Chapter Eighteen
Jonathan Walton sighs inwardly as he and his partners ascend to their office in a Willis Tower elevator. Caitlyn Tyson is on the verge of one of her eruptions—narrowed eyes, lips drawn tightly, fidgeting from foot to foot while she impatiently flips her hair away from her face. Oliver Franklin simply looks worried. What’s new?
They’re on their way back to the office after meeting with their lawyers at Caitlyn’s insistence. Someone from her family is filling her head full of shit supposedly gleaned from a source within the Justice Department. She wants to have legal advice in hand if it turns out to be true. The story is that the FBI is investigating Megan Walton’s training and qualifications or some fucking thing.
“Just relax, guys,” he says impatiently when they’re safely in his office and out of earshot of anyone else. “It’s all under control.”
“Yeah?” Caitlyn says in a challenging, grating tone.
Walton nods, then walks over to a compact conference table that sits beside a floor-to-ceiling window with a magnificent lake view. He drops into his usual seat and waves his partners into theirs.
“We’re good on this R & B inspection angle?” Franklin asks.
“Oh yeah,” Walton replies with a chuckle. “Those two are fucked.”
“You’re sure that can’t blow back on us?”
The fucking guy can’t get enough reassurance, Walton thinks with disdain. Fucking pussy.
“What’s this shit you’re spinning about doctored documents?” Caitlyn asks suspiciously. “R & B did do that inspection. We can’t just magically undo it.”
“They can’t prove it,” Walton replies smugly before a laugh escapes him. “Such a little pissant company those guys run. They use a fucking typewriter! Can you believe it?”
“And that matters why?” Caitlyn asks in a caustically bitchy tone that amuses Walton—except when it’s directed at him. Which has been happening a little too often lately. Fault lines are beginning to appear in their little band of brothers… and a sister.
“Let me tell you how that matters,” he retorts. “Not only do they use a typewriter, they use carbon copies, Caits.”
She throws up her hands in exasperation. “So?”
“Old shit like that is ripe to be fucked with. Our Avgas friends dug up some ancient fart in a Mafia retirement home or someplace who knows how to forge and dummy up that stuff.”
“They did, huh?” Caitlyn asks with a Cheshire Cat grin. She relaxes back into her seat and crosses her legs. Mount Caitlyn is temporarily dormant.
She knows what’s coming, Walton thinks as he shoots her an answering grin. “The guy made the R & B carbon copy look like the original date was September ninth and that R & B did an amateurish job of trying to backdate it to August twenty-third.”
“What’s the point?” Franklin asks.
“It makes it look like they sent the paperwork after the crash, right?”
Franklin nods.
“And then tried to backdate it.”
A slow smile spreads across Franklin’s face. “As if they hadn’t done the work, then panicked after the accident and cooked up some paperwork to suggest that they did.”
“Exactly,” Walton says with an answering smile. “And then realized they fucked up with the date and tried to fix that.”
“August twenty-third was the actual date they sent the invoice, right?” Caitlyn asks.
Walton nods.
“What about our copy?” Franklin asks. “The NTSB took it.”
“Yup,” Walton replies airily. “No worries, dude. The Luciano guys substituted a new copy dated September ninth.”
Franklin’s eyes widen. “Right in the NTSB’s files?”
Walton smirks and nods.
“How?” Caitlyn asks in a tone somewhere between skepticism and admiration.
“How the fuck would I know? That’s the Luciano family’s area of expertise.”
Caitlyn whips out her cell phone and stares at the calendar. “But August twenty-third was a Sunday.”
Walton bursts out laughing. “I know, right? That’s suspicious right there. Who the hell sends out invoices on a Sunday? Accounting departments are all at home, for Christ’s sake!”
“Little pissant companies,” Franklin replies. “That’s who does weekend billing from their home office.”
“Well, okay,” Walton allows after a beat. “You got me on that one, dude. That’s not really the point, anyway.”
“Then what is?”
Walton sits straighter and slaps a hand on the table. His patience with Franklin’s Nervous Nellie routine is wearing thin. “The point is that R & B is twisting in the wind.”
“It all sounds maybe a little too clever by half, Johnny boy,” Caitlyn says.
“It sounds fucking perfect,” Walton shoots back.
“Lorraine didn’t seem too thrilled that Avgas is in the clear,” Caitlyn says after a beat, referring to the senior lawyer of the group they’d just met with.
“No biggie,” Walton scoffs. “Remember that Avgas is our partner in this.”
“They’re fucking mobsters,” Caitlyn shoots back. “Ours is a marriage of convenience. What’s their motivation to stay close to us now?”
Walton slumps back in his seat. “Really, Caits? We know where the bodies are buried. They don’t dare cross us.”
“They bury bodies,” Franklin says anxiously. “Don’t antagonize them.”
Oliver has a point there, Walton realizes. “So, we don’t antagonize them. They don’t antagonize us. R & B takes the fall, and we’re all good.”
Franklin stares back. “Do you honestly believe we’re not going to take some sort of hit on this?”
“Windy City might have to kick in some cash, but we won’t. That’s the beauty of how the company is set up. Nobody can come after us personally. Our insurance company pays up on whatever we get tagged with.”
“Our insurance rates would skyrocket,” Franklin says.
“We just wind the whole thing up for a tax loss and move on if the rates get prohibitive, pal. It’s not like flying tours are a big deal for us.”
Franklin’s expression argues otherwise. The Windy City revenue does matter to him. Walton often forgets
