And with that, she was gone.
I dialed Cheney’s number at the police department, wondering what I’d do if he didn’t pick up. Four rings later, he snatched up the handset, saying, “Phillips.”
“Thank god. I’m so happy to hear your voice.”
“I’ve been trying to reach you—”
I said, “Wait, wait. Me first—”
Cheney was so enamored of his news that he charged right on. “Remember, I mentioned the white powder Fritz picked up on his clothing? The ME identified it as quicklime, so we went out to the crime scene and took another look at the septic tank. Know what we found? Under the fill dirt and construction debris where Fritz was dumped, there was a second victim. Somebody had covered the body with about eight pounds of quicklime and probably half a dozen containers of drain cleaner. The common perception is that the two in combination will dissolve a body over a period of time, but the truth is just the opposite—”
I said, “Cheney! Enough.”
This went unheeded as he continued his forensics revelation. “Quicklime slaked with water will cause a small degree of superficial burning, but the heat from the chemical reaction will mummify the body. Slaked lime absorbs moisture from tissue and the surrounding soil, and prevents putrefaction. You’ll never guess who it is.”
Someone on the public-address system was saying, “Will the owner of a dark blue four-door Honda report to the short-term parking and claim your vehicle?”
I said, “It’s Austin Brown.”
Dead silence. “How did you know that?”
“Bayard Montgomery killed him because he threatened to call Bayard’s father and tell him that Bayard was gay. Tigg was wildly homophobic and would have cut him off without a cent.”
“Where’s this coming from?”
“Don’t worry about that. Bayard and his boyfriend, Ellis, are out here at the airport about to board a flight to Phoenix. Their final destination is Morocco, which I bet money has no extradition treaty with the US.”
Another brief silence. “You’re right.”
“Will the owner of a dark blue four-door Honda please return to short-term parking or your vehicle will be towed.”
I said, “Shit, my car’s being towed.”
I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and looked over at the departure gate as the gate agent picked up her microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen, American Airlines Flight 5981 to Phoenix, Arizona, is now ready for boarding. We’d like to invite passengers with small children, those with disabilities, or any others who might require additional time to proceed to gate four.”
I watched Bayard and Ellis rise from their seats and gather their belongings. Bayard picked up the black leather carry-on I’d seen in his guest room. Ellis crossed to a trash receptacle and tossed in some candy wrappers, then returned to his seat and picked up the plastic bag containing articles he’d purchased in the airport gift shop. He found his tote and hefted it. He patted his pocket for his boarding pass and then remembered it was in the outside pocket of his tote. He retrieved it and checked his seat number. Passengers were already forming an orderly line, with first-class ticket holders at the head. Bayard had saved Ellis a place about three passengers back and the two chatted while they waited.
“Cheney, they’re boarding. It’s American 5981 to Phoenix.”
“Got it. I’ll take care of it. Just stay where you are. I’m putting a call through to airport security.”
I dropped the handset in place and crossed to the gate. The gate agent invited first-class passengers to board. The first gentleman in line handed his boarding pass to the gate agent. She ran it through her machine, smiled at him, and handed it back. He moved through the gate and through the exterior door to the tarmac beyond.
I was standing there thinking, What if the security phone line is busy? How long is it going to take for Cheney to convey the urgency of the situation? I spotted the airport security officer who stood by the X-ray machine, chatting with another airline employee.
At the gate, the second gentleman reached the head of the line and handed over his boarding pass, which was screened and returned. Bayard and Ellis shuffled forward a couple of steps.
I took a quick look at the entrance. Naturally there was no sign of a police presence outside the terminal. Apparently no messages were being conveyed to the hefty security officer, who’d now folded his arms while he settled in for a comfortable chat with his pal.
Bayard handed his boarding pass to the gate agent. Carry-on in hand, he moved through the gate and then waited for Ellis to clear the barrier.
I crossed to the officer and said, “Excuse me.”
He didn’t seem to hear me and didn’t interrupt his conversation.
“Excuse me, sir, but someone just stole my carry-on.”
Now that I had his attention, I pointed at Bayard. “See that fellow in the black leather jacket with the chauffeur’s cap? His companion’s in the red sweater. I put my carry-on down in the gift shop, and when I turned around it was gone.”
“You have a way to identify it?”
“Yes, sir. I do. The bag has a leather tag with my monogram. BAM. My name is Barbara Ann Mendelson. If you’ll check the contents, you’ll find my blue cashmere sweater along with a headset and my Sony Walkman.”
He looked at me and then looked back at the gate. “Which gentleman is this?”
“Right there, just going out on the tarmac. Black leather jacket and black chauffeur’s cap with a black patent-leather rim. The fellow with him has on a red sweater and he’s got a shopping bag from the gift shop.”
He said something into the radio affixed to his shoulder. He listened and then made his way into the waiting area, moving very quickly for a guy who carried that much weight. He made a statement to the gate agent, who stepped aside to let him pass. Even from inside the terminal, I could hear him say, “Sir. Can I have a word with you?”
Other passengers moving toward the plane divided to form a stream passing on either side of them.