Linda Fairstein - Entombed

"Who am I looking for?"

"The surname is Maswana. Hugo Maswana."

Mercer corrected me. "What if he's been using his younger brothers' passports? What if he's taken off as one of them to screw up the computer records? Tell your guy to check for all three names-Hugo, David, and Sofi."

For five more minutes we idled at the top of the ramp until our contact got back on the line. "Skip Newark. How fast can you make it out here?"

"Half an hour," I said, turning to Mercer. "It's JFK. You got a bubble?"

He reached under the front seat of the department car and pulled out a red plastic dome. He opened his window and extended his arm to stick the magnetized light on the roof of the car, accelerating to high speed and whelping his siren to move cars out of our way.

"Miss Cooper? Give me your phone number. Your party's been playing games with us. He first booked on the tenP.M. Paris, then switched to Rome, and when that canceled he put himself back on the midnight to Paris. He's not ticketed yet. London leaves at eleven and it's wide open. He hasn't checked in anywhere as of this moment. I'll get the Port Authority police on the gates and security checkpoints. He may be waiting to make a last-minute dash for the flight so he doesn't raise a flag once he's formally ticketed and checked in."

The tunnel was practically empty and Mercer sailed out on the Belt Parkway, making time I wouldn't have dreamed possible if I had to make a plane on a tight schedule.

"No wonder the ambassador came into the station house like such a lamb," I said. "He must have had Hugo banned from the household for a few years, thinking he'd outgrow his penchant for raping women. Wife and children back home in Dahlakia would settle him down."

"I'm sure you're right. That's why the cases went cold four years ago. Maswana probably called Hugo at his office today and told him not to pass Go, not to collect his two hundred dollars, but hightail it to the airport and head for home."

"And the father was smart enough to bring us a decoy-the middle son, who looks enough like Hugo-and the sketch-to make us salivate. It whet our appetite, it stalled us from looking anywhere else, and Maswana knew there'd be no risk because even if we held David overnight, the DNA results would exclude him tomorrow."

By nine-forty, Mercer parked the car in a no-standing zone in front of the sprawling American Airlines buildings. I called my Port Authority contact, who told us he was inside Terminal A. The flights to London and Paris both departed from Concourse C, at gates only fifty yards apart.

We walked inside slowly and separately, in case Hugo Maswana was looking for a pair of investigators that his father may have described to him.

I walked past Mercer and whispered under my breath, "I'll check the Admirals Club to see if he's waiting up there."

Mercer turned off to the concourse, in the direction of the security screening.

I took the staircase to the club, and smiled at the hostess who tried to stop me to show my identification. I scanned both sides of the room and saw only a handful of bedraggled business passengers waiting for their late-night departures.

My phone rang at the same time I heard the PA system: "Announcing the last boarding call for American flight 605, nonstop to Paris Charles de Gaulle. Final boarding, please."

I flipped open the cell and it was our Port Authority contact, telling us Maswana just bought an e-ticket at a kiosk in the terminal and was confirmed on AA 605.

I ran back down the steps and up the incline to the security gate.

As I approached, I could see Hugo Maswana seated in a plastic chair just beyond the screening machine. He was dressed in a suit, but had removed his shoes to put them through the system. He reached into the basket to lift out a brogue and replace it on his foot.

At that very moment, Mercer got the attention of one of the Transportation Safety Administration screeners. He must have been trying to explain that he was a cop and had a gun that would set off the metal detector when I saw the man put the palm of his outstretched hand against Mercer's chest.

Hugo looked up at the commotion and seemed to realize that Mercer was there to intercept him. He stood up and dropped the pair of shoes before he bolted toward the gate.

Where the hell were the Port Authority cops? There was no one in sight, and I could only hope they were waiting for us at the boarding gate.

I caught up with Mercer, who had his badge in his hand. "It's the damn gun, Alex. He won't let me in with it."

I looked at the TSA agent, paralyzed by the bureaucratic necessities of his job, and trying to figure out whom to call to help him. I turned away from Mercer and made a dash through the frame of the metal detector. It screamed its alarm-maybe my gold watch, my belt hook, or my underwire bra had set it off-and I kept on running past the newsstand and fast food concessions after Maswana.

I was glad for the ringing bells, sure they would bring someone to capture me as well as my fleeing target.

The only advantage I had over Hugo Maswana's greater speed was the slipperiness of the flooring under his socks. Twice I saw him slide and fall to one knee as I gained on him, running in my rubber-soled loafers.

Now people were screaming and guards were charging from both directions-some coming at both of us from the departure gate and others overtaking us from behind.

Two of them lunged at Maswana first and wrestled him to the ground. Another one grabbed at my shoulder and tried to twist me around. I shook him off as he pushed me down and I fell on top of the suspect's back.

Maswana writhed on the ground and shoved me away, still kicking at the guards. As I grabbed his hand to keep it from striking me, I scratched at it with my nails and a thin line of blood trickled out on the surface of his knuckles. I wiped at it with my jacket.

Mercer Wallace and the PAPD supervisor jogged into sight, confirming to the men who had brought Maswana down that he was, in fact, the suspect we were after.

"Is he under arrest, Detective?" one of them asked Mercer. "You taking him in?"

"Not exactly," Mercer said, motioning the agent to step to the side, explaining-I was sure-that we might just be detaining him here for questioning until we could establish probable cause for his arrest.

I stood up and joined their conversation. The agent was nonplussed. "I mean, we can hold him for a security breach at the airport. It may only keep him a day or two."

"That's all we need," I said to Mercer. "Between the blood on my sleeve and the skin cells under my nail, we'll know this time tomorrow if we've got a case."

"You're late," Laura said, following me into my office. I glanced at the clock and saw that it was ten thirty-five.

"I didn't get home until almost two. Just couldn't move myself this morning," I said, reaching for the message slip in her hand.

"I think your body is trying to tell your brain to take-"

"Check the personals, Laura. My brain wants to rent new space. A body with a lower metabolism, no stress, one that moves at a slower rate of speed. Sluggish would be good for a couple of months. Maybe there's someone in appeals who wants to get on this treadmill for a while. Judge Tarnower?" I stared at the message on the pink slip of paper. "Did he tell you what it's about?"

The chief administrative judge rarely dealt with anyone other than Battaglia. I was afraid I'd gotten into his crosshairs over the lockup of the phlebotomist at the Midtown Community Court a week earlier, but Paul Battaglia hadn't warned me about any effort by Tarnower at interference.

"Only that it's urgent. I told him you were on your way in."

I dialed the number and waited for his secretary to patch him through. Ellen Gunsher walked into my office and I held up a finger to suggest that she wait till I finished the conversation.