Free Cost of Life by Joshua Corin Page A

Arrhythmic. Abrasive. It came from the row behind him. He opened one eye. The culprit was a man about his age, dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and Bermuda shorts, and with a red mustache underneath his wide nose. With each epic snore, the hairs of the mustache flitted about like terrified red ants.
    Frank considered tapping the man on the knee. If he squeezed his arm in the gap between his seat and the nursing mother’s seat, he might just be able to do it…
    The plane canted to the right, and then slightly downward. Must be turbulence, Frank thought. This was his first flight. He brought his seat back to its upright position and stared out at the clouds. They looked like white water waves. And waves reminded him of Catalina-Luisa Hierra Perez.
    He smiled again. Let those butterflies in his belly have at it. Let the walrus behind him snore. In a world in which
she
existed, in a world in which she was waiting for him, what did a few hours of aggravation matter?

Chapter 12
    Hayley navigated them through the airport’s choose-your-own-adventure maze of inroads until they reached the short-term parking deck. There they encountered further difficulty, as the police had, with red-orange traffic cones, cordoned off much of the usable space. At the epicenter of this police zone, a forensics team was working its scientific magic on Larry Walder’s Audi. There were four technicians in all—two documenting the German car’s exterior and two combing through its interior.
    The maze deposited Hayley and Xana a good football field’s length away from the airport terminal. Together, the two women traipsed across the hot pavement, past row upon row of sedans, motorcycles, SUVs, and all manner of hybrids in between, toward the ramp leading down to the street level. The area of demarcation was, by design, well out of their way…but Xana steered them there nonetheless, coming to a stop not far from the fence of red-orange cones. If she couldn’t drink—lest she end up behind bars—and she couldn’t smoke—lest she end up killing the intern—a third distraction would have to suffice.
    “What do you see?” she asked Hayley.
    “What do I see?”
    “Inductive reasoning, deductive reasoning. You want to work in intelligence? Tell me what you see.”
    “I see a car.”
    “Be more specific.”
    “I see a parked car. A car involved in a crime. An expensive car.”
    “So what doesn’t fit?”
    “What doesn’t fit?”
    “Tell me what you see,” Xana repeated. “I’ll give you thirty seconds.”
    Xana crossed her arms. The summer sun was beginning to cook the parking garage, and no wonder, for what was it but a slab of cement cluttered with steel? She longed for the A/C of the airport, but she needed a minute or two more out here in the fresh air. Once she was inside, there would be no easy escape. Nearly every restaurant in the airport commissary sold booze, and sure, she had full faith in her ability to shake off her teenage chaperone and slink to Houlihan’s or something and down a few shots of—what—yes—Johnnie Walker Red, no rocks, straight up, served in a bottom-heavy scotch glass…
    “OK,” said Hayley. “I think I’ve got something.”
    Xana wiped a ball of sweat from the dark hair of her brow. “Go for it.”
    “OK. A police officer pulled over this car and the driver—or someone else inside the car—shot the police officer and drove off. We’re here because one or more of the people who was in the car is being detained and that person doesn’t speak any of the twenty-four common languages in daily use at the airport so they brought you in to translate. So: How did I do?”
    “You overheard about the shooting already, didn’t you?”
    “I can’t help it. I like to pay attention to details.”
    Xana gently clocked Hayley upside the head and then added with a smile: “Brat.”
    “But there are a few things that don’t make sense. Like—why did they park here? Why not park in the employee