Free Come Out Tonight by Bonnie Rozanski

said, to confirm the obvious.
    “Uh.   Yeah.”
    “And her parents were planning on flying out to celebrate.…”
    “Yeah, to have dinner with her.   That’s why I didn’t expect her to be coming over.   She said it would be better if she saw them alone….” He interrupted his own jabbering for a second.   “Is this important?”
    Duh, I wanted to say.   Instead, I said, “Just curious.   My brother’s birthday is also April 30 th .”
    Our conversation wound down after that.   Not that I would tell him this, but I don’t have a brother, and because of that important fact, his birthday was unlikely to be April 30.   Police officers are supposed to tell the truth.   In fact, that is one of the factors that theoretically separates us from the criminals we pursue.   But it happens sometimes that a little white lie is necessary to distract the other party, who doesn’t really need to know the truth.  
    So, I thought, after hanging up: if Sherry’s parents had come in for her birthday, and taken her to dinner that night, they might have been the last ones to speak to her before she was assaulted.   However, what that had to do with the attack on their daughter, I didn’t know yet.   Could there have been an argument, something that disturbed her enough to send her back to the loving arms of Henry?   Could she have been followed in the dark?   And why would the Pollacks keep mum about being in New York City ?   Anyway, all of this was total conjecture until I determined whether they were there at all for the night in question.
    I figured I could use some fresh air.   I borrowed a Crown Victoria from the precinct’s fleet of four, headed through the Park to FDR Drive , over the RFK Bridge and on to LaGuardia Airport in Queens .   I was driving the wrong way out of the city, just when most of the traffic was coming in, so the whole thing took about half an hour.   I parked in short term parking as close as I could get to the Central Terminal.   Air Tran was in Concourse B.   I took the escalator up.  
    It was easy.   True, there weren’t a lot of agents.   The latest rule is to check yourself in on one of those computerized check-in stations.   I found one young black woman behind the console who was busying herself at not being busy, overseeing several customers who were doing all the work.   I flashed my badge and got immediate service.   Too bad for the old guy on the end who couldn’t work the machine.   He was on his own.
    “What can I do for you, Officer?” the agent asked.   The badge on her navy blue blazer identified her as J’ Quaelah.  
    I explained that I needed to see the passenger list of their red eye flight from LA to LaGuardia on the evening of May 1.  
    “Let me check with my supervisor about accessing the flight manifest,” she said, and disappeared.   Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed as I waited for her.   After awhile, I went over to the old guy at the end, who was still struggling, and offered my services as surrogate airline agent: walking him through the Q&A, helping him to lift his bag onto the scale.   Just as I had gotten him squared away, the agent reappeared.
    “I’m sorry for the wait,” J’Quaelah said, getting back behind her console. “My supervisor told me to give you any information at our disposal.”   She pressed a few keys.   “That would be from the flight leaving LAX May 1 at 11:05 p.m., going through Atlanta , arriving LGA 8:30 a.m.?”   she asked.  
    Yes, I nodded.   “Anyone with the name Pollack?” I asked.
    “No,” J’Quaelah said.  
    The answer was also no to any other red eye flights from other airlines on that date or for the other New York airports.   So, if they hadn’t flown a private jet, they hadn’t come that night.   I walked slowly back to the parking garage.   I’d get Ricardo started looking through small plane registries coming into New York area airports that night, but I doubted he would find