind me and felt someone shove my shoulders. The next thing
I knew, I was flying through the air. But what goes up must come down, right? And
I did. Hard. I made a full-on face-plant on the unforgiving tile floor.

Smack!

My teeth snapped shut and my chin felt as if it shattered.
Damn, that hurt!
The impact split my lip, too. And what was the hard, sharp thing in my mouth? Was
that a tooth fragment?

Oh!

My!

God!

My teeth would be all out of whack right along with my nephew’s. And while Nick’s
slightly chipped tooth made him all the more sexy, I knew it would never have the
same effect on me.

An enormous knee threatened to snap my spine and held me pinned to the floor while
my hands were yanked up behind me by a person I couldn’t see. The impact of the fall
had knocked the wind out of me and the pressure from the knee kept me from taking
in enough air to voice a protest. As handcuffs were slapped on my wrists, I turned
my head to the side to see Eddie dash past me, pursuing Beauregard.

As soon as the person who’d cuffed my wrists climbed off me, I rolled onto my back.
I kicked my legs, trying to gain some leverage so I could sit. “Release me right now!
I’m a fed—”

Psssh.

I never got to finish my sentence. Instead, I got a faceful of pepper spray and a
swift kick in the thigh. Damn, that burned! It was like the tear gas all over again.
And shit!
The spray made my split lip feel like it was on fire.

How the hell did this happen? Hadn’t the airport police informed the screeners that
Eddie and I were on location?

Lest I be beaten to death, I lay still on the floor, hoping that whatever germs had
traveled through the airport on people’s shoes weren’t crawling into my ear canal
with plans to eat my brain.

I heard shouting and several pairs of feet run past me. I hoped Eddie wouldn’t suffer
my same fate. And I hoped he’d nabbed Beauregard. If that moron escaped again, Lu
would probably make us turn in our badges.

My badge! I’d slipped it into the front pocket of my pants when I’d been clearing
out my purse. That’s what had set off the metal detector.

Ugh.
Maybe Beau wasn’t the moron. Maybe I was.

chapter thirty

Princess Charming

A half hour later we sat in the office of airport police. My cuffs had been removed,
though I had yet to receive an apology for my rough treatment. Clearly the 240-pound
TSA officer who’d manhandled me felt justified in his actions. I just as clearly thought
I should be given a crack at his balls to even the score.

Eddie didn’t have a scratch on him. Once he’d cleared Security, he’d rushed past me
and grabbed Beauregard when he tripped over a rolling carry-on bag being pulled behind
a flight attendant. All Eddie’d had to do was cuff him. Lucky duck. Why couldn’t things
ever go that easily for me?

My purse, blazer, shoes, calculator, and sex toys had been brought to me along with
my nephew’s retainer, though my jewelry had disappeared. My tooth fragment was also
nowhere to be found. I feared I’d swallowed it during the aftermath of the TSA agent
decorating my face with pepper spray. I’d probably be the first person in the history
of the world to bite herself in the ass. Then again, with my luck, the thing was probably
lodged in my gallbladder or appendix and would require emergency surgery.

I blew my runny nose and blinked my burning, teary eyes. I wasn’t the only one crying.
Beauregard was sobbing his heart out. The prospect of years in the klink tends to
bring on the boo hoos.