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In light of the Helter Skelter killings, they'd probably look closer at everyone, but I had nothing to hide. I'd switched my New York-plated rental for my Ontario-plated one. I'd disposed of my disguise in New York. The Tomassinis paid me in uncut gemstones, which are small enough that I could hide them in places no border agent would normally look.
I pulled forward. Second in line now.
It would be fine. Let's face it, how many terrorists enter Canada from the U.S.? Even illegal immigrants stream the other way. Yet even as I told myself this, the agent manning my booth waved the vehicle in front of me over to the search area. It was a minivan driven by a white-haired woman who could barely see over the steering wheel.
I assessed my chances of jumping into another line, where the agent might be in a better mood, but nothing says smuggler like lane-jumping.
I removed my sunglasses and pulled up to the booth.
The agent peered down from his chair. "Destination?"
"Heading home," I said. "Hamilton."
I lifted my ID, but didn't hand it to him. Prepared, but not overeager.
"Where are you coming from?"
"Buffalo."
"Purpose?"
"Shopping trip."
"Length of stay?"
"Since Wednesday. Three days."
Now, I could have easily combined all this information in one simple sentence, but I never liked to display too much familiarity with the routine.
"Bring anything back with you?"
I lifted a handful of receipts, all legitimate. "A couple of shirts, two CDs and a book. Oh, and a bottle of rum."
The agent waved away the receipts, but did accept the proffered driver's license. He looked at it, looked at me, looked back at it. It was my photo. A few years old but, hell, the last time I'd changed my hairstyle was in high school. I didn't exactly ride the cutting edge of fashion.
"Passport?" he asked.
"Never had any use for one, I'm afraid. This is about as far from home as I get." I dug into my purse and pulled out three other pieces of fake ID. "I have a library card, my health card, Social Insurance number..."
I held them up. The agent lifted his hand to wave the cards away, then stopped. The wordless mumbling of a distant radio announcer turned into clear English.
"--fifth victim of the Helter Skelter killer," the DJ said.
"Sorry," I murmured, and reached for my radio volume, only to find it already off.
The agent didn't hear me. He'd turned his full attention to the radio, which seemed to be coming from the truck on the other side of the booth. As the announcer continued, in every booth, every car, the occupants seemed locked in a collective pause, listening.
"Police are searching for a suspect seen in the vicinity. The suspect is believed to be a white male..."
I exhaled so hard I missed the rest of the description.
"Although police are treating Dean Moretti's death as a homicide, they are dismissing rumors that he was the Helter Skelter killer's fifth victim. Yet speculation continues to mount after a witness at the scene claimed to have seen the killer's signature..."
The announcer's voice faded as the truck pulled away. I strained to hear the rest, but my agent had already turned back to me again.
I held up my fake IDs, gripping them tightly to keep my hand steady. "Did you want to see...?"
The agent shook his head. "That's fine. You should think about getting a passport, though. One of these days we're going to need to ask for it."
