Free Cost of Life by Joshua Corin Page B

lot?”
    “That actually is a very good question.”
    “Really?” Hayley blushed. “Thanks. Actually—”
    But she was interrupted by one of the traffic cops, who yelled out to them: “OK, ladies. This isn’t a spa. Get a move on!”
    Xana once again swallowed her God-given belligerence and strolled peacefully with Hayley toward the North Terminal.
    Aside from the TSA, security at the airport was provided by a full division of the Atlanta Police Department, and they were headquartered on the third floor of the North Terminal. This APD substation was accessible via one of several inconspicuous elevators; Xana and Hayley took the one nearest to baggage claim, both of them noting—not for the first time—the array of giant ants stuck along the ceiling, a sculpture project someone with a bizarre sense of humor had approved.
    On its busiest days, like the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, Hartsfield-Jackson had more people per square inch than anywhere else in the country, but on this morning, on the Fourth of July, the foot traffic at 8:47 A.M. was minimal. Xana and Hayley got off the elevator on the third floor and headed straight to the glass-walled substation and to the dumpy, cheery receptionist behind the counter.
    “Hi,” said Xana. “I’m the FBI translator.”
    The receptionist checked her computer. “Honeydew Marx?”
    “Xanadu Marx.”
    “See, I
thought
that was what they said, but it
couldn’t
be, am I right? Guess I was wrong.”
    “Yeah.”
    “So somebody’s parents were really into Olivia Newton-John, am I right?”
    Xana was not amused.
    “Right,” said the receptionist, flustered. “I’ll, um, let Lieutenant Dundee know you’re here.”
    They took a seat on a wooden bench.
    “Do you get that a lot?” Hayley asked Xana.
    “Yeah.”
    “Does it bother you?”
    “Yes.”
    “I’m not a fan of my name either. I don’t even know why my parents named me Hayley. It’s not like it’s a family name or anything. I think they enjoyed the sound of it. So what’s, like, the hardest language you ever had to learn?”
    “Silence.”
    “Ooh, profound.”
    “Want me to teach it to you?”
    Hayley opened her mouth to respond, then understood Xana’s subtext, then shut up.
    Shortly thereafter, they were joined by Lieutenant Elvis Dundee and his lackey for the day, Officer Angelika Chiles. Both were in uniform. Lieutenant Dundee was paring a red apple with a Swiss Army knife.
    “Well, what we’ve got here is genuine celebrity,” Dundee declared, sliding an apple slice into his mouth. “Welcome.”
    Xana and Hayley stood up.
    “We get our share of famous folk here at the airport, as you might expect, they don’t impress me. I’m not easily starstruck. Am I easily starstruck, Officer Chiles?”
    Officer Chiles shook her head. She was carrying what appeared to be a remote control with a short hollow antenna.
    This, Xana knew, was no remote control, and that was no antenna.
    “When I heard that it was
you
that the Bureau was sending, I almost floated out of my boots, because for weeks—weeks!—you were all that I talked about around here. Isn’t that right, Officer Chiles?”
    Xana glared at the device—the Breathalyzer—and then at Lieutenant Dundee. “Is all this really necessary?”
    “Necessary? No. But if you’re going to be working with this department, you need to be vetted. Open wide.”
    Xana gritted her teeth—and then parted her lips in an O. Chiles slid the straw end between her lips.
    “Pretend you’re whistling. ‘You know how to whistle, don’t you, missy?’ ” said Dundee. “ ‘You just put your lips together and blow.’ ”
    Sucking down her tears of humiliation, she blew into the straw while Chiles glanced at the digital readout.
    “Boy, I am glad the detective working this particular homicide is off counseling the victim’s family and you get to spend this time with me. I am a glad, glad man. You see, missy, for the longest time, you were all I talked