"Arne liked a smooth ride," she said.
"Then that's what he'll get."
Marcus wheeled her away toward the trains. Desmond picked up his garment bag, picked up the handle of his roller bag, checked his watch again, seven-oh-one, and let out a long breath through his nose. He would be late for show. Not catastrophically. He would text the first officer from the train. Tomás would already have started the walkaround; Tomás was a good kid, thirty-four, Air Force, organized to the point of comedy. They'd make it up.
He had taken perhaps six steps toward the corridor when Officer Blake called after him.
"Hey. Sir. Captain."
Desmond turned. Blake was holding up a soft boxy tapestry purse, roses on cream, mended strap.
"She left it. It slid off when he turned the chair. It was on the floor by the bins."
Desmond looked down the long corridor. Dolores and Marcus were gone, swallowed by the crowd at the train platform. He thought about the two pill bottles. He thought about the boarding pass, which was in her cardigan pocket, thank God, but her ID was in the purse, he had seen the edge of it, and her money, and whatever else an eighty-year-old woman carries with her on the day she takes her husband home.
"I'll take it to her," he said. "She's on my flight."
Blake hesitated. Purses were property, and property was paperwork, and Desmond could see him running the forms in his head.
"Call Garrido if you want," Desmond said gently. "She's right there. She saw."
Garrido, across the lanes, lifted one hand and made a little shooing motion. Go.
So he went. He put the purse strap over his left shoulder, where the garment bag was already hanging, and gripped the roller bag in his right hand, and walked fast down the corridor toward the trains. Then, when he saw the train doors begin to close, he ran.
* * *