“Look, Ralph, I’ve gotta go. But thanks. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.” I switched over. “You found him?” I asked.
“Come to security at the main C Concourse gates,” Mel said. “Look for the first-class passenger and crew line. I’ve got someone here from TSA who’ll walk us through.”
If I had been with Mel instead of parking the car, I might have discovered how she worked that incredible piece of public relations magic. Not only had she charmed Dortman’s flight information out of someone at the ticket counter, she had also enchanted a member of one of the least cooperative law enforcement agencies on the planet, the Transportation Security Administration, into helping out as well. That wasn’t magic—it was downright miraculous.
When I came into the ticketing concourse, my heart fell. The crush of people waiting to clear security stretched all the way across the lobby. But I did as I was told and looked for the first-class line. There, next to a much shorter but still long line, I found Mel standing beside a wiry old geezer who looked more like a Wal-Mart greeter than a law enforcement officer.
When I caught up to them, Mel introduced him as Darrell Cross. Cross nodded curtly in my direction, spoke briefly into his walkie-talkie, and then opened a chain into one of the mazelike sorting areas and led us straight to the front of the line. While we were placing our shoes and weapons in the security trays, I leaned over to Mel. “Lady, when you’re good, you’re good. How the hell did you pull this off?”
“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” she said with a smile.
We did have to show our IDs, but to my amazement there was no hassle about our carrying weapons or handcuffs, and not a word was said about our not having boarding passes.
“Okay,” Mel said once we had our shoes back on. “Dortman’s on the eleven forty-five flight for LAX. When he gets there, he’s scheduled to connect with an overnight Copa Airlines flight to Caracas, Venezuela. Booked his tickets yesterday. Paid full fare.”
“In a hurry to get out of town?” I asked.
“Do you think?”
The whole time we’d been going through the search procedure, Mr. Cross had been speaking into his walkie-talkie. “Okay, Ms. Soames,” he said, leading us in the direction of the D gates, “I’ve talked to baggage. They’ve got Mr. Dortman’s baggage isolated. If he doesn’t fly, neither will his luggage.”
A guy from TSA was doing all this? That absolutely put me in my place and made me realize Mel Soames was even more out of my league than I had thought.
As we approached the gate area I didn’t think it would be difficult to recognize Thomas Dortman. I had never seen any of his on-air commentary, but he had posted his photo all over his Web site. He was seated at the end of the bank of seats nearest the ticket agent’s counter and the door leading out to the jetway. He huddled there with his back to the window, looking as inconspicuous as possible.
His Web site photos must have been either very old or Photo-shopped into the male equivalent of Glamour Shots. The man depicted there had been younger and far leaner than this one. He also had a full head of hair. This one was jowly and slightly balding. He also looked haggard and bleary-eyed—as though he hadn’t slept in several days.
I could see we were arriving just in time. The departure door was already latched open and the gate agent was preparing to make her first boarding announcement. The nod she gave to Mr. TSA Walkie-Talkie indicated he had been in contact with her as well. Despite his unassuming appearance, Mr. Cross was obviously a go-to kind of guy.
Without any discussion, Mel and I approached Dortman from either side, effectively boxing him in.
“We somehow missed each other in the Board Room, Mr. Dortman,” Mel said, casually flashing her ID in his direction. “I must have misunderstood.”
The gate agent made her announcement. Dortman started to rise. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he said. “They’re calling my flight.”
“Have a seat, Mr. Dortman,” Mel said. “You paid full fare. If you miss this flight, you can always rebook.”
Unhappy about it, Dortman sat while nearby passengers studied us with open curiosity. Beads of sweat suddenly popped out on the man’s forehead.
Mel slipped onto the seat next to him. “So is your publisher putting out a Spanish edition of The Whistle-blower’s Guide?” she asked conversationally.
Dortman looked at her as though she were nuts. “No,” he said. “Why?”
“With a book coming out a few weeks from now, I’d think you’d need to be available for interviews and appearances. Won’t that be difficult to do from so far away, especially since you didn’t bother to book a return flight?”
“I have a meeting with a source in Caracas,” he said indignantly. “For my next book. In addition, my flight information is supposed to be confidential. You have no right to—”
It was time for me to step up. “When’s the last time you saw Carol and Jack Lawrence?” I asked.
“Who?” he returned.