Ryan and I got in.
“Hooch is probably not looking at a career as a narcotics dog.”
“No,” I agreed.
On his first circuit Boyd had sniffed the two bags of cocaine, wagged once, and continued prancing around the basement. On his second visit, he’d ignored them.
“But he’s a pistol with carrion.”
I reached back and Boyd licked my hand.
On the way home I swung by the MCME to pick up a laptop power cord I’d left behind. While I went inside, Boyd and Ryan played the chow’s single idea of a game: Ryan stood stationary in the parking lot and Boyd ran circles around him.
As I was leaving the building, Sheila Jansen swung in, got out of her car, and crossed to me.
“You’re here late,” I said.
“Got some news, so I came by on the chance I might catch you here.” She did not comment on my appearance. I did not offer.
Boyd abandoned Ryan and shot to Jansen to try the crotch schtick. The NTSB agent cut him off with a double- handed ear scratch. Ryan ambled over and I made introductions. Boyd began orbiting the three of us.
“Looks like the drug theory’s right on,” Jansen said. “When we rolled the Cessna, damned if the right front door hadn’t been fitted with another, smaller door inside.”
“I don’t understand.”
“A hole was cut in the right front door, then covered by a small flap hinged at the bottom to swing down inside the plane.”
“Like a one-way doggy door?”
“Exactly. The modification wouldn’t have been obvious to a casual observer.”
“Why?”
“To allow air drops.”
I pictured the two kilos of blow we’d just left behind.
“Of illegal drugs.”
“You’ve got it.”
“To a pickup crew waiting with a car on the ground.”
“Bingo.”
“Why go to all the trouble of modifying the plane? Why not simply open the door and shove the stuff out?”
“Stall speed for a C-210 is around sixty-four miles per hour. That’s the minimum they could fly at drop time. It’s tough to push something out at that speed. Think about holding open your car door while going down the highway at sixty-five.”
“Right.”
“Here’s the scenario I’m liking. The right front seat’s been removed for access to the modified door. The passenger is in back. The product is in the small cargo compartment behind the passenger. Are you picturing this?”
“Yes.”
“Pearce—”
She flicked her eyes to Ryan. I nodded. She turned to him. “That’s the pilot.”
Ryan nodded.
“Pearce is using the rock face as his landmark. He spots the cliff, gives the signal, the passenger unbuckles, reaches back, and starts shoving product from the plane.”
“Coke?” Ryan asked.
“Probably. You couldn’t get enough weed into a C-210 to make the run worth your while. Though I’ve seen it done.”
“Wouldn’t a fall from that height cause the packets of coke to explode?” I asked.
“That’s why they’re using parachutes.”
“Parachutes?”
“Small cargo chutes they could have purchased in a surplus store. The locals are checking that out. Anyway, the coke is bundled inside heavy plastic sheeting, padded with bubble wrap, and bound with enough duct tape to cover my aunt Lilly’s ass. Auntie was a big girl.”
“Sounds like my great-aunt Cornelia,” Ryan said. “Good eater.”
Jansen glanced at Ryan, turned back at me.
“Go on,” I said.
“Each bundle is attached to a chute with more duct tape and a cinch strap. The chute is wrapped around the
