“What’s the point if a scary monster isn’t chasing you?”
She shoots me a bemused sideways glance. “You’re such a doofus.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“I’m a little surprised the Milton crash didn’t get much attention after the initial feeding frenzy,” she says a moment later as she coasts along.
“Why’s that?”
“Senator Milton qualifies as something of a celebrity these days, right? Potential presidential run, all of that.”
I chug along beside her and nod while focusing on my somewhat ragged breathing. My legs may be limbering up a bit. Or maybe I’m simply going numb below the waist. Either way, I’m hopeful that the worst is over. By silent agreement, she talks, I listen.
“The NTSB has pulled out all the stops for precisely that reason,” Pat continues. “Feed the media beast, satisfy the clamoring politicians.”
She’s right. The Windy City Sky Tours Cessna has been retrieved from the bottom of Lake Michigan. The investigation seems to be moving quickly.
“It’s kind of sad how little mention is made of the victims,” Pat mutters. “Lots of talk about the forty-three-year-old junior senator with higher-office aspirations and how this might impact his political career. What about Tiffany?”
When I don’t reply, she throws her hands up in exasperation. “See what I mean? Tiffany Walton, his thirty-two-year-old wife who won’t turn thirty-three. Then there’s Cameron, all of four years old, and let’s not forget Cameron’s apparently doting grandparents, dead in their mid-sixties. This isn’t just about politics and money.”
This is one of the reasons Pat is such a great reporter. She’s interested in people. She shines a light on how the news affects the people touched by events. She’s got a big heart—one that currently seems to be pumping a lot more oxygen to her body than mine is.
“I’m not terribly familiar with how the NTSB works, but I’m told leaks like what we saw this morning are extremely rare,” she continues. “So rare, in fact, that leaks generally originate from people working in some other facet of an investigation.”
“I’ve… heard… that… too,” I manage to gasp. The truth is that I don’t really know what the hell I should be doing at this point in an aviation accident case. I’m still trying to get up to speed. The NTSB does have what seems to be a well-deserved reputation for playing things close to the vest.
Pat asks, “Is Billy Likens in trouble?”
The question surprises me. I slow to a walk to catch my breath, hopefully enough to carry on a bit of a conversation. “Why do you ask?”
Pat isn’t even breathing hard as she jogs circles around me while I suck in as much life-sustaining air as I can. She grabs my sleeve and tugs until I start running again, then answers my question. “Sandy Irving has good sources in law enforcement circles, which makes me wonder if she’s getting her information from the police. My understanding is that the NTSB only brings in law enforcement when there’s a suspicion of possible criminal activity.”
That’s a disturbing possibility. Billy and Rick have talked with the NTSB and turned over all their records, but they haven’t spoken with law enforcement. Not that I know of, anyway. I push that thought aside, ignore my burning thighs, and work to keep up while wheezing out an answer. “They haven’t… talked… to… the cops.”
“Let’s pick up the pace,” Pat suggests over her shoulder as she surges ahead.
Is she kidding? I’m a jogger of sorts; she’s a runner. There is a difference. I belatedly recall that Pat was the queen of cross-country running in high school and has apparently completed a couple of full marathons and a bunch of half marathons. “You. Can. Keep. This. Up. All. Day. Can’t. You?” I shout at her back as I fall behind.
She turns back to circle behind me and comes alongside wearing a smirk. “Not all day, Chubby, but I can go for a good while yet—especially at this pedestrian pace of yours.”
We’ve finally rounded the north end of the park and are heading south when it first occurs to me that Pat may be out to kill me. She’s loping along effortlessly with plenty of bounce in her step. I’m plodding along on legs of stone. We’re now running into a middling breeze, which feels good but may well arrest my forward progress before much longer.
“Back to Ben Larose,” Pat says.
“Yeah,” I gasp hoarsely.
“He mentioned vendors, said he has some info about them, right?”
I nod.
“Why talk to you about that?”
“You. Tell. Me.”
“Maybe Irving’s source reached out to Ben and he’s fishing for more information?”
They’re good questions. I’m in no condition to speak, so I nod in reply and wonder why Larose would want to compare notes with me. Maybe Pat’s right to be skeptical of the guy’s motives.
“I’m not sure I want to be seen with him around our newsroom,” she says. The meeting is set for noon at the Tribune. She suggests meeting Larose at my office instead.
“No way,” I reply flatly. How the hell can I expect Larose to take me seriously if he sees our office? Strip-mall lawyers going up against Butterworth Cole? Right. “Someplace… neutral.”
“Ideas?” she asks as we start to round a lagoon.
I wave her off.
“When we stop?” she asks with an amused lilt in her voice.
I nod gratefully. We pass tall stands of wild grass and a mixture of yellow and blue wildflowers that hug the shore of the lagoon. The imposing Humboldt Park Fieldhouse Gymnasium is at the water’s edge on the far side. I admire the graceful sweep of its base, a low ribbon of concrete dotted with arches along its length. Several stories of brown brick tower above it. Twin turrets capped with greened bronze roofs anchor the two wings running out from the center block. This would be an enjoyable jog if Pat weren’t bent on breaking the Humboldt Park land speed record. Maybe we can stop and admire things for an hour or two while I catch my breath?
“So?” she prompts as we
