The Cutaway

by Christina Kovac

  “I need to know which terminal,” I told Ian. “A tail number for the plane would be good, too.”

  “If you’re going to the airport, you’ll need an escort. Let me get someone out there to meet you.”

  ————

  The money shot was the perp walk, that video of Paige Linden being led away in handcuffs. If we got it—and we had to get it—it would lead the show and keep us out in front of the story. It was the shot we’d use again and again.

  There was other video needed, too. I assigned Isaiah to monitor what we called the Citycam, our robotic camera mounted on a high-rise used to shoot the river and the bridges and the traffic along the bridges. In a pinch, that camera could pan to shoot video of an aircraft on its flight path into National. Isaiah was in charge of getting the Gulfstream’s descent.

  Ground shots were more complex. For those, we broke into two teams: Ben and his photographer would cover the runway from their stakeout on a grassy area beyond airport property. Nelson and I would go to the tarmac where the government jets deplaned—or as close as my escort would take me.

  “Let’s swap,” Ben said. “I get the suspect. You get the runway.”

  “Nope. If my escort is a no-show, you’re more likely to be recognized and therefore hassled by security and you can’t be detained. I need you live at the top of the six. Besides,” I said, showing my teeth, “Paige Linden is mine.”

  He nodded slowly. “Makes sense, except for your thinking nobody’s going to notice you.”

  “I’m smaller. I blend in. I get the perp walk.”

  “You look in the mirror lately?” His eyebrow shot up. “You don’t blend. You turn heads.”

  “Try not to be ridiculous,” I said, ignoring the quick jolt to my insides. It must have been my adrenaline, which was spiking. There was no room for error on this shoot. “How much longer do we wait?”

  “If she’s not here in another minute, I’ll get her,” Nelson said. We were idling in his Tahoe, waiting for Kendal, Ben’s photographer. Just then Kendal loped out, weighed down by her camera and tripod. She went to the back of the truck. There was some thumping as she stored her gear, and then the lift gate slammed shut. We were off.

  I checked my phone again. Ian Chase hadn’t called with the name of my escort. That worried me. I put in another call to him, but he didn’t pick up.

  “Airports Authority cleared us for the live shot on airport grounds at six,” I said, going over the plan again to make sure everyone was clear. “For the eleven o’clock show, we’ll go back to the studio. So Kendal, after you get the runway shot, I need you to hustle back to set up the live shot—unless Nelson calls for help with the walk. First priority is Paige Linden’s walk. A suit from the FBI is supposed to help. My source was working on it, anyway,” I muttered, checking my phone again. “He never called back. Maybe I should’ve taken care of that myself.”

  Ben reached around the headrest and caressed my shoulder. “You got it all covered. No worries.”

  I could feel Kendal staring a hole in the back of my head. Nelson was grinning at her through the rearview mirror. “You ever been in the field with these two?” he asked.

  “You talk too much,” Ben said, and surprisingly, that shut Nelson up. A tense silence came over the Tahoe as we sped along the parkway. When we were past the airport beyond Four Mile Run, we pulled over. Nelson got out to help Kendal unload her gear. Ben stayed in the Tahoe with me.

  I twisted around the seat, saying, “Once Kendal gets the landing, hurry to the live shot location to feed that video. I’ll radio as soon as I’m clear at the terminal.”

  He was staring at me, a warm, soft look.

  “What?”

  “You’re going to get her,” he said quietly.

  “Oh yeah. Consider it done.”

  He leaned forward and kissed me quick and got out of the car.

  Nelson and I doubled back to the airport. I told him to slow down by the long-term parking lot. “I’ll hoof it from there.”

  “Without me?”

  I reached into my satchel and pulled out my video camera. “Find a safe distance where you can shoot the perp walk,” I said, checking through the camera settings. “Somewhere you won’t get hassled by security. No matter what happens, I need to know you’re on that perp walk. I’ll go to the terminal alone and find my escort.”

  “We’re supposed to stay together. That was the plan.”

  “This is the new one.”

  “Ben told me to watch your back. He made me promise.”

  “Look at me,” I said, and when he did: “I’m your boss, not Ben. If you don’t do what I tell you, I will put you on the National Zoo beat. You’ll be shooting baby pandas and tourists until your retirement. You want that?”

  He slammed the brakes. “Hell no.”

  “Good man.” I climbed out and stood in the doorway, clipping the two-way radio to my belt. I shoved the phone into the pocket of my jacket and the camera back into the satchel, which I slung over my shoulder. “You’re the best we have, so you get the money shot. That perp walk will open the show tonight and many nights to come. It’s the most important piece of video there is. No matter what happens—”

  “I’ll be on it,” he said.

  “Good.” I slammed the door and cut through the parking lot for Air Cargo and walked along the access road that went far south of the passenger terminals, where I got my first view of the tarmac. Twin blue Suburbans with tinted windows were parked next to the southernmost terminal, which was owned by the feds.

  My camera zoomed in on the license plates. Both had US government tags. Bingo, the transport vehicles. So the Gulfstream would deplane and the Marshals would walk Paige Linden to one of these Suburbans. I looked around for Michael and wondered why he wasn’t here.

  A brawny guy with a flattop and wearing a suit that screamed fed got out of the Suburban and leaned against the hood. He was fiddling with his phone, and glancing up, turned his sunglasses my way and stayed on me for a long moment. I waited for his acknowledgment, but he put his head back down to his phone.

  Not my escort, then. Someone had given him a heads-up about me, but he’d neither help nor hinder. That was fine. I walked across the parking lot toward the Suburban.

  From a distance behind, someone shouted, “Stop.” I kept walking, hoping the command was for someone else, anyone other than me. I didn’t dare look back. The fed with the flattop gazed my way idly, and then got up and went inside the terminal.

  The voice behind me was louder, angrier. “Ma’am. You’re in a restricted area.”

  Damn.

  I turned to face a uniformed airport police officer. He was short and slightly plump and panting from exertion. “I’m sorry, Officer. You’re talking to me?”

  “Show some ID.”

  “Certainly.” I reached behind my neck and lifted the lanyard that held my press passes. It dangled between us. He glanced at it in distaste.

  “An official ID,” he said. “A driver’s license.”

  “I didn’t drive, but these are official. There’s a Hill pass, one for the White House, and here’s DOD.”

  He flipped through the tags. “I don’t see an Airports Authority pass.”

  “Not a hard pass, but Airport Ops cleared me for today. My escort from Justice will be here momentarily.”

  “We haven’t been notified. You don’t have proper ID. You have to leave.”

  “My escort will be here.” I glanced around wildly. Where the hell was my escort?

  “I’m not going to tell you again.”

  “But Airport Ops cleared me,” I said, trying to buy time. “Can’t you call them to confirm it? Or ask my escort when he gets here?”

  “Are you disobeying a lawful order?”

  Before I could answer, he called on his radio, asking for backup. I couldn’t believe it. “Are you calling for backup—for me? This is ridiculous.”

  His face turned red. “I’m ridiculous?”

  �
��What? No. Let me call my contact to clear this up.” I reached for my phone in my pocket and he stepped back, yelling, “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  His hand was on his holster. He pulled his gun out of the holster.

  There was nothing else in the world except that gun. It was big and black and pointed to the ground with both his hands on its grip.

  “Don’t,” I said, or thought I said. It was what I kept hearing in my head.

  “You have a weapon in your coat?”

  “No.” And then, louder: “No weapon.”

  “What’s in your coat then?”

  “Phone. Radio. Camera in bag.”

  “Drop your bag to the ground slowly,” he said, and then, “Take your coat off. Hands visible at all times.”

  Everything happened slowly. My hands moved to the lapels, and the coat slipped from my shoulders and onto the blacktop—and all that time my eyes were on the gun. I stood in the puddle of my coat and held my hands out like starfish, shaking.

  Coming out of the government terminal was the brawny man with the flattop. He was joined by what had to be the most beautiful person I’d ever seen, no less because I was praying she was my escort, or my guardian angel. She was running across the tarmac, holding up an identification folder, heading straight for me.

  “Special Agent Roubillard, Washington Field Office.” She addressed the officer in a voice as calm and as warm as her brown skin. “This is my guest. Is she being detained?”

  “I caught her trespassing without proper ID.”

  “She was confused about where to meet,” she said, and turning to me, “Forgive me. I waited for you at the front entrance of the terminal. You were walking toward the rear entrance. It is an understandable mistake.”

  “She refused an order.”

  “Not her first order, which was to meet me at the terminal,” she said. “Now that we’ve cleared up the confusion, I’ll take it from here.”

  His face turned red again. “This is an unauthorized area.”

  “This tarmac is federal, not airport property. You are a few dozen steps beyond the access road, which is where your jurisdiction ends.” She gave him a blinding smile beneath her mirrored shades. “Thank you, Officer.”

  We stood side by side, watching the officer return to his cruiser at the edge of the tarmac. Finally, I picked up my satchel and coat from the ground.

  “I owe you,” I said. “I don’t even know you.”

  Without looking at me, she murmured, “Michael Ledger keeps his promises.”

  “Michael? I thought—”

  “He’s a political animal,” she went on, “and I believe, also quite paranoid. He feels he needs plausible deniability. It was no great favor to do this for him, because I never confirm or deny anything. I don’t have to. I’m FBI.”

  She was talking to me, but looking outward toward the police cruiser, or beyond that to the runways. It was impossible to tell with her glasses. “You’re going to report that officer to his supervisors?” she murmured.

  Ah, the blue line. “I’m here for video, not trouble.“

  She tipped her glasses down. Her eyes were a radiant hazel against her brown skin. She pinned me with her stare. “He escalated, hoping you’d give him a reason to arrest you, then pulled his service weapon on you—a fancy white chick in a designer suit. Now imagine if you’d been a Latina or a sister.” She slid her glasses up her nose and turned her attention back to the runway. “File the complaint,” she said.

  My two-way crackled to life: “Got a Gulfstream on Citycam one. Recording its descent.” Isaiah read out the tail number to confirm. I glanced over at Special Agent Roubillard, and she nodded.

  I eased the radio from my belt. “Roger that,” I said.

  “I’m in position.” That was Nelson.

  There was the double clicking sound of Kendal’s affirmation.

  “Over the Jefferson now,” Isaiah said. “About a minute to National.” The radio went silent. I turned the volume down and shoved it back onto my belt and grabbed my camera from the satchel. It checked out. I began recording.

  In the distance, the Gulfstream touched down. It slowed and made its turn before it taxied toward us. The jet came to a stop and steps lowered. Michael climbed out first. He was wearing his blue MPD windbreaker, the kind he never wore except when cameras were around. Special Agent Roubillard met him at the bottom of the steps.

  “Commander Ledger, welcome back stateside,” she said, holding out her hand. They shook. “My SAC sends his regards. Congratulations on yet another successful apprehension by the joint task force.”

  “Always a pleasure to work with the Washington field office,” he said in a voice meant to carry. He never once glanced at my camera.

  The two Suburbans pulled up. In the door of the jet, a Marshal appeared and led a figure in a black hoodie down the steps. Her head was down, hands behind her back. Michael met her at the bottom.

  The hood obscured her face. I couldn’t get a shot. I called out her name.

  She lifted her head. In a sharp, vicious movement, Michael tore off her hood. Paige’s appearance was shocking. Her hair was dyed black and cut short around her face, and she had an angular, hungry look. A square bandage marred her long white neck where I’d cut her.

  “Why’d you kill Evelyn Carney?” I said.

  Her mouth curled up in a smile. It was worth more than any denial she might have made, and she was looking right into the camera.

  I got her.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  THERE’S A HIGH that comes with breaking that kind of exclusive. You feel at the top of your game, that your powers are limitless, and you never want to let the feeling go. Of course, the flipside is knowing this is temporary, as all feelings are, and that the work will be forgotten, as all work is forgotten, and sooner rather than later all anybody will ask is: What have you got for us today?

  But for now, the moment was perfect. I would allow nothing to intrude on it, not Isaiah talking about how to expand the story for tomorrow’s news, or Nelson badgering me to celebrate at Chads, where Mellay was buying everyone drinks, or the network requesting my interview on their morning show, and if not that, what could I do? How soon?

  I ignored it all, locking myself away in my office. From behind the bookshelf I pulled the bottle of whiskey and poured a shot and carried it to the television, where I stood like a symphony conductor and waited for my story to air. The show opened with the video of Paige smiling, and then the anchors tossed to Ben on the set. He read as he always did, as if his viewers were friends with whom he was sharing an amazing story, a telling that was as smooth and satisfying as the whiskey in my hand.

  After the show was over and everyone left the station to celebrate, I drifted around the empty newsroom, enjoying the quiet, stacking newspapers and press releases, turning off the lights. When I got to the conference room, Ben was coming out of his office at the end of the hallway, locking his door. I went still, startled out of my private moment.

  His back was to me. I thought about calling out. Maybe he wanted company, as suddenly I wanted his company, and we could celebrate or talk or whatever he wanted—and then I thought of that quick kiss in the Tahoe, and the words stuck in my throat.

  So I left it to chance. If he turns my way, fine. If not, I’d head home.

  He rattled the doorknob to check the lock, and shoving the keys into his pocket, turned away from me toward the stairs. I stayed silent in the dark corridor, watching him go.

  ————

  The next morning, my cell phone went off at an ungodly hour. The caller left a message that beeped and then the damn phone started ringing again.

  It was Mellay’s secretary talking about some big postmortem at noon in Mellay’s office. The head of the News Division and the vice president of legal affairs were coming down from New York on the Acela and wanted to meet. No, she had no idea what it was about. No, there were no concerns about the story or trouble with the staff
, not that she had heard anyway—unless I was refusing to come in? Should she tell Mellay I was refusing?

  “No, but I’m tired,” I said, exasperated. “I worked a sixteen-hour day yesterday. I’ll come in for this meeting at noon, but no earlier. If Mellay has a problem with that, he can call me himself.”

  ————

  The chairs in Mellay’s office were arranged like an inquest. He pointed to a chair that faced three others, and my anxiety jumped. “Sit, sit,” he said, and introduced me to the bigwigs. The lawyer—Henry was his name—was a good-looking older man, very stiff in the torso. He also had a funny way of talking, keeping his face expressionless with only his mouth moving. He talked a lot.

  Javier was the head of the News Division, the big boss in charge of us all. He was a tougher read. He had a lean, intelligent face and he listened attentively, letting others speak, which was a rarity in television news. I liked the way he’d stood when I had come in and remained standing until I took my chair, and especially the way he looked me in the eye when he shook my hand and congratulated me for yesterday’s story.

  This was obviously Mellay’s meeting, though. He and Henry took their seats across from me and grilled me about the fight with Paige by the Chain Bridge. I kept it brief and emotionless, as if I were reporting what had happened to someone else, a news summary. Yes, the suspect had been my source, although much of what she’d told me checked out by other sources and therefore raised no red flags. She’d shown no hints of violence, let alone any indication of her role in two murders. The police investigators, some with over twenty years of experience investigating homicides and who’d interviewed Paige Linden themselves, hadn’t suspected her, either.

  “She fooled everyone she came in contact with,” I told Mellay. “She’d have fooled you, too. Frankly, I don’t know how much more careful I could’ve been.”

  Henry’s mouth thinned peevishly, as he stared pointedly at my neck. “Surely you could’ve been more careful, or you wouldn’t have those bruises.”