***
As Katrice and the man who’d flown in from D.C. next to her raced toward the exit, an announcement spewed from the loudspeakers. “All departing flights have been cancelled.” Great. Air travel had come to a halt. That would put her connecting flight in limbo, but it appeared automobiles were forging the storm. Through a set of glass doors, she noticed the guy in the trench coat disappear into a white vehicle that had been waiting by the curb.
Less than a minute later, she stood in the cold in front of the terminal building, shivering and watching the car’s taillights shrink to small red dots as it skated away between parallel heaps of plowed snow. With her bag. A gnawing sensation riled her stomach. She glanced around and searched for a cab.
She couldn’t lose that bag.
Her traveling companion followed her to the curb and stood shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He cleared his throat and said, “Just so you know, Katrice, I’m not some nutcase stalker.” He held out his wallet, flashing Homeland Security I.D. and a timid smile. “Benjamin Thigpen.”
“Whew…” She offered the best rendition of a smile she could muster at the moment and waved at an approaching taxi. “You had me worried there for a minute.”
Then she took a moment to assess. Thigpen was almost, but not quite as tall as the scruffy bag-snatcher. His high cheekbones subtly indicated some measure of American Indian blood pumped through his veins. His dark, neatly trimmed hair suggested possible military background. His ripped physique said he was hot. And he definitely was not the stalker type.
Not only didn’t she mind sharing her cab with the security specialist, under different circumstances she wouldn’t have minded getting to know him a little better.
The cab she’d hailed pulled up, Thigpen whipped open the door, and Katrice climbed in. “Follow that car.” It sounded like a line from a B movie. But she had to get her bag back.
While she scooted across the seat and plunked the olive carry-on down, Thigpen ducked his head and planted a large loafer-clad foot on the floor mat. He’d barely wedged his muscled frame into the back seat when the cabby took off.
They exited the airport grounds and merged into moderate to heavy traffic, slogging along the freeway in the post-blizzard twilight. Seven inches of snow didn’t seem to faze Milwaukeeans. At least it didn’t faze Fred Gonzolez, their driver, according to the picture I.D. attached to the visor. Fred merrily stomped the gas pedal and attempted to make fast tracks along I94 to 794, skidding here, sliding there, following the absconder into the heart of the city.
“I’m sorry. Where were you headed?” Katrice asked Thigpen.
He gently turned her face toward his. “I read lips, you’ll have to face me when you speak.”
She stared into his dark eyes, his statement taking her by surprise. Now she remembered how intently those eyes had held hers whenever she spoke. She repeated, “Where were you headed? And do you mind—”
“The Milwaukee Art Museum. But I’m not due there for awhile. So yeah, I can stick around until you catch up with your bag.”
She nodded, then turned her attention toward the white car, which was fleeing into the night with her most precious possession.
“It’s a Toyota Camry,” Benjamin Thigpen said then joined her in visually tracking the car.
“Don’t worry, this hombre won’t get away.” Tooling around cautious cars, Fred took to the role of NASCAR driver with gusto and quickly gained on the get-away vehicle. And yes, they were exceeding the optimum safe speed merited for the conditions, but as long as they didn’t get pulled over by a cop, Katrice didn’t mind.
Well, she didn’t mind until twenty minutes into the chase, when they exited the freeway, attempted to merge onto North Lincoln Memorial Drive, and spun out.
Her heart sank. “Don’t lose him.”
By the time Fred shifted to reverse, back to drive, cranked the wheel, throttled the gas, and finally maneuvered the cab in the right direction, the Camry’s rear lights were dragon's eyes in the distance.
“They don’t call me Speedy Gonzoles for nothing.” Fred gunned it and proved himself worthy of the title, once more gaining on the Toyota.
Katrice leaned forward. The thermometer on the dash said the subfreezing temperatures had deteriorated to subzero. Maybe the smoking tires would warm things up a bit. She glanced out the passenger side window. The sky had cleared to black velvet haloed by a rainbow of haze from the city lights. From that canvas, as they headed for the eastern edge of downtown Milwaukee, an illuminated ship-like structure rose above the snow-covered shore of Lake Michigan.
Just when they edged to within a couple car lengths of the Toyota, the cab started a sideways glide, the curb racing toward them. Fred spewed a litany in Spanish and turned the wheels into the slide. Horns honked, brakes squealed, and somehow the taxi returned to forward-advance-mode and locked in on their target as it turned onto North Art Museum Drive.
“Holy—” Thigpen’s jaw dropped. “What are the odds? This is exactly where I was headed. The Quadracci Pavilion. The Milwaukee Art Museum.”
While keeping tabs on the Toyota, Katrice marveled at the Gothic cathedral-inspired fortress. “It has wings.”
“They’re moveable sunscreens.” Fred pumped the brakes and glanced into the rearview mirror, flashing a set of wide white teeth.
“Two hundred seventeen foot wingspan…” Thigpen added, then shrugged, his photogenic cheekbones lifting in a reserved smile. “I’ve been doing my homework.”
“Wow…” Katrice curved a grin back at him. Something about Thigpen’s obvious tough outer shell combined with a school-boy shyness appealed to her. “Very impressive,” she said, turning her attention toward the Toyota.
“Designed by the Spanish architect Santiago Calatrava,” Fred piped in.
The Camry pulled into the passenger drop-off area near the entrance of the ultra modern building and parked between a limo and a Jeep outfitted with a plow blade. Fred eased his foot onto the brake pedal and swerved into a spot several cars behind the Jeep. At the same moment, the front passenger door of the Camry opened, and the man in the trench coat shot out.
Katrice immediately fumbled for taxi fare.
Thigpen leaned over, handed Fred a fifty, then ripped open the door. “Keep the change.”
“Gracias.” Fred beamed a huge smile.
While the man toting Katrice’s bag scuttled away, hustling toward the entrance, she bolted out of the cab, Thigpen behind her with both his bag and the mistaken duffle in hand.
He yelled, “Sir, wait, you’ve got the wrong—”
The man ignored Thigpen and ran into the building.
Katrice jogged along with the HS agent toward a set of glass doors nestled in the shadows of a footbridge, sheltered beneath an arched concrete buttress.
Inside, she took the lead, dashing up white marble stairs to the admission desk, only to have the woman in charge say, “I’m sorry, the museum is closed to the public this evening.”
Eyeing a sign posted on the counter, Katrice argued, “But the schedule says you’re open until eight on Thursdays.”
“Yes, Thursday usually is our late night, but the schedule is subject to change. There’s a special program tonight. President Mohammad Mahid will be arriving shortly. Sorry, but our doors will be open to the public again tomorrow at ten a.m., at which time you can view the morning ritual, the opening of the wings—the Burke Brise Soleil.”
Her chest knotting, Katrice looked around for the lanky man in the trench coat and tried to keep the irritated edge from her voice. “But I just saw someone enter, and he has my—”
“Oh, that was one of our wait staff. UWM art students are helping the Milwaukee Art Guild, which is hosting a reception for the dignitaries. Again, I’m sorry, but all patrons must vacate the premises now. Only authorized members of the staff are allowed to enter at this time.”
Okay, don’t panic. You are a trained officer of the United States Air Force. Katrice Kennedy
had nerves of steel. She was capable of throttling an F-22 at supersonic speeds without a waiver of her pulse rate or a rise in her blood pressure. So why was she hyperventilating over losing the contents of her duffle? Was she slowly losing it? Her composure? Her self-control? Her stability?
But, she had to retrieve her bag.
In desperation, she glanced at Thigpen. He pulled her aside. “Let me handle this.”
After a brief exchange with the gatekeeper, where Thigpen established that he was Homeland Security, and in which he and Katrice were given permission to enter, he directed her toward one of many strategically placed white marble benches and hefted the drab green satchel onto it. He flipped over the nametag. “Allen L. Ingers.”
Katrice stared at the tag a moment and then steadied her gaze on Thigpen’s and said, “Ingers, a college student, flew all the way in from D.C. to serve dinner at the Milwaukee Art Museum?”
“Nice to know I’m not the only one with a suspicious mind. I don’t like this.”
“I agree. Something’s not right.” But they could be barking up the wrong duffel bag. “All we’ve really got is a college kid, supposedly an art student, who mistakenly walked off with my duffle.”