Free Reversible Errors by Scott Turow Page A

pale you could barely see them. To Larry, he'd always been a hard man to like. There was an edge to Erno and a frequent sour frown, like he'd smelled some stink, which might well have been you. He probably would have made an all-right cop, smart enough and serious about the job, but he never got that far. While he was still in the Academy, he got into a domestic situation where he shot and killed his mother-in-law. The coroner's inquest had included testimony from Erdai's wife, who confirmed that the old lady had come after Erno with a knife, but the brass on the Force would not bring on a guy who'd killed with his service revolver even before he had a star.
    In the strange way things go, this had been an okay break for Erno. Some coppers from the Academy hooked him up with the security department at TN. He kept peace at the airport, helped Customs nab smuggled drugs, and tried to make sure nobody stole a free ride on an airplane. He went to work in a suit and tie. These days, he had a nice house in the suburbs and a pension plan and airline stock, and a large staff of ex-coppers under him. He'd done fine. But for years heel remained a wanna-be, hanging around at Ikes, the Tri-Cities' best- known cop bar. He craved the weapon and the star and the stamp of a certified tough guy. He'd nibble at a beer, taking in the coppers' stories with the same look of middle-aged woe about things he'd missed out on that a lot of people showed at this stage, maybe, even, including Larry.
    "What's your angle with the dope, anyway?" Erno asked. "I thought Greer was figuring she's popped by Stranger Danger. Wrong time, wrong place."
    "Probably. But your girl Luisa, she had some big money comin g i n."
    That seemed to pep up Erno. Erno, in Larry's experience, was one of those hunkies with a strong interest in money, especially his own. He didn't really boast; when he talked about his stock options, he was more like a guy telling you about his low cholesterol. Ain't I lucky? He reminded Larry of some of his elderly Polish relatives, who could give you the case history on every dollar they'd ever made or spent. It was an Old World thing, money equaling security. Being a Homicide dick taught you two things about that. First, people died for money; the only thing they died for more often was love. And second, there was never money enough when the bogeyman rang your doorbell.
    "From where s she getting money?" Erno said.
    'That's what 1 wanted to ask you guys. She stealing something?"
    Erno turned sideways to consider the question. Across the street, on the north-south runway, a 737 was settling down like a duck onto a pond. The plane, a screaming marvel of rivets and aluminum, sank toward the tarmac a few degrees off center, but alighted uneventfully. Larry figured Ernos windows for triple-pane, because there was barely a sound.
    "She wasn't ripping tickets, if that's what you're thinking," Erdai answered.
    "I was wondering more whether she had her hand in the till."
    "No chance. Accountings way too tight when we get cash."
    "And why not tickets?"
    "Tickets? That's the best thing around here to steal. One piece of paper can be worth a thousand on the street. But people always get caught." Erno outlined procedures. Agents issued tickets, usually by computer or sometimes by hand. The ticket wasn't valid unless the issuing agent was identified, either by way of a personal computer code or, for the hand tickets, through the agent's own die, a metal plate which fit in a machine like a credit card imprinter that was used to validate blank ticket stock. "Anytime somebody travels, accounting matches up the flight coupon with the payment. No payment, my phone rings. And the issuing agent, that's the first door you knock on."
    "So? Your phone ringing?"
    "One, two tickets now and then. But you know, nothing that's gonna make thousands for somebody, if that's what we're talking. No missing die. That'd be a biggie. The airline's a bear on this stuff. Lock you up