“Okay, what’s so special about ‘em? They look like runners to me.”
“Those are Alexander McQueen’s.”
“They’re what?”
“Famous fashion designer. I went through a high-end sneaker phase. McQueen’s are not cheap. They probably cost six-hundred-bucks.”
“Okay, shoe boy, what does this have to do with anything?”
Harper cued up the second video of a young man or woman leaving the Peregrine Lounge. The person wore a baseball cap with a black ponytail and sunglasses covering half their face.
“Okay,” she started, “who’s this?”
“Look at the shoes.”
She squinted at the screen. “Can you zoom in?” Saying nothing, the tech zoomed in. Sure enough, they were identical to Ethan Bond’s. “What are the chances two people were wearing the same shoes?” she asked, looking up at Harper.
“Not very. The likelihood of someone else wearing those same shoes in our airport today is pretty much nil.”
Why would he need a disguise? What the hell is going on here?
“Were you able to follow him through the airport?”
“Yep,” Harper started. “We tracked him as he moved from Terminal B to C. He got on a flight bound for Houston. We have a message into Roadrunner Airways Express to see if he was flying under his actual name or an alias.”
“And?”
“Haven’t heard back yet. Things at all the airlines are chaotic right now. The FAA hasn’t grounded planes yet, but all traffic in and out of New Orleans has been halted.”
“Once we figure out where he’s gone, we should probably send someone from the Houston Field Office to get his statement,” she said, more to herself than anyone else.
“I guess this means we don’t need to worry about the missing person situation anymore?” Harper asked.
“True, but Rawlins and the director go back apparently, so we don’t want to end anything prematurely—if you get my drift.”
Murphy watched as Harper shrugged while shaking his head. “Damn politics! Gonna be the death of me.”
“You and me both, Harper. You and me both.”
* * * *
“Agent Murphy,” a voice yelled as she exited the airport and headed back to her car. The alphabet soup of specialists had arrived and was already taking control of the situation. Murphy and Harper were free to hand over the investigation. Harper had stayed behind because the agent who had flown in from DC was someone he’d gone through the FBI Training Academy with, so Harper had wanted to catch up quickly.
Murphy swung her head and saw Stephen McNeil and his RNN cameraman standing on the other side of the police tape. She thought about ignoring him and getting out of there, but she knew that wouldn’t get her very far, so she tried not to scowl and threw on a fake smile.
“How can I help you, Mr.—?”
“McNeil. Stephen McNeil from RNN. We talked yesterday about theNOLA Nightsmurders.”
“Ah yes,” she responded, as if she’d completely forgotten about their run-in. “How can I help you, Mr. McNeil?”
Suddenly, the bright light of the television camera shone on her face as McNeil thrust a microphone into her face.
“What do you know about the bombing of Peregrine Flight 923?”
“Bombing?” she questioned. “Who said anything about a bombing? The forensic specialists who will put this case together have been on the ground for less than an hour. It will take a few days, if not weeks, before they’ll have a definitive answer to what caused the explosion.” She knew he was trying to fish for information, but Murphy had enough experience dodging reporters’ questions over the years. “Wish I could provide more information, Mr. McNeil, but I have nothing else to say. Besides, you know I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.”
McNeil made a cut motion across his throat. The cameraman turned off the light then relaxed the camera from his shoulder.
