never left Atlanta ATC. The radar shows an emergency call by the pilot twenty minutes and thirty seconds into the flight. Approximately ninety seconds later the target broke into two, possibly three pieces, and disappeared from the screen.”
Headlights appeared far down the mountain. Ryan and I watched them climb through the dark, swing onto the drive, then cut out in the lot to the left of the house. Moments later a figure materialized on the path. When it crossed in front of us, Ryan spoke.
“Long day?”
“Who's that?” The man was barely an imprint against the black of the sky.
“Andy Ryan.”
“Well,
“The lilac shower gel is mine.”
“I've been respecting that, Detective Ryan.”
“I'd buy you a beer but the bar just closed.”
The man climbed to the porch, dragged a chair opposite the swing, placed an athletic bag beside it, and sat. The dim light revealed a fleshy nose and cheeks mottled with broken veins.
When introduced, FBI Special Agent Byron McMahon removed the hat and bowed in my direction. I saw thick white hair, centered and splayed like a cockscomb.
“This one's on me.” Unzipping the bag, McMahon produced a sixpack of Coors.
“Devil liquor,” said Ryan, pulling a beer from the plastic web.
“Yes,” agreed McMahon. “Bless him.” He waggled a can at me.
I wanted that beer as much as I'd wanted anything in a long time. I remembered the feel of booze filtering through my veins, the warmth rising inside me as the molecules of alcohol blended with my own. The sense of relief, well-being.
But I'd learned some things about myself. It had taken years, but I now understood that every double helix in me carries a pledge to Bacchus. Though craving the release, I knew the euphoria would be temporary, the anger and self-loathing would last a long time. I could not drink.
“No, thanks.”
“There's plenty where this came from.”
“That's the problem.”
McMahon smiled, freed a can, and dropped the others into his bag.
“So what's the thinking at the FBI?” Ryan asked.
“Some son of a bitch blew a plane out of the sky.”
“Who does the Bureau like?”
“Your biker buddies score high on a lot of dance cards. This Petricelli was a lowlife sleaze with soup for brains, but he was well connected.”
“And?”
“Could be a professional hit.”
A breeze swayed Ruby's baskets, and black shadows danced on the banisters and floorboards.
“Here's another script. Mrs. Martha Simington was seated in 1A. Three months ago Haskell Simington insured his wife for two million big ones.”
“That's a chunk of change.”
“Goes a long way toward easing hubby through his pain. Oh, and I forgot to mention. The couple have been living apart for four years.”
“Is Simington enough of a mutant to cap eighty-eight people?” Ryan drained his Coors and tossed the empty into McMahon's athletic bag.
“We're getting to know Simington real well.”
McMahon mimicked Ryan's performance with his empty can.
“Here's another scenario: 12F was occupied by a nineteen-year-old named Anurudha Mahendran. The kid was a foreign student from Sri Lanka and played goalie on the soccer team.”
McMahon released two more beers and handed one to Ryan.
“Back home, Anurudha's uncle works for Voice of Tigers Radio.”
“As in Tamil Tigers?”
“Yes, ma'am. The guy's a loudmouth, undoubtedly slots high on the government's wish list for terminal illness.”
“You suspect the Sri Lankan government?” I was astounded.
“No. But there are extremists on both sides.”
“If you can't persuade unc, go for the kid. Send a message.”
