Read Online Catch Her If You Can by Merline Lovelace - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Merline Lovelace
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consists of a cluster of stucco buildings in what was once flat farmland. The station’s fenced yard was large enough to house a fleet of vehicles, most of which were out on patrol when I pulled up at the entry point.
The Border Patrol’s primary mission used to be to deter illegals and smugglers. After 9/11, priority shifted to apprehending terrorists attempting to enter the United States. Not an easy task, as I’ve learned during my association with Mitch these past months. On a typical day, Customs and Border Patrol personnel process some 1.13 million passengers and pedestrians entering the U.S.; 70,000 truck, rail, and sea containers; and $88 million in fees, duties, and tariffs. They also apprehend 2,400 folks and seize more than 7,000 pounds of narcotics.
Daily!
The statistics went a long way to explaining the tired lines cut into Mitch’s face when he slid into the convertible’s passenger seat. Worry for his daughter explained the rest. I could have told him most teenage girls felt obligated to rebel against their mothers on a more or less regular basis. I certainly did. Then again, I didn’t have a father on the bad side of a vicious criminal.
“Call me when you get to Seattle,” I made him promise after we’d pulled up at the airport.
Nodding, he gave me a semi-distracted kiss before levering out of the convertible. I watched him disappear inside the terminal. Then I cut into the airport traffic stream and tried to decide what to do with the rest of my day.
The mall beckoned. Ten days out at Dry Springs with my team always left me with an insatiable Macy’s craving. Unfortunately, it also left me with piles of test reports to synthesize and a stack of new submissions to review. I supposed I could go out to Fort Bliss and use the quiet hours of a Saturday morning to make a dent in the stack.
Or I could craft a carefully worded email to Dr. J inquiring about the propriety of accepting the reward. Macy’s would certainly be a lot more fun with a big chunk of change jingling in my pockets.
Hmmm. Tough choice. Shopping with my present limited resources. Or waiting until I could enjoy a more extravagant incursion.
Just about everyone who knows me will confirm I’m not into delayed gratification. Or hard logic. Took me all of ten seconds to decide this was just too pretty a morning to be stuck in an office building (as opposed to an enclosed, windowless mall).
Since I was already headed north toward the base and the mall lay in the opposite direction, I had to cut across two lanes of traffic to exit Airport Road. The drivers behind me didn’t take kindly to my emergency maneuvers. One laid on his horn. Another flipped me the bird. I mouthed an apology to the rearview mirror but felt somewhat vindicated when a gray Chevy two cars back executed the same abrupt exit.
Five minutes later my cell phone warbled out a slightly X-rated version of “The Eyes of Texas” and I had to change directions again. Very reluctantly, I might add. Charlie, it turns out, hadn’t even reached the outskirts of town before his pickup wheezed and died. He’d had it towed to a Ford dealership but was stuck in El Paso until a part got shipped in.
“Damned part’s manufactured in Singapore or India or someplace like that,” he groused when I pulled into the dealership and he folded his long length into the Sebring. “They said they couldn’t get one in until Tuesday.”
“I hope you don’t think you’re going to stay at my place until then,” I huffed. “I’ll take you to a motel but that’s as far as we go.”
“Com’on, Sam. I can’t afford three nights in a motel.”
“I beg to differ. Didn’t Mitch just loan you a thousand dollars?”
“I wired that to Brenda before I broke down. She used to work for the guy we borrowed from, so she knew just where to . . .”
“Wait a minute. She worked for the Mob?”
“She didn’t know Richie was in the business.”
“Yeah, right.”
The cynical remark
The Border Patrol’s primary mission used to be to deter illegals and smugglers. After 9/11, priority shifted to apprehending terrorists attempting to enter the United States. Not an easy task, as I’ve learned during my association with Mitch these past months. On a typical day, Customs and Border Patrol personnel process some 1.13 million passengers and pedestrians entering the U.S.; 70,000 truck, rail, and sea containers; and $88 million in fees, duties, and tariffs. They also apprehend 2,400 folks and seize more than 7,000 pounds of narcotics.
Daily!
The statistics went a long way to explaining the tired lines cut into Mitch’s face when he slid into the convertible’s passenger seat. Worry for his daughter explained the rest. I could have told him most teenage girls felt obligated to rebel against their mothers on a more or less regular basis. I certainly did. Then again, I didn’t have a father on the bad side of a vicious criminal.
“Call me when you get to Seattle,” I made him promise after we’d pulled up at the airport.
Nodding, he gave me a semi-distracted kiss before levering out of the convertible. I watched him disappear inside the terminal. Then I cut into the airport traffic stream and tried to decide what to do with the rest of my day.
The mall beckoned. Ten days out at Dry Springs with my team always left me with an insatiable Macy’s craving. Unfortunately, it also left me with piles of test reports to synthesize and a stack of new submissions to review. I supposed I could go out to Fort Bliss and use the quiet hours of a Saturday morning to make a dent in the stack.
Or I could craft a carefully worded email to Dr. J inquiring about the propriety of accepting the reward. Macy’s would certainly be a lot more fun with a big chunk of change jingling in my pockets.
Hmmm. Tough choice. Shopping with my present limited resources. Or waiting until I could enjoy a more extravagant incursion.
Just about everyone who knows me will confirm I’m not into delayed gratification. Or hard logic. Took me all of ten seconds to decide this was just too pretty a morning to be stuck in an office building (as opposed to an enclosed, windowless mall).
Since I was already headed north toward the base and the mall lay in the opposite direction, I had to cut across two lanes of traffic to exit Airport Road. The drivers behind me didn’t take kindly to my emergency maneuvers. One laid on his horn. Another flipped me the bird. I mouthed an apology to the rearview mirror but felt somewhat vindicated when a gray Chevy two cars back executed the same abrupt exit.
Five minutes later my cell phone warbled out a slightly X-rated version of “The Eyes of Texas” and I had to change directions again. Very reluctantly, I might add. Charlie, it turns out, hadn’t even reached the outskirts of town before his pickup wheezed and died. He’d had it towed to a Ford dealership but was stuck in El Paso until a part got shipped in.
“Damned part’s manufactured in Singapore or India or someplace like that,” he groused when I pulled into the dealership and he folded his long length into the Sebring. “They said they couldn’t get one in until Tuesday.”
“I hope you don’t think you’re going to stay at my place until then,” I huffed. “I’ll take you to a motel but that’s as far as we go.”
“Com’on, Sam. I can’t afford three nights in a motel.”
“I beg to differ. Didn’t Mitch just loan you a thousand dollars?”
“I wired that to Brenda before I broke down. She used to work for the guy we borrowed from, so she knew just where to . . .”
“Wait a minute. She worked for the Mob?”
“She didn’t know Richie was in the business.”
“Yeah, right.”
The cynical remark
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