Dying Embers by Robert E. Bailey Page A

spot.
    â€œSkip Sunday dinner,” I said. “Running a plate leaves a paper trail, and if they burned the car, they’re determined not to give the cops any easy ones. If you don’t lead them out to your parents house they won’t know how to find them.”
    I opened the door, stepped out, and opened the tan hard-sided suitcase on the front seat. Buried in the socks, shirts, and underwear were two metal boxes with combination locks. I unloaded my pistol and put it in one; the ammo and spare magazines went into the other. I stripped my high-ride hip holster and magazine holders from my belt and dropped them in the suitcase as well.
    â€œYou can still get out of the business, if you do it now,” I said. I locked the suitcase and put it in the back seat. “Drive me up to the terminal.”
    I got back in and pulled the door shut. Lorna didn’t have anything to say. She stuck her hand out for the buck it cost to get out of the lot without looking at me. I watched the gate as we pulled out to circle back to the terminal. Nobody came out after us.
    â€œYou should have told me about covering my plates.” said Lorna. She nailed the gas pedal until her tires squeaked.
    â€œWe’ve had this conversation before.”
    â€œNot about the plates.”
    â€œI tried to talk you out of taking this job,” I reminded her. “Rotten hours, boredom, pandemonium, and the question of your safety and the safety of the people around you. I’m sure you remember the conversation.”
    â€œI thought you were being sexist.”
    â€œYou wanted to go to work for a sexist?”
    â€œI wanted to show you that you were wrong,” she said. She pulled up to the curb in front of the terminal. “I mean, the Feds hired me, so who the hell were you?”
    â€œThe man you wanted to work for until you got to be a real detective. So what do you think happens when you go to work for the man?”
    â€œThe man?” She wrinkled up her face like she had a sour taste in her mouth.
    â€œUncle Sam—Prince Charming. You think his playmates are nicer than mine?”
    â€œI guess not.”
    â€œSo, what’re you going to do?”
    â€œFenton, Friday,” she said and looked at me. She arched her eyebrows and added, “Monday I start a couple of comp cases.”
    I got out of the car and set my luggage on the curb. A skycap, starched, polished, and impeccable, pushed up a cart. I bent over, stuck my head in the car, and waited for Lorna to look at me again.
    â€œMarry a detective,” I told her.
    â€œMaybe I’ll just buy a cat,” she said. “Don’t you worry about Wendy?”
    â€œSure,” I said, “but I married a detective and it’s still hard. I can’t imagine being married to a civilian.”
    The ticket agent asked for my driver’s license. I had to assure him that I had packed my own bags and that they had not been out of my sight.
    â€œNo, I wasn’t carrying a bag for anyone else,” I told him, but he stopped sleepwalking when I said, “Yes, I’m transporting a firearm.” The low buzz of conversation around me stopped and the ticket agents on either side of mine stopped and stared at us both.
    â€œIt’s unloaded and locked in a steel case inside a locked hard sided bag,” I said. “That’s what they told me to do on the telephone. Do you want me to get it out and show it to you?”
    â€œNo,” he said, his eyes wide. “Which bag is it in?”
    â€œThe green one,” I said.
    â€œDo you have any ammunition?”
    â€œMagazine and a couple of spares,” I said. “Locked in a steel case separate from the firearm, but in the same suitcase.”
    He tagged my luggage. The green suitcase got an extra tag; a long red and white paper loop that repeated the word “ FIREARM.”
    â€œGate eleven,” he said. He assembled my ticket and handed it