Accidents Waiting to Happen (21 page)

“So you’re interested?”

“Yes.”
 
Bell’s dark eyes bored into him.
 

She was interested.
 
He had her.

“What is the worst thing you’ve ever done?”

“That’s the question?”

Smiling, the professional nodded.
 
He took another mouthful of food from his fork.

“Why not the nicest thing you’ve ever done?”

He put down his fork, swallowed his food, placed his elbows on the table, and interlaced his fingers.
 
“Because the nice things aren’t that interesting.
 
But people are very keen to tell you the worst they have done because in some twisted way we’re all turned on by the evil that men or women do.
 
People would rather hear that I hung out with Al Capone than Mother Teresa.
 
There’s something inherently sexy about being bad, as twisted as it may sound.”
 

Bell paused on the thought.
 
She picked up her knife and fork.

He smirked.
 
“Well?”

“Well, what?”
 
She glanced at him and cut into the fish on her plate.

“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?” he repeated.

“You really want to know?”

“Yes.
 
I think I do.”

“Okay then.”

The professional grinned.

“I blackmailed someone.”
 

Although she tried to pass off the comment as no big thing, it was impossible for her to hide her pride.
 
The professional smiled.
 
His question never failed.

“Wow.
 
That is bad.”

“It is, isn’t it?
 
I thought you might be impressed.”

Picking up his knife and fork, the professional started to eat again.
 
Just the confession he was looking for.
 
He had the reason why Michaels had sold his life policy.
 
Michaels had to have money for the blackmail.
 
“So what was the blackmail about?”

“That isn’t enough for you, then?” she asked, her tone provocative.

“No.
 
I want details.
 
You’ve given me the answer.
 
I’ve seen the menu, but you haven’t let me sample the food.
 
Without the details there’s no way for me to judge what kind of person you are.”

“I blackmailed a man I was having an affair with.”

“Good.
 
Tell me more.”

The server interrupted them to check on drinks.
 
The professional asked for another bottle of wine.

“So you blackmailed him over the affair?”

“Partly.”

“What was the other part?”

“He once told me he took kickbacks when he was a building inspector.
 
I suppose he was playing true to form.
 
As your friend was saying, he told me his worst to impress me.”

The server returned with the wine and topped up their glasses then moved on to another table.

“Did you blackmail him after he told you?”

“No, I did that when he tried to break up with me.”

“Did you know about his wife?”

“Oh, yes.”

“So you were under no illusions that he was unattached.”

“Oh, no.
 
I knew about his marriage and I had even met his wife a few times.”

The professional laughed.
 
“You are a dangerous woman.”
 

Smiling, she said, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

The professional nodded.

“I found it quite stimulating, having a conversation with his wife while she was completely unaware that I was fucking her husband.
 
It used to make sex very intense after seeing her.
 
I liked to have my tête-à-tête with his wife and then screw him afterwards.”

“So why the blackmail?”

“He got an attack of the guilts and wanted to break things off.
 
That wasn’t acceptable to me.
 
He’d made a decision to start a relationship with me, but hadn’t had the courtesy to break it off with his wife.
 
So when he decided that his relationship with me had been a mistake and that it was over, I decided I would make him pay a price for his betrayal.”

“To his wife?”

Bell laughed.
 
“No, to me.
 
He betrayed me as well as his wife.
 
I wasn’t concerned with her feelings.
 
It was up to her to do whatever she wanted to take revenge for her husband’s infidelity.”

The professional noticed the more she talked about Josh the colder she became.
 
Bell’s deep-rooted hatred for Josh Michaels became very apparent.
 
This was the kind of woman the professional could do business with.
 
He stopped eating and gave his full and undivided attention to Bell.

“So when did you stop blackmailing him?” he asked.

“Who says I have?”
 
Bell hid her smirk behind her wineglass.

The professional grinned again.
 
He was getting all the information he wanted.

“What’s his name?
 
This unfortunate betrayer of trust and breaker of hearts.”

“I’m not sure I should say,” she said, the smirk still on her face.

“Oh, come on, Bell, you can’t leave me hanging.
 
It’s not like I would know him or anything.”

Bell moved her food around plate while contemplating the question, deciding whether she should answer.
 
“But you do know him.”

“Do I?” he replied, trying not to show he knew the answer already.

“It’s Josh Michaels.”

The professional had surmised correctly.
 
He knew the hold she had over Michaels, now it was time to exploit it, and her.

“So is that why you were upset at his party?”

“Yes.
 
He’s starting to refuse to play along with my demands and he used one of his friends to try to talk me out of hurting his happy home.”

“It sounds like he’s trying to call your bluff.”

“Maybe.
 
But what can I do about it?”

“Show him that you’re not bluffing.”

“How would I do that?”

“I could show you.”

Surprised, Bell raised an eyebrow.
 
“Could you now.”
 

“Is the money your main concern?”

“No.
 
It’s a punishment.”

“Well that gives us options.”

“Us?”

“Yes.
 
Us.”

“I think we should discuss this somewhere else.
 
The dinner table is not the right place,” Bell said.

“That’s fine with me.”

“So, what’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?” Bell asked.

Chapter Fifteen

Josh leafed through the initial findings of the joint FAA and National Transport Safety Board investigation that had come through the letter slot that morning while sitting at the kitchen table eating breakfast.
 
In brief, the report stated that the Cessna had run dry of oil and the elevator and rudder bolts had detached themselves.
 
The reason the engine sump had been devoid of oil was because the oil cooler hoses were not sufficiently tightened.
 
It was assumed that the missing bolts had come loose and fallen from the plane during flight, which meant it was probable that the split pins weren’t secured through the nuts and bolts.
 
In the opinion of the NTSB, these simple mechanical failures should have been detected during the overhaul prior to its fatal flight and the pilot should have taken better care during the pre-take off checks.
 
The NTSB planned to put the majority of the blame on the mechanic and the remainder on pilot negligence.
 
The findings were preliminary and in no way were to be taken as final.
 
He read through the brief report again.

Josh refused to accept their findings and he refused to believe Jack Murphy had failed to carry out a thorough inspection of his airplane.
 
Jack was too much of a perfectionist and too much of a craftsman to not to have tightened any bolt to the correct torque setting laid out in the Cessna maintenance manual.
 
Unsatisfied with the report, he drove to the Davis airfield.

Josh parked the car in the same spot he had the day of Mark’s death.
 
He walked over to Jack Murphy’s hangar.
 
The orange windsock at the end of the runway hung limply against its pole.
 
The sock looked like it was at half-mast in tribute.
 
Josh thought it was fitting, seeing as the airfield had lost one of its own.
 
The Davis airfield had never lost a pilot in its fifty-two year history.

Josh entered Murphy’s workshop.
 
The hangar had the appearance of an elephant’s graveyard.
 
A Cessna 172 in flying school colors lay slumped at the mouth of the building.
 
The engine and its cowling had been removed along with the nose wheel assembly.
 
Tubular steel stuck out from the fireproof bulkhead like polished bones and a tangle of colored wires hung down like veins.
 
The aircraft unceremoniously rested on its tail, no longer able to stand upright without its engine in place.
 
A Piper Archer PA-32 stood propellerless on its wheels and looked sadly on at the gutted Cessna in front of it.
 
A misshapen object lay hidden under a tarp like a corpse under a mortician’s sheet, but it was probably another of Jack’s unfinished projects.

The workshop was silent.
 
This wasn’t right, it was guaranteed that Jack’s workshop rang with the sounds of him and his employees putting their best efforts into keeping these and other aircraft aloft.
 
Josh called out.
 
The odor of used engine oil and grease filled his nose.
 
A rustle of movement came from the small, shabby office at the rear of the hangar.
 
Jack Murphy appeared at the doorway.
 

Josh crossed the hangar.
 
His footsteps echoed on the concrete floor.

“Hello, Josh.
 
I thought I might be seeing you.”
 
Murphy sounded defeated.
 
“I suppose this is to do with Mark.”

Josh raised his hands in surrender.
 
“Don’t worry, I haven’t come to accuse you of anything.
 
I’ve just come to talk.”
 

“So you got the news from the FAA?”

“Yeah.
 
Shall we go into the office?”

Murphy didn’t look good.
 
It was obvious the loss of a plane and pilot from his workshop had hit him hard.
 
Murphy looked like dried fruit with all the goodness sucked out of it.
 
To Josh, he had aged ten years in the days since Sunday.

The two men entered the cluttered office.
 
Murphy squeezed past the bulging filing cabinets and sat behind his wooden desk.
 
Josh removed a stack of magazines from one of the two shabby office chairs before sitting.
 
He remembered seeing these types of chairs in dentist waiting rooms twenty years ago.
 
Aircraft component manufacturers’ calendars, wall planners covered in a graffiti of hastily written notes and magazine articles of aircraft of interest covered the wall behind the mechanic.
 
The flying club and the private aircraft owners excused Murphy’s clutter because of his first class abilities as an engineer.

“Do you want a coffee, Josh?” Murphy asked.