The drive into town was without incident. I was careful not to ask any personal questions on the theory that the less I knew, the better. When we reached the police station, I parked on the nearest side street and walked with her to the front steps. Both of our heads swiveled from side to side.
Once in the lobby, I relaxed. Ladies and gents in uniform, decked out with deadly weapons, create a sense of safety I treasure. The desk officer called Cheney in the Detective Bureau and he appeared shortly thereafter and accompanied us to his desk. I watched Celeste hand over the envelope containing Ned’s trinkets and then I excused myself and went back to the lobby to wait while she told him what she knew. The gasoline receipts Ned had saved would serve as a road map of his travels and might yield as-yet-undiscovered victims.
The meeting went on longer than I’d anticipated and I became more antsy as the minutes rolled by. Celeste hadn’t given me her departure time and I had to trust she’d keep an eye on the clock. Finally, at 4:10, Cheney appeared and I crossed the lobby to the desk.
“Where’s Celeste?”
“Visiting the ladies’ room. She says you’re taking her straight to the airport and she wanted to be prepared in case time was short.”
“What time’s her flight?”
“Five fifteen.”
I checked my watch again. “That’s cutting it close.”
“Trust Providence,” he said.
Behind him, Celeste appeared. “Are we okay here?”
I said, “Fine. But we have to hustle. It’s twenty minute to the airport as long as we don’t run into traffic.”
Cheney and Celeste shook hands. The “thanks and appreciation” exchange was hurried along by my shifting from foot to foot. I’m a stickler about arriving an hour before flight time and we’d already cut that in half. Celeste was apparently one of those people who don’t mind showing up after the airplane door is closed and requires a lot of banging to gain admittance. Many airlines won’t oblige the tardy passenger once the door is shut. If she missed her flight, it would mean hours of chitchat while we hung out, waiting for a seat to open on the next available flight.
We trotted back to my car. I turned the key in the ignition and pulled out of my parking spot before she had a chance to fasten her seatbelt. I clicked mine into place when we reached the next intersection. I headed down Fig to Chapel Street, where I turned right and drove the six blocks to Arroyo, which I knew had a freeway on-ramp. We were third in line to merge and the stream of cars had slowed to a stop. It’s pathetic to see a grown woman weep over traffic, so I was forced to control myself.
Celeste murmured, “Sorry. I should have wound up my meeting a bit quicker.”
If she was seeking absolution, I wasn’t going to give it to her.
Five minutes later, we eased into the northbound lane. The vehicles in the two lanes to my left had turn signals on, telegraphing an intention to ram right into other motorists if they didn’t make way. I saw drivers casting about desperately, trying to find recourse as the poacher came ever closer to sideswiping the car with the right-of-way. We were all going to be out of our cars exchanging insurance information if we didn’t play nice. I thought the traffic jam must be the result of an accident ahead, but there was no sign of a fire truck, an ambulance, or a patrol car with flashing lights.
Eventually, the car in front of us moved forward as the car in front of that car opened the gap by a car’s length. Suddenly the bottleneck yielded and we were on our way. I kept to the speed limit, not willing to risk a moving violation. One off-ramp went by. Two. Three. Two miles further on, I left the 101 and crossed back over the freeway at the top of the ramp. Smooth sailing at that point, which didn’t relieve my tension. I checked my watch. It was 4:35 and we had two miles to go. The distance didn’t bother me so much as thinking ahead to parking, locking the car, and the walk to the terminal, where she’d have to stand in line for her boarding pass and then pass through security. These were not always speedily accomplished.
By now, Celeste was as anxious as I was, which at least eliminated small talk as we focused on our progress. I took the off-ramp for Airport Boulevard. When I hit the straightaway, I did a quick search for a traffic cop and seeing none, I poured on the gas. I approached the entrance to short-term parking, snagged a ticket from the machine, and moved forward almost before the arm was fully up. She got out of the car as I was parking and she was already making her way to the terminal entrance when I caught up with her. The tight schedule had at least erased Ned from our consciousness.
We hurried through the front doors and she took her place at the United Airlines ticket counter. The wait was mercifully short, since every passenger with a grain of sense was checked in by now and waiting at the gate. The absence of luggage saved us forty-five seconds, though the desk agent did shoot Celeste a quick look, wondering if she was up to no good. I caught the fellow’s eye, circled a finger at my temple to denote craziness, pointed at her, and mouthed “This is my sister,” as if that made a difference. He slid her boarding pass across the counter and I walked her the fourteen feet to security. Once she was on the other side, she waved, indicating that she felt safe and I was free to go.
I took a minute to survey my surroundings on the off chance that Ned lay in wait and might hurdle over the X-ray machine and seize her by the throat. Again no sign of him, which generated a moment of hope on my part that he was already suffering the fever, difficulty breathing, low blood pressure, fast heart rate, and mental confusion of sepsis. I confess I didn’t wait for her plane to take off. I left the terminal and returned to my car. The traffic pattern at the airport is such that a departing vehicle is made to circle back, passing the terminal entrance a second time before accessing the exit lane.