Free Noah's Rainy Day by Sandra Brannan Page A

level of the terminal.
    The Jeppesen Terminal was an immense space with a ticketing area just inside the doors on either side, a multitude of commerce ringing the main terminal just below the halls of the upper level, and travelers herded to the center through security clearance just above the down escalators to the underground trains. Streeter observed the stores, restaurants, art galleries, coffee shops, and newsstands that encircled the security screening area one level down from Toby Freytag’s office and realized that the BlueSky office complex was situated directly above the ticketing counters. Then he noticed the other airlines’ arrangements were similar—office complexes were mostly above the ticketing areas, each probably having internal stairs for their employees to use. The doors to public transportation and to the mirror-image parking structures were just beyond the ticketing counters.
    Streeter saw that if a BlueSky employee wandered into an unsecured area of Jeppesen Terminal, no one would take notice of him, even if he had a child in tow. Hopefully, the cameras Streeter spotted hanging all over the walls had captured something.
    “We’re setting up headquarters on Concourse B on the level just above where the boy was supposed to board the plane to LAX. Gate B51.”
    “Where did he arrive?” Streeter asked.
    “Gate B31 was where the boy was last seen,” Gates said to Streeter as they walked toward security. “They said your guy is already there, pulling data for us.”
    “Must be Kelleher,” Streeter said.
    Gates nodded. “I have Eddie—the deputy who called me—and the other officers canvassing the BlueSky employees throughout the airport to find out who knows what and where everyone was earlier today. It’s been nearly six hours since the LaGuardia plane landed. That means many of the employees are probably off shift already. But Eddie will do what he can. Take names and numbers.”
    Streeter’s eyes never stopped moving. His gaze skipped from face to face, scanning the area and taking it all in: the lights, the barricades, the stores, the restaurants, the hordes of travelers, and the vast space. The infinite places a little boy could be hidden from view—multilevels; unmarked doors, some locked, some not; countless merchants; dozens and dozens of bathrooms; and far too many exits on either side of Jeppesen Terminal. Itwould be a daunting task to locate the child if he had decided to play hide-and-seek in this place.
    Streeter drew in a long breath and looked up at the steel structure supporting the peaks of white canvas overhead that emulated the snowcapped Rocky Mountains, and he could think of nothing but haystacks. Mumbling to himself, he said, “Like finding a needle.”
    As they bypassed the hundreds of travelers snaking through the roped-off lines and approached the police officers and TSA employees at security, Gates flipped open his badge, as did Streeter.
    One of the senior officers said, “Chief Gates, we just heard.”
    “Cheryl, how are you?”
    Streeter studied the police officer who reminded him of an adult version of Little Lotta the comic book character. The female officer was short and stout, had freckles spattered on her round face, and her blond hair, except for her bangs, was cropped at chin level.
    “Not so good. Knowing there’s been a boy missing for over five hours and we’re just now hearing about it? So much valuable time’s been lost.”
    “You’re telling me,” Gates said, looking at his watch.
    Streeter noted that it was approaching 6:30 p.m. and they had gotten very little out of BlueSky manager Freytag, who didn’t seem to know much at all.
    All the officers waited for Gates to say something. He studied each of their faces in the silence, looking each in the eyes and then moving on. Streeter knew his routine, knew Gates had to assess their involvement for himself. After a long moment, he introduced himself to each of the officers and asked Cheryl for