Emily Locke 01 - Final Approach

again.
    After our call, the hard part started. The station is no toy land, and I wasn’t allowed to leave with the baby. Entertaining a toddler for nine hours in a police station was…well, shitty. But what are friends for?
    Detective Cole walked up with two Dr. Peppers and a carton of milk in time to see Mattie try to decapitate me using my necklace. I searched my purse for something safer and came up with a library card and the keys to the rental. What he really wanted was my lipstick. I made a mental note to tease Keith.
    Cole noticed my parachute pendant. I pulled a picture of Annette from my wallet and explained why I quit skydiving. He produced his own photo of two cute kids, the reasons he sometimes worries about being a cop.
    He went back to work and Mattie and I were relegated to the waiting room chairs. Keith and Nora burst through the doors around 11:30 p.m. and I’ve never seen parents look worse or better.
    ***
    Even after so much time, those memories were sharp.
    My cell phone rang, muffled within the bowels of my purse, and jolted me back. I sniffled and brushed away tears. When I answered the phone, I tried to sound normal.
    “Where are you?” Jeannie wanted to know.
    “In a Houston hotel.” I crashed backward on the bed with my feet hanging over the edge of the mattress. My eyes closed involuntarily.
    “Is Richard there with you?” she whispered.
    My eyes popped open. “Of course not.”
    “What’s going on?”
    “What’s going on is, this is a mistake,” I said. “The only reason he wants to explore the drop zone angle is that police found a jump ticket in some lady’s bushes.”
    I thought of the staff member who’d evaded Richard’s questioning, but left that part out. I stared at the swirls on the ceiling.
    “What about you?” I said. “What’s going on there?”
    “Sure, I’ll get that ready before I leave. No problem.”
    I knew the cover. She’d called from her desk at work—and had been busted.
    “Talk to you later,” I sighed.
    I tried to concentrate on the BioTek work I owed Bowman, but Richard’s case was distracting. After forty-five minutes, I closed my laptop, changed into running clothes, and left to explore the city on foot.
    I started east at an easy pace, toward what I thought was downtown. Traffic often moved slower than I did, and for blocks I passed only apartments, strip malls, and donut joints. But within a mile, establishments like the Taco Cabana and local pregnancy crisis center faded off the landscape, replaced by more upscale businesses like leather vendors and gourmet smoothie shops. High rises in shades of green and blue loomed ahead and, even though it sure looked like downtown, signs said otherwise. I’d found the Galleria.
    On Post Oak Boulevard, I passed Williams Tower. The building reminded me of a 1920’s skyscraper, except that it was fronted with glass, and it was so tall I stumbled when I tried to look up at it. Ahead, a series of ornamental silver arches spanned each intersection. Running beneath them felt like going under a bunch of chrome rainbows. The effect was too over-the-top for my taste, but at least there were no creepy men leering at me like in Cleveland. Instead, the quizzical looks from suited businessmen and swanky women seemed only to ask why I’d reduced myself to public exercise.
    I continued in the shadows of parking garages and high-rise offices, and each time I spotted a luxury hotel—they could be found in any direction I looked—I wished Richard had put me up in one of those suckers instead. The air quality in Houston was disgusting, I realized, but at least none of the cars had chains on their tires. They didn’t seem to rust, either. Without salted roads, even older models still looked strangely new. On two occasions, I noticed “Don’t Mess With Texas” bumper stickers.
    My new environment was certainly interesting, but even fancy landscaping and posh architecture couldn’t take my mind off the reason for my visit. At the drop zone, I’d meet potentially dangerous people. I had no undercover experience, no reason to believe I’d be any good at my assignment. I was a thirty-two-year-old burned out chemist, for Pete’s sake, not a swashbuckling private eye. My imagination went haywire, conjuring wild cloak and dagger scenarios. I ran faster, imagining myself a tough she-woman like Jaime Sommers, Sydney Bristow, or Xena.
    When I finally got back to the hotel, sweaty and spent, my GPS watch reported