Emily Locke 01 - Final Approach

woman in a non-descript black suit. A shiny gold nametag I couldn’t read was pinned to her lapel.
    “Is there a lost and found? I left my purse.”
    She directed me to an elevator bank between Cosmetics and Shoes and suggested I try Customer Service, downstairs. On my way, I glimpsed a sale price of $1300 on a handbag discreetly chained to its display shelf.
    When the associate downstairs handed over my “lost” bag, I was struck by its lightness. I stepped behind a Baccarat crystal display and unsnapped the little purse. A note and key were inside.
    Leave the mall through the far end of the food court. Exit to the Yellow Garage. I’ll know if you’re alone. A white Lexus is parked in area LL1, Zone H, two rows from the door. License plate V72 BNT. Use the key to take it north to Huntsville on I-45. Call when you pass Exit 60
.
    I found a ladies room tucked in the back of the China department, but the elegant, full-length doors inside made it difficult to know for sure that I was alone. I listened for a few moments, and convinced I had no company, closed myself in a stall and called Jeannie to read her the note. She said she’d tell the plan to Richard and Vince.
    She’d try to get to the Yellow Garage and watch for the white Lexus, but she was gridlocked in so much traffic she figured I’d get there first.
    “If I wait,” I said, “it’ll look suspicious.”
    “No, don’t do that. Head up the highway like she said and tell me where you exit. We can help you if we know where you are.”
    I exited Neiman Marcus and found myself on the second of three floors, all open to an elaborate arched skylight that ran the length of the enormous corridor. On my way to the food court, I passed dozens of elite shops: Chanel, Tiffany & Co., Fendi, Cartier, Ralph Lauren, Giorgio Armani, Versace, Coach. At each storefront, I wondered whether someone were watching from inside. Below, a full-size ice skating rink was built right in the middle of the mall with the food court surrounding it on both sides. The blended scent of frying onions and grilled meat dominated the food court, where space was so limited several people ate standing, watching figure skaters spin and jump below.
    I took the escalator to the lower level and followed signs to the Yellow Garage. A video arcade on my left pumped out peppy, electronic tunes that faded when I eased open a glass door and stepped outside, into the garage. Cigarette smoke lingered in the space around me, but the only people I saw were motorists jockeying for a place to park. For a moment, I worried that a henchman or sniper, or perhaps Trish herself, might have me in a gun sight. Then I relaxed a little, figuring they wouldn’t kill someone who still had half their money. I surveyed the parking area, but found only innocuous rows of cars, a Sparkletts delivery truck, and drivers too preoccupied to notice me.
    I wasn’t surprised Jeannie hadn’t made it. Through a nearby street exit, I could see traffic outside was still bumper-to-bumper.
    I paced two rows of cars and found the Lexus with the right plate. Before getting inside, I checked the back seat. Only immaculate leather and pristine floor mats waited behind the tinted glass.
    Twenty-five minutes later, I accelerated up the I-610 ramp on my way to I-45. According to Jeannie, Huntsville was seventy miles north of Houston. The drop zone was seventy miles south. I thought about the extensive cross-city travel and wondered what Trish was planning.
    Exit Sixty caught me by surprise because it was nowhere close to Huntsville. In fact, I wasn’t even out of Houston when I passed its sign.
    I called Trish.
    “The next exit is Beltway 8,” she said. “Take it east. Follow the signs for Bush Intercontinental.” Houston’s largest airport, the one I’d flown into with Richard.
    “Park in Terminal C,” she continued. “Wear the sweater that’s in your trunk. Put the money in the pillow.”
    “The pillow?”
    “There’s a boarding pass in your glove box. Use it to—”
    “A boarding pass to go where?”
    “It doesn’t matter. You’re not getting on the plane. Use the boarding pass to get through the security checkpoint in Terminal C. When I’m satisfied you’re not armed or wired, I’ll be in touch.”
    “But I don’t have—”
    She hung up.
    “Shit.” My driver’s license was at the motel in Freeport with the rest of my things. Without it, I’d never get past security.
    My palms slipped over the