Page 13 of Bonded in Death

“I need to see the feed for disembarking and pickup from the flight from Rome that landed about midnight. Twelve-eighteen landing.”

“I’ll need to verify your IDs.”

The dark-suited male with broad shoulders and a waving gray streak through ink-black hair ran the scanner over the badges.

“Lieutenant, Detective, come with me. Bonnie, I need to go to the hub.”

“Got you covered.”

He led them through a warren, used his swipe on a door, then through another warren and another door.

Inside, the many screens showed people disembarking, others clipping their way down tunnels for their flight to wherever.

Another screen, and people, looking antsy, bored, or exhausted, shuffled through the line at Customs.

Still others showed people slumped in seats, some sleeping, others scrolling on ’links or tablets.

Other camera angles displayed luggage areas. Shops, bars, restaurants.

“Barry, NYPSD. Need to see security from last night.”

“Arriving from Rome,” Eve supplied. “Zero-eighteen. We need to see who picked up a passenger.” She pulled Rossi’s passport photo.

“Take half a sec with face rec.”

“I’d like to see him from when he disembarked to when he left the terminal.”

“Cover that.”

And in about half a sec, she watched Rossi walking up the slope of the tunnel, the shoulder bag on his arm, his wheeled case rolling behind him.

He looked a little tired around the eyes, Eve noted, but she saw excitement in them. More, she thought, than end-of-the-journey pleasure.

She watched him breeze through Customs, give the officer there a cheery smile before he pocketed his passport.

The screen shifted as he came out of Customs.

And there he smiled again. At the man in the black uniform, complete with cap, holding a sign with his name.

“Freeze on the pickup,” Eve ordered.

Mid-fifties, she gauged, around six feet, and a trim one-seventy. Brown hair, blue eyes, mixed race. Smooth-shaven, square-jawed.

And obviously not concerned about showing his face on the security cameras.

“Okay, roll it from there.”

Without audio, she couldn’t be sure of the words exchanged, but she saw no recognition in Rossi’s eyes, nothing in the brief conversation to indicate the men knew each other.

Just a driver meeting a client at the airport, taking his wheeled case, shoulder bag, and leading him out.

“We need a copy.”

“Cover that.”

“The driver. Can you run face rec there? See when he came in, what he did?”

“Gotcha.”

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