“Mind-blowing,” said Ryan.
“So that's his tell-all tabloid confession? He was in the backyard playing with pigeons and smoke?” said McMahon.
“That's his story.”
“Does he do this type of thing regularly?”
“He likes spectacle.”
“And he lied when questioned because he couldn't risk his parishioners finding out they were being duped?”
“So he says. But then the Almighty tapped him on the shoulder, and he began to fear the loss of his soul.”
“Or fear a bump in federal prison.” Ryan's scorn had increased.
I finished my green beans.
“It actually makes sense,” McMahon said. “The other witnesses, including Claiborne, stated they saw something shoot into the sky. Knowing the reliably unreliable nature of eyewitnesses, pigeons and smoke would tally.”
“Doves,” I corrected. “They're more papal.”
“The NTSB has pretty much ruled out the rocket theory, anyway,” McMahon went on.
“Oh?”
“For a number of reasons.”
“Give me one.”
“There's not been a single trace of a missile found anywhere within a five-mile radius of the wreckage field.”
McMahon spread mashed potatoes on a forkful of meat loaf.
“And there's no twinning.”
“What's twinning?”
“Basically, it involves cracking in the crystalline structure of metals such as copper, iron, or steel. Twinning requires forces greater than eight thousand meters per second. Typically, that means a military explosive. Things like RDC or C4.”
“And twinning is absent?”
“So far.”
“Meaning?”
“The usual components of pipe bombs, things like gunpowder, gelignites, and low-strength dynamite, aren't powerful enough. They only reach forces of one thousand meters per second. That doesn't create enough shock to produce twinning, but it's plenty of force to cause havoc on an aircraft. So lack of twinning doesn't rule out a detonation.” He emptied the fork. “And there's plenty of evidence of an explosion.”
At that moment Ryan's cell phone rang. He listened, and replied in clipped French. Though I understood his words, they made little sense without the benefit of the Quebec end of the conversation.
“So the NTSB isn't much further ahead than it was last week. Something blew inside the rear of the plane, but they have no idea what or why.”
“That's about it,” McMahon agreed. “Though the rich husband has been ruled out as a suspect. Turns out the guy was a candidate for priesthood. Made a quarter-million-dollar donation to the Humane Society last year when they found his lost cat.”
“And the Sri Lankan kid?”
“The uncle is still broadcasting in Sri Lanka, and there have been no threats, notes, public statements, nothing from anyone over there. That angle looks like a dead end, but we're still checking.”
“Has the investigation been handed over to the FBI?”
“Not officially. But until terrorism is ruled out, we're not going away.”
Ryan ended his phone conversation and fumbled for a cigarette. His face was fixed in an expression I couldn't read. Remembering my Danielle blunder, I didn't ask.
McMahon had no such compunction.
“What's happened?”
After a pause, “Pepper Petricelli's wife is missing.”
“She took off?”
“Maybe.”
Ryan lit up, then scanned the table for an ashtray. Finding none, he jammed the match into his sweet potato pudding. There was an awkward silence before he continued.
“A crackhead named Andre Metraux was busted for possession yesterday in Montreal. Being unenthused about a long separation from his pharmaceuticals, Metraux offered to flip for consideration.”
Ryan drew deeply, then blew smoke through both nostrils.
