“Holmes was coked to the eyeballs when they hauled his butt to the bag last night, yelling and screaming, offering to roll over on everything back to a Little League game his team threw in the fourth grade.”
“Who is this guy?” Ryan.
“A thirty-eight-year-old three-time loser. Hangs on the fringes of the Atlanta biker scene.”
“Hells Angels?”
McMahon nodded.
“He's not a full patcher, doesn't have the brains of a banana Popsicle. The club tolerates him as long as he's useful.”
“What was Holmes doing in Charlotte?”
“Probably here for a Rotary luncheon,” McMahon said.
“Does Holmes really know who phoned in the bomb tip?” I asked.
“At four A.M. he had an inside track. That's why the arresting officers phoned us. By the time I got there, a night's sleep had dulled the Pecan's enthusiasm for sharing.”
McMahon lifted a mug from his desk, swirled and examined the contents as one might a stool sample.
“Fortunately, at the time of his arrest the scumbag was on probation for bouncing rubber all over Atlanta. We were able to persuade him that full disclosure was in his own best interest.”
“And?”
“Holmes swears he was present when the scheme was hatched.”
“Where?”
“The Claremont Lounge in midtown Atlanta. That's about six blocks from the pay phone where the call was made.”
McMahon set down the mug.
“Holmes says he was drinking and snorting blow with a couple of Angels named Harvey Poteet and Neal Tannahill. The boys were talking about Pepper Petricelli and the crash when Poteet decided it would be cool to diddle the FBI with a false lead.”
“Why?”
“Barstool brilliance. If Petricelli was alive, it would scare him into silence. If he'd gone down with the plane, a message would go out. Talk and the brothers erase you from the planet. A freebie.”
“Why would these assholes talk business in front of an outsider?”
“Poteet and Tannahill were doing lines in Holmes's car. Our hero was out cold in the backseat. Or so they thought.”
“So the whole thing was a hoax,” I said.
“Appears so.” McMahon moved the mug beyond the edge of the blotter.
“Metraux's backing off on his Petricelli sighting,” Ryan added.
“There's a surprise.”
Down the hall a phone rang. A voice called out. Heels clicked down the corridor.
“Looks like your partner and his prisoner just got on the wrong flight.”
“So the Sri Lankans are clean, Simington is up for Humanitarian of the Year, and the Angels are nothing but merry pranksters. We're back to square one with a blown plane and no explanation.” Ryan.
“I got a call from Magnus Jackson as I was leaving Bryson City. He claims his investigators are picking up evidence of slow burning.”
“What kind of evidence?” I asked.
“Geometric burn patterns on debris.”
“Which means?”
“Fire prior to the explosion.”
“A mechanical problem?”
McMahon shrugged.
“They can separate precrash from postcrash burning?” I pushed.
“Sounds like crap to me.”
McMahon grabbed the mug and got out of his chair.
“So the Pecan may be a hero.”
Ryan and I stood.
“And Metraux's not finding a seller's market,” said Ryan.
“Ain't life grand.”
I hadn't told Ryan about Parker Davenport's insinuations concerning himself and Bertrand. I did so now, outside the Adams Mark Hotel. Ryan listened, hands tight on his knees, eyes straight ahead.
