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a cab to Indianapolis Airport. Of the day's long ordeal, Jonathan's fifteen minutes on airport property were his most nerve-racking. The pundits on the news who complained that American airports remained soft targets for terrorists needed to get their heads out of their asses. The place swarmed with police and dogs and electronic surveillance gimmickry, and there he was, walking around like a living training toy. Step a little too close to the wrong dog and he'd have some major explaining to do. Even though he never entered the main terminal, the proximity of this much security made him nervous as hell.
    He headed straight for the cabstand. The hack who picked him up was an Arab, Jonathan's first lucky break of the day. Ever since 9-11, most Middle Eastern ex-pats went out of their way to avoid contact with anybody, and many of them were particularly uninterested in cooperating with police. If some lucky flatfoot was able to connect the dots as far as the airport, the trail would likely stop dead, because no one would step forward to tell anybody anything.
    God granted good fortune to those who were perpetually careful.
    He paid cash for his ride to a Sheraton in Indianapolis, and cash again for a second cab ride to the bus station. From there, it was a long bus trip to Evanston, where he caught yet another cab to O'Hare International Airport. He told that driver to drop him at the long-term parking area on Bessie Coleman Drive. When the cab was out of sight, it was then time to walk across the street to begin the final leg of the journey.
    The executive air terminal at O'Hare was a lot like executive air terminals everywhere, much more sparsely appointed than the uninitiated would expect. There were no concessions to speak of, unless you counted the self-service coffee station, which at present was serving a product more suitable to a fountain pen than a coffee cup. People with their own planes don't need a concession stand.
    Besides, Boxers was already wait's kid gets picked up, the family's gonna dig deep to come up with money they didn't even know they had."
    Jonathan conceded the point with a nod. "And what do you make of the girl in the woods with the gun?"
    "I think she should've dropped it instead of shooting it."
    Jonathan smiled. Leave it to Boxers to get straight to the heart of an issue. After a minute or two of silence, Jonathan lifted himself out of the copilot's seat and headed for the back of the plane. "It'stime for me to catch a little shut-eye, if that's okay with you."
    Boxers smiled. "Computer says you got an hour and forty-two minutes."

Chapter Nine
    It was nearly five in the afternoon when Jonathan finally stepped through the double doors into the Signature Aviation Terminal at Washington Dulles International Airport. Boxers had work to do to close out the Gulfstream, and would drive himself home in his Nissan pickup. Jonathan had a ride waiting for him.
    Venice stood in the lobby, arms folded and wound up tighter than a watch spring. When they finally made eye contact, it looked as if she'd just taken her first breath of the day. He saw tears in her eyes. Venice was a famous crier.
    "Welcome home," she said. "I was worried."
    Jonathan allowed himself to be hugged. "Like I always say, do what you do best."
    Venice understood that he'd just said thank you. "Want me to help with a bag?"
    "Nah, I got them. Did you bring the monstrosity?"
    "Her name is Glow Bird," Venice said, fishing through her purse for her keys, "And I got a terrific parking place."
    By any man's yardstick, Venice Alexander was hot. Her skin was the color of milk chocolate, and there were days when her smile could put the sun out of business. Jonathan could tell from her clothing that she was proud of her recent weight loss. They both knew that the pounds would come back--the same twenty came and went on a three-year cycle--but for now, it was nice to see her strutting a little.
    "Tell me what you found out about Christine Baker,"