“Oh, I see,” said the man, looking confused. He was angular, a head taller than John. His silver-grey temples and his metal-rimmed glasses gave him an air of authority. He wore a suit and tie, his light-blue shirt perfectly pressed. John felt bedraggled beside the man in his crumpled leather jacket and faded jeans. “And what’s an East Coast detective doing here in L.A.?”
“Uh, that’s strictly official,” John lied.
“That’s a strange thing to say, considering you showed your trade union badge. Have you been suspended?”
Shit! thought John, he was so angry with himself he could shout. How could he think that a professional, who probably saw a lot of badges or IDs, would fall for his amateur trick?
“You don’t have an ID either,” John fought back because he didn’t see the usual airport ID han
