Crashers (19 page)

Hassan mulled it over. His boss's appetites were ravenous, and just because he had taken two—make that three—girlfriends with him to Vancouver did not rule out that he had grown tired of them.

“I will have to call and confirm this,” he said.

Daria said, “Of course. May we wait inside?”

Hassan unlocked the wrought-iron door and led them in. The front parlor was circular, with a spiral staircase climbing along the curved wall to the second floor, fifteen feet over their heads. The floor was polished black and white parquetry. A dazzling chandelier glistened above, and the center of the parlor was dominated by a truly awful, full-figure female nude, twelve feet tall, in a pose that would most likely be found in an issue of
Penthouse.

“Please wait here,” Hassan said.

And in response, Daria rose up on the ball of her left foot, her right leg scything around from behind, her slingback arcing higher than her head. The toe of the shoe clocked Hassan at his temple. His body waited a second for his brain to send some more electrochemical signals, and, when those signals failed to arrive, the body decided to crumple like a stringless puppet.

Daria's kick had been even more impressive given that she was handcuff ed to Donal. The pirouette ended with his left arm wrapped around her petite frame, their chained wrists behind her back. She smiled up at Donal.

“Hallo.”

Donal's eyes went from the fluffy pile of robe and human on the floor to the small-boned woman in his arm. “The fuck was that, then!”

“It was quick,” Daria said. “I told him his employer had invited us into his home to secure clothes for some teenage hookers he was ordering. If he had called his boss, he would have found that to be a lie, and I would have had to deal with him then. My way was quicker.”

She pivoted on the ball of her left foot again, retro-pirouetting out of the embrace of Donal's arm.

Johnser Riley studied the deeply bad statue, nodded approvingly. “What is this place?”

“The home of Abdul-Hakam Bakshar Farouk Abdel-al, who has made fat stacks of money since moving his business from Cairo to Los Angeles.”

Donal unlocked the cuffs and Daria rubbed her right wrist.

Keith O'Shea whistled, high–low. “Oil?”

“Porn,” Daria said. “Video. Online. What the Americans call peer-to-peer services. I don't know what that means, but apparently there's money to be made.”

“Well, the deal took long enough,” O'Meara growled at her.

Daria ignored him and crossed to a marble-and-iron side table with a cordless telephone on it. “I want to find out about my apartment. See if the FBI is still there.”

Donal drew his gun and tapped the barrel on her left clavicle. He shook his head, and she took a step back.

“No phones. And all this?” His head gesture took in the mansion. “This better not be some sort of trick.”

“No trick,” Daria said. “I've been to a few cocktail parties here. I got bored once and snooped around. You'll find food and clothes. And Mr. Abdel-al has been known to be generous with his spare cash. Look.” She took him aside. “Your boys look like what they are: street fighters. Let's get them showered and shaved and into some fine suits. Dress everyone up as gentlemen. No one will be looking for them hiding behind pinstripes.”

It made perfect sense, which didn't please O'Meara all that much. He didn't want to trust this woman.

SUSAN TANAKA CHECKED HER silver Movado watch. Eight forty-five.

Cascade Flight 818 had been on the ground for twenty-four hours and change. Susan felt a small shiver. In a crash investigation, time's arrow points in only one direction: further from the incident. The clock was not their friend.

It's only one day,
she reminded herself. No reason in the world why this had to be Kentucky all over again.

Susan had reserved a suite for herself on the top floor of the hotel that overlooked the freeway, not because she was the boss but so that she'd have room to host the nightly debriefings. The room was soulless, generically decorated, but it would suffice. It had an oval conference table and a minibar with a coffeemaker and a small fridge.

Tommy Tomzak arrived from Portland, dressed in sweats and sneakers he'd borrowed from the Portland Police Department about ten hours into supervising the first round of autopsies. He'd slept for an hour between the rescue operation and taking over the Go-Team. He walked into the room and collapsed on his back on the couch, one arm crooked over his face.

John Roby and Isaiah Grey came next. They picked chairs around the
oval table in the center of the room. With a knock, Walter Mulroney peeked in and stood aside. “Folks? Have you met Dennis Silverman? He's with the flight-data-recorder company.”

Dennis waved to the room at large. “Hi.”

John and Isaiah shook his hand and made room at the table. Tommy stayed on the couch, his arm folded over his eyes. He might have fallen asleep.

Susan reintroduced herself to Dennis and said, “Thanks for coming by. Has anyone seen Peter?”

Walter said, “He should have been back by now.” He nodded toward the couch. “Tomzak? Anything useful in the autopsy?” He was still angry about losing the feud for the IIC position. He didn't realize it, but Tommy didn't know that there was any bad blood to get over.

“We'll have tox tomorrow,” Tommy murmured, not removing his arm from his face. His voice was hoarse with fatigue. “And that's rushing the tests ahead of everyone else in the Northwest. Suze, the locals are being incredibly helpful. There's no turf bullshit whatsoever.”

Susan said, “I'm finding the same.”

Tommy continued to speak, his eyes hidden. He'd been awake for thirty-five of the last thirty-six hours. And he hadn't slept all that well before his lecture at noon at OHSU or his panel discussion that afternoon. “Anyway, I weighed the livers and we don't have any big drinkers. There are no track marks. That only tells us we don't have alcoholics or IV-drug users; it doesn't tell us if either pilot had a highball before the flight. As for the captain, Meghan Danvers, she's got the muscle tone of a pretty serious athlete. I'm going to be shocked if I find out she's got booze in her system.”

Susan turned to Walter. “Can your crew get the Vermeer out of that field?”

He pulled on his lower lip, frowned. “We think so. I've had structural engineers running simulations all afternoon. We should be able to lift the primary sections onto flatbeds. Do we have a hangar?”

“Yes. Little town called Valence has a brand-new, as-yet-unused UPS hangar. It's ours.”

Walter nodded his approval.

Isaiah, who was leaning well back in his chair, the front legs off the mushroom-colored carpet, removed his reading glasses from their case. With his eyes cast downward, he glanced at the others to see if anyone had noticed that he needed glasses. He was still that pissed about it. “How about Kiki?” he asked. “I want to know what's on that black box.”

Susan turned to him. “Did you find anything at the airport?”

“Yes.” He pulled out the steno pad he'd been using. “Captain Danvers was apparently a by-the-book flyer. The ground crew said she watched them like a hawk. She and her copilot both did walkarounds, and they both checked the Gamelan.”

“Why is the data recorder called a Gamelan?” Susan asked.

“It's the brand name, is all,” Dennis spoke up, then cleared his throat. “Somebody in marketing did polling on a few names, came up with this one. It's the latest in flight data recorders. It checks almost two thousand electronic relays and pneumatic actions throughout the ship, without taking off cowls and unbolting engines and, you know, whatever it is you electrical-engineering types usually do. They're installed in many of the major liners these days.”

There was a soft knock at the door and Kiki Duvall let herself in. She carried a manila folder under one arm and her portable MP3 player in the other hand. She was dressed in low-rise jeans and a hoodie, but she was barefoot. She'd come straight from her room. “Hi, guys. Sorry I'm late.” She started handing out transcripts that had been faxed to her. “The CVR,” she announced.

Peter Kim entered the room, and nobody noticed that his usual, self-confident swagger had kicked up a notch. They did notice that he looked cool and unemotional, his suit nicely pressed, Hugo Boss tie snugged firmly under his chin. Everyone else, except Susan, looked rumpled. Kiki handed him a copy of the transcript but he hardly looked at it.

She waited until everyone had their copies, then poised her finger in midair an inch over the control for the MP3 player. “Ready?”

 

CHIEF FLIGHT ATTENDANT ANNIE COLVIN:
Got 'em corralled. Ready when you are.

CAPTAIN MEGHAN DANVERS:
Thanks. Tower's giving us the hold sign but we're up next.

COLVIN:
Anybody want anything before I buckle up?

DANVERS:
No, thanks. I'm good.

COPILOT RUSS KAZMANSKI:
I'll take some coff ee, if you're got it brewed up.

COLVIN:
Hang on.

Sound of door closing.

KAZMANSKI:
Decaf! That's all I need, the jangles.

DANVERS:
Careful. Big brother's listening.

(In the hotel room of the Chemeketa Inn, Susan Tanaka blushed, realizing that these dead people had just made reference to herself and to everyone else in this room.)

KAZMANSKI:
Then I probably shouldn't mention the ganja, mon.

(Walter Mulroney frowned and pursed his lips. Isaiah Grey smiled.)

DANVERS:
Not funny, partner. CascadeAir doesn't even allow joking about that.

KAZMANSKI:
I know.

Sound of cockpit door opening.

COLVIN:
Here you go. Decaf all right?

KAZMANSKI:
Great, thanks. We're— Hold it.

PDX AIR TRAFFIC CONTROL:
Ah, CascadeAir Eight One Eight, you're loaded and fine. We have you at one-forty-six with three laps. You can leave the terminal now. Please queue up for runway two eight lima and await further instructions.

(Kiki reached over and hit the Pause button on the machine. “One-forty-six and three laps?”

Isaiah said, “A hundred and forty-six passengers; three of them are children young enough to ride on their parents' laps.”

Kiki said, “Oh,” and eyed Tommy's prone form.

Without uncovering his eyes, he knew she was looking at him. He just shook his head. Kiki, who was naturally pale, blanched, then hit the Play button again.)

DANVERS:
Roger that, tower.

KAZMANSKI:
Okay, we're rolling. We'll see you topside.

COLVIN:
Bye.

Sound of door closing. Sounds of increased ground speed.

DANVERS:
ATC, this is CascadeAir Eight One Eight, in the blocks and ready to sprint.

PDX ATC:
Ah, roger that, Eight One Eight. Y'all got limitless ceiling tonight and little wind. You are cleared for takeoff on runway two eight lima. Have yourselves a good one.

DANVERS:
CascadeAir Eight One Eight, roger that. Thanks for the hospitality, Portland. We'll see you next week. Eight One Eight out.

Sounds of increased speed.

KAZMANSKI:
Power's set.

DANVERS:
All right, then. Read 'em off.

KAZMANSKI:
Seventy-five knots . . . one hundred . . . one twenty.

DANVERS:
Vee one.

Sounds of jet leaving the ground.

KAZMANSKI:
Positive climb.

DANVERS:
Okay, gear up.

Sound of landing gear being stowed. Sounds of light turbulence.

DANVERS:
LNAV on auto?

KAZMANSKI:
Got it. You've got good climb thrust.

DANVERS:
VNAV.

KAZMANSKI:
Gotcha.

DANVERS:
Good. Flaps go to one, gear handle off.

Sounds of systems being operated.

DANVERS:
Landing gear up and off.

KAZMANSKI:
Landing gear up and off.

DANVERS:
Flaps up.

KAZMANSKI:
Flaps up.

DANVERS:
Checked up.

KAZMANSKI:
Checked up, aye.

DANVERS:
Altimeter okay.

KAZMANSKI:
Altimeter reading A-okay.

DANVERS:
Center autopilot on.

KAZMANSKI:
Confirmed center autopilot on.

Sounds of airplane in flight.

KAZMANSKI:
Like a baby's butt.

DANVERS:
Damn straight.

(Around the hotel room, the NTSB investigators glanced nervously at one another. They felt like voyeurs as they listened to the dead chatting. No one was sure if Tommy was asleep or not.)

More sounds of standard flight.

KAZMANSKI:
Hmm. What's that?

A tapping sound.

DANVERS:
What's what?

KAZMANSKI:
I've got a— Whoa!

Sounds of violent shaking.

DANVERS:
Shit! Trimming rudder to the left! What've we got?

KAZMANSKI:
I— Dammit!

Sounds of extreme turbulence. Four electronic caution tones sound. A siren sounds.

DANVERS:
What've we got!

KAZMANSKI:
I dunno! Wait, check the— This doesn't make sense!

Sound of chimes. The siren continues.

DANVERS:
Call it in!

(In the hotel room, Dennis Silverman rested his elbows on his knees, hands clenched before him, head bowed. He might have been praying or he might have been nauseated.)