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Brady called, checked in over our dedicated radio channel.
“I left your name and Conklin’s with the airport police and airport security. The flight has been delayed for a few minutes. It was made to sound like they were still cleaning out the plane. God willing, Alvarez and I will meet you at the gate.”
I said, “Brady, I’ve got the girlfriend’s story on tape. It’s good. Robbie mumbled the shooter’s name into my phone but Pearl will be a witness regardless. We’re stuck in traffic. I don’t know if we’ll make it in time but we’ll keep you posted.”
We moved slowly through the traffic jam. The volume of our sirens caused drivers ahead of us to pull over when possible. We spent a full twenty minutes on that traffic circle, then another ten minutes working our way through the miles of drop-off points where airline and taxicab passengers were unloaded.
It was now ten minutes to takeoff. Rich parked in a No Parking Anytime zone. Inside the building, I glanced at the flight board and saw Qatar 1020 would be leaving in eight minutes.
Rich badged an airport cop whose name tag readFLYNN. Flynn was sharp and fast. He commandeered a motorized luggage cart and we all boarded it. With Flynn driving, we sped along the international concourse, slowed when we saw that it was backed up with passengers in the wide center aisle, thicker around the gates.
I wanted to yell, “Come onnnnn!” as passengers shuffled to the news and food kiosks and little screaming kids raced around, going wild. It should have been an easy run to the gate, but it was a freaking steeplechase.
The airport cop said, “Let’s go.”
He braked, abandoned the cart, and ran with us to the gate just as the boarding announcement began. The PA squealed, then a voice ordered first-class passengers to join the queue. I saw him first.
“Rich. The guy with the hair.”
“And the nose?”
“Yes. For sure.”
Our airport cop didn’t know what we were talking about, so I filled in a few adjectives. “Over six feet. Gray hair. Prominent nose. That’s our guy.”
The three of us crept along both sides of the line of passengers waiting to board. The flight attendant who was at the head of the queue looked up, saw us—but she’d not been clued in. Her face took on a number of sequential expressions: confused, PO’d, questioning, adamant. If our subject had been watching her, he would be alerted.
Flynn walked up to our person of interest and said, “Excuse me, sir. I need to see your passport again.”
Bruce Cavanaugh muttered, “For God’s sake,” and reached into his jacket’s inside breast pocket. Conklin and I sprang, and I do mean literally sprang, right up to Cavanaugh, me on the left, Conklin on the right, and we shoved him out of line.
Flynn held a gun on Cavanaugh while Conklin cuffed him and dropped him to his knees. While Conklin frisked him thoroughly, I said, “Bruce Cavanaugh, you’re under arrest for the murder of Martin Boxer.”
Cavanaugh interrupted my reading of his rights with protests and arguments, but I pushed on. I saw a tall, well-built blond-haired man heading our way with a sprightly brunette who was new to Homicide. They sprinted toward us.
Cavanaugh wasn’t having it. He struggled and shouted, and although I thought Rich and I could’ve wrangled him out to the patrol car, it was better to have Lieutenant Jackson Brady to supply the muscle.
Out at the curb, I thanked Flynn, and Brady said to all of us, “God, we’re good. Not a shot fired.”
I checked my pocket to make sure I hadn’t lost my phone, and I pulled it out to show Brady.
“It’s all here, Brady. The Goose is cooked.”
CHAPTER 36
THE REST OF the day went as smoothly as if we’d planned it.
Brady and Alvarez had a grille partition between the front and back seats of their car, and after stuffing a cuffed Goose Cavanaugh into the back seat, they drove him to the Hall for booking. Conklin and I got into our unmarked car, and I called Metro’s emergency room to check on Jack Robbie.
I was told he was still in the ER but that his condition had stabilized. I knew he would have to be arrested for felony murder and Brady was busy, so I said to Rich, “We have to go back to Metro.”
Once inside the ER, Rich and I both cleared the succession of nurses and orderlies and went directly to Robbie’s stall, where I arrested him for the felony murder of Martin Boxer, and I read him his rights. Either he understood me or just knew the drill by heart, since he grunted every time I asked him, “Do you understand?”
Conklin cuffed Robbie to the side bars of his bed and called dispatch for a uniform to guard his ER stall.
Pearl’s visiting time had long expired and she had left the hospital, so Rich and I headed downtown to the Mission District. We picked Pearl up at JR’s Aces High Dry Cleaners and brought her back to the Southern Station to make a statement.
Which she did.
