Maiko tilts her head and nods, as if she’s come to a decision. “We’ll call it the Valenti Vomit.”
Penelope’s face twists into a revolted grimace. “Pee-yew!”
Maiko smiles and walks away.
“Getting back to not-so-gross topics, the FBI zeroed right in on the invoice for that inspection,” Penelope muses between bites.
“Yeah,” I mutter around a mouthful of Valenti Vomit. “Let’s explore that.”
She nods, swallows, and sets her sandwich down on her plate before touching a corner of napkin to her lips. She’s somehow managing to eat her sandwich without smearing grease all over her face. I, on the other hand, am doing a fair imitation of a one-year-old face-painting himself with a slice of birthday cake. How does she do it? I wonder with a guilty look at the pile of grease-soaked napkins that is growing alongside my plate.
“Did you ask Larose what’s included in the hundred-hour inspection?” I ask.
“I did. It’s pretty thorough. A lot of mechanical checks, testing and examining the electrical systems, plus—and I found this interesting—they inspect the airframe for structural integrity. Rust, cracks, and the like.”
“Hmmm,” I murmur while I swallow and wipe my chin. “But didn’t the NTSB seem to be focused on engine failure?”
“I went back and reread the transcripts of all of the NTSB public statements so far, then went through them over the phone with Ben. There is a single mention of a wing-strut failure that they left open.”
“Left open?”
“For further review,” she replies before taking a sip of her iced tea. “They didn’t make a determination of whether or not the strut failed before or after impact.”
“Oh. That sounds ominous.”
“Not necessarily. Ben says it’s entirely possible that the strut may have been subjected to stress in flight that exceeded its ultimate tensile strength.”
“In English,” I request before popping the last bite of corned beef and raisin toast into my mouth.
“In layman’s terms, the plane wasn’t designed to dive at a hundred fifty-plus miles per hour while the pilot fought the controls, causing the plane to twist and turn as it fell. Structural failure is a definite risk under those stresses. Ben can’t imagine that the NTSB will be able to determine what actually happened, and certainly won’t be in any position to make a definitive determination that the accident was the result of in-flight structural failure.”
“Thereby clearing Billy and Rick of responsibility for the crash,” I conclude happily.
“That might be a little too definitive,” she warns. “In Ben’s words, a plane failing under those circumstances is on no one unless the pilot deliberately flew the aircraft beyond its design tolerances.”
“Stunt flying and such?” I ask.
“Exactly.”
“So, what’s the FBI up to?”
“Good question,” she replies with her eyebrows knitted together. “Let’s not forget the mention of Rick’s liver.”
“Yeah,” I mutter while pushing my empty plate aside. “That was a bit of a surprise. That said, you know how anal cops can be when it comes to drugs and booze—unless they’re the ones partaking.”
“True, but it still concerns me.”
“I can’t see how that fits into the crash narrative. Can you?”
Penelope turns her palms up. “All I know is that there’s something in that paperwork that we need to be aware of.”
I hold up a finger, dig my cell phone out of my pocket, and place a call to Billy.
After we exchange greetings, he informs me, “I planned to call you in an hour or two when things quiet down a little.” Then he floors me with a bombshell we definitely weren’t expecting at this point. “Some guy came by after lunch and served us with a lawsuit from Windy City.”
“Jesus, Billy! You should have called right away!”
Penelope’s eyes grow large at my outburst.
“Yeah, well, we’re trying to keep our heads above water here,” he snaps back.
The fact that we’re pissed with one another doesn’t sit well with me. Billy and I have never been at odds before. Maybe we shouldn’t have taken this damned case.
“Penelope’s here,” I tell him. “I’m putting the call on speaker.”
“Hi, Billy,” she says pleasantly—ever the diplomat to soften the harsher edges of her partner.
“Hey, Penelope,” he says. “Sounds like I messed up, huh?”
Her eyes shoot daggers at me. “No worries, Billy. Tony’s one of those Mediterranean hotheads.”
Billy laughs softly.
“What’s going on?” Penelope asks. She drops her head back, looks up at the ceiling, and blows out a long breath after he tells her. “Did you read it?”
“Real quick. We’re busy as hell here this afternoon.”
“And?” I prompt.
“Me and Rick tried to sort through all the legal mumbo jumbo. Best we can figure is that they’re claiming we didn’t complete the hundred-hour inspection in August.”
“But you told us you did,” I counter.
“Because we did,” Billy shoots back.
“Tony’s just thinking out loud,” Penelope says with a poisonous glance my way. “He isn’t questioning what you told us. We’re all a little upset about this.”
She’s right, of course. Before I can put my foot in my mouth again, Penelope asks Billy to fax a copy of the paperwork to her. She and Billy agree that he and Rick will come to our office for a meeting on Monday.
At the end of the workday, I make a one-hour stop at home to turn on some lights, start a load of laundry, and walk around a lot to make the place look occupied. The plan is to keep Papa’s escape a secret for as long as possible. We hope to buy enough time for he and Max to reach their destination before anyone starts looking for them.
