Petey frowns. “Why not?”
“I don’t know,” I shrug. “Seems like the smart thing to do when one has been involved in an aviation incident.”
“Aviation incident?” Petey echos back.
“A terrorist-related aviation incident…seems sensitive to me. Seems like I should watch my step.”
“Who are you?” he asks again, his eyes narrowing, as if he has a guess.
“I told you, my name’s Tara. And that’s all I’m going to say until my attorney arrives.”
“Who is your attorney?”
“We’ll know when they get here.” Blue returns to my side, his wet nose brushing my fingers.
On our way back into the airport we pass a driver holding up a placard with my fake name on it. “Hi,” I say. “I’m Tara.” Petey steps closer to me, as though he might grab me if I try to get away. Blue growls a low warning. You shouldn’t touch me without permission…it goes poorly.
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Tara,” the driver says. “My name is John.” He gives me a wide, warm smile.
“Nice to meet you too, John.”
“Can I take your bag?” he offers.
“No, thanks. I actually have something I have to do. I’ll be with you as soon as I can but it might be a while. Why don’t you give me your number and I’ll call when I’m done?”
“Is everything okay?” he asks.
“It will be, right Petey?” I ask, turning to him.
“Sure,” he says. “As long as you’re honest with us.”
John gives him a look like…what? “I’m always honest.” I pull out my phone to get John’s number. “That’s one of the things I’m known for…”
And that trouble loves me…
CHAPTER TEN
I manage to drink a gallon of water, pee twice, and keep my mouth totally shut until my attorney arrives at 8am. She turns out to be a statuesque, dark-skinned beauty, her suit pitch black, and her lips scarlet red. She breezes into the room carrying a leather briefcase and a shit kicker attitude. It looks good on her. But probably anything would.
Her sharp brown eyes rake over me, the space, the investigating officers, and Blue—finding them all to be completely and totally within her control.
“We are leaving now,” she says, her attention on me, her accent rich and lush. AssKicker crosses to stand next to my chair. A manicured hand lands on my shoulder, dips down to my bicep and begins to lift me. I stand, as does Blue. And we begin to move towards the door.
“Now wait just a second, this isn’t some civil case,” says Officer Prasad—head of airport security—rising to stand as well. Squat with a serious face and receding hairline, Prasad’s expression is stormy. “You can’t just walk out of here.”
“My client did nothing wrong.”
“You don’t know any particulars of the case.” His voice rises while Attorney AssKicker stays cool as a cucumber—her whole attitude just oozes: I’ve already won.
“Are you arresting her? Did she do anything wrong?”
“We have lots of questions.”
“You’ll have to find answers elsewhere. Try Google.” Damn, burn.
Prasad’s mouth hangs open for a moment as she begins to move toward the door again, Blue and me following like starstruck fans. Prasad recovers, his head shaking a little, as if casting off some spell, and he steps into her path. My lawyer, whose name I still do not know, flares her nostrils and smiles as if she’s a predator and a tasty little bunny just hopped into her way.
Her eyes dip down to his suit and back up to his face. The whole look—which takes but a second—communicates in no uncertain terms that he isn’t shit, but she is the shit.
“Are you blocking my exit?” she asks, her tone implying that such a decision would be demonstrably terrible.
“Your client was involved in an altercation inflight.”
“My client helped to subdue two terrorists inflight. She’s a hero, not a suspect. Now move out of my way before I make you.” A part of me hopes he doesn’t move just so I can watch this woman work.
There’s enough room for us to get around him, but she doesn’t do that. She stares into his eyes and waits for him to step back, which Prasad does because he’s not actually sui-fucking-cidal.
“Come on,” she says, pulling me forward by the arm. Prasad watches us as we walk out the door, and I wave over my shoulder at him. He just scowls.
She doesn’t speak again until we’re out of the interrogation room and have wound our way back to the passenger hall. “Do you need to gather luggage?” she asks.
“No, I’m good.” I hold up my duffel, showing off my worldly possessions. “This is all I have.”
She accepts that without question or apparent judgment.
“Your car is waiting,” she says. “It will take you to the private airport—your jet is ready.”
