Read an Excerpt
Good Man Hunting
Chapter One
The Airport
I wonder how many people's lives have been changed at the airport. It happened to me at LAX, on the other side of the scanning machines. Sitting down to put back on my white Reebok tennis shoes, I remember thinking these tennis shoes are supposed to be safe—the kind you won't have to take off to be scanned. At that moment, I realized that we can never be sure our actions are safe anymore.
"Excuse me," an airline employee—security it looks like—says to me. "Ms. Sandra Greene?"
"Yes?" I look up at the two security guards wearing black shirts and black pants, making them clash in the sea of brightly dressed tourists.
"Can you come with us please?" The shorter one gestures for me to stand up.
"What's the problem?" I tie my left shoe a little too tightly.
"Security matter."
My mind races. Was there something in my purse the screeners didn't like? But I have my purse; wouldn't they have taken it? Maybe they didn't like something in my checked bag?
"If you would just come with us," the first one says again. I stand up and pick up my purse, glancing over to the other side of the screening machines and then at the people on this side. People are staring, and that makes me as nervous as the security guards do. Flashes of Senator Kennedy and how he wasn't able to board a plane because his name was on some terrorist list go through my mind. I wonder if my name is on that list, too.
"In here, please." The first officer leads me into a small office that has the typical desk setup and two guest chairs. "Have a seat." I sit downin one of the government-issue brown chairs. The security guards leave just as another man walks in.
"Sandra Greene." A balding man, with several file folders under his arm, shuts the door. I can't tell if he's asking if I'm Sandra Greene or telling me that I am. He looks pretty harmless: short-sleeved button-down shirt, thin black tie, black pants, and multiple pens in a pocket protector. He sits down behind the desk, and I'm suddenly feeling better. This little guy obviously has an administrative error or something he needs to address.
My opinion changes, however, when another man enters. He's wearing a heavy dark blue suit when it's ninety-something degrees and humid outside.
"Ms. Greene, I'm Senior Agent McFarland with the FBI," he introduces himself and pulls the extra guest chair around to the other side of the desk next to the little guy.
FBI? Okay, something is really wrong, I tell myself. A million cop-show reruns go through my mind, and I'm reminded how you're not supposed to say anything at all except your name until an attorney shows up. You just know the FBI hates all the crime shows, letting the simple folk like me know we have rights.
"Do you know why you're here?"
"Yes. To catch a flight back to Dallas." I play the dumb-blonde card without even thinking and hug my purse in my lap. I wonder if my checked bags are still on their way to Dallas.
"No. Do you know why the FBI wants to speak with you?" He looks exactly like you would expect an FBI guy to look like, so if he's an undercover agent, he's not a very good one.
"No, and, um, I'm sure there must be some mistake." In the twenty-one years I've been alive, I've never been in serious trouble; I've never even gotten a speeding ticket. People like me just do not have meetings with the FBI.
"There's been no mistake. We've been investigating you for some time now, and if you will cooperate with us, you will find the consequences will be less severe. We've been working on a series of murders that we believe you can help us with."
"Murders?" I repeat it as if I've never heard the word before. "I don't know anything about murders." My mind goes over the events of the past week. Was there anything out of the ordinary with the passengers on the boat in Hawaii? No one got pushed over or anything. I did think that Dick guy was kind of weird. But not a murderer. Did I miss something? Chris Rock was right; police officials can make you wonder if you've stolen your own car. Have I done something wrong that I don't realize?
"The murders involve women between the ages of twenty and thirty-seven," he continues. "The last victim may be someone you know. A wealthy supermodel." He slides a black-and-white photo across the desk toward me, and I don't even want to look at it. This really can't be happening to me.
"I'm sorry, I can't help you. Would it be possible for me to, you know, go now? I'd like to catch my flight." I feel my fingers trembling.
"It's okay if you want to go, since you're not under arrest. Yet. We were just hoping you'd be willing to help us so such an arrest could be avoided."
"Why would y'all want to arrest me?" My heart sinks. I would never be involved in killing; I don't even kill spiders in my apartment. Everything in my life is going so great now . . . I don't want anything to interfere with it, especially something like a murder investigation. I feel like I'm about to break down and do the "ugly cry," but then I remember my mom always said that crying makes you look guilty.
"Let's put it this way. . . ," he pauses for effect. "If you refuse to help us, it will appear you are hiding something. You might then be considered a suspect."
"I, of course, want to help you any way I can. It's just I don't think there's anything I can do." I wish he could understand that I don't want to be involved in any of this. Like, it's just not a good time right now for me to help the FBI with a murder investigation.
Good Man Hunting. Copyright © by Lisa Landolt. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
