It was now a little after twelve-thirty, and Justin glanced up from the desk because Stanton “Don’t call me Stan, my name’s Stanton” Carman from the East End post office was tapping his thin, nervous fingers on the doorframe. Stanton, a small, wiry guy with a thin mustache that looked like it had been penciled on, had worked in the post office for fourteen years. He liked to think he was both tough and cool, although he was far from either. In keeping with his self-image, he flirted with every single woman who mailed a letter or picked up a package, and on his lunch breaks he often stopped in at the police station to chat, annoying the hell out of everyone. He was harmless, and sometimes he’d take mail from them, saving a trip and a wait on line, so the cops all tolerated him. He always came in with a little swagger-the closer he got to the police station, the more he swaggered-and even lounging in the doorway his body language was self-important. Justin’s eyes were raised but he didn’t speak, because any opening for conversation was an invitation for Stanton to talk your head off, so the post office clerk just dropped a large manila envelope on the desk.
“Came for you this morning, Chief,” Stanton said. “You in this office now?”
Justin looked up at him. Usually they were on a first-name basis. This “Chief” thing was new. He shook his head, a silent answer to Stanton’s question, and did his best to look as if Stanton should get the hell out now.
“Looked like it might be important, so I thought I’d drop it by.”
Justin nodded again. He knew if he said a word, he’d be stuck for the next ten minutes. Maybe longer. Even with Hubbell Schrader in the room. Stanton never seemed to care if he was interrupting even the most important business conversation.
“Expecting something?” Schrader asked.
Justin wasn’t. He rarely got anything besides bills and the occasional postcard from Deena’s young daughter, Kendall, when she went away on a short trip. But without thinking he answered, “Yeah.” With a smile, as if there were something sentimental inside. “From my dad.”
“Well. . see ya,” Stanton said, and Justin waited until he was out the door before casually dropping the envelope on the desk and saying to the FBI agent, “Anything else?”
“Maybe,” Schrader said. “The plane crash a few days ago. Got anything on that?”
“I was wondering if you guys were going to get around to that. You interested?” Justin did his best to register genuine surprise.
“It hasn’t been a top priority because our info is that it was an accident. But I’m interested in anything out of the ordinary right now. And that sure as hell qualifies as out of the ordinary.”
“You know, it’s weird,” Justin said. “I don’t have a goddamn thing. Maybe you can help me out. Might be to your benefit, too. The pilot didn’t have a shred of ID on him. I managed to get a fingerprint but it doesn’t seem to be on record anywhere.” He thought about his next sentence, whether or not to toss it in, decided he’d go for it. “I even called a friend of mine in the FBI. The agent who runs the New England bureau. I know her from Providence, that’s where I’m from.”
“Chinkle or something like that, right?”
“Wanda Chinkle. Exactly.”
“She help you out?”
“Nope. Said she tried and got the same answer-nothing on record.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Schrader said. “We restricted access.”
“But you know the pilot’s identity?”
Schrader nodded.
“You gonna share it?” Justin asked.
“I don’t want to be difficult,” the agent said. “In fact, I’m under orders to try to be as cooperative as possible. But I’m also under orders not to reveal his name.”
“Why?”
“We’ve been looking into it,” Schrader said. “We don’t have any answers yet, but we’re investigating. Like I said, we’re looking at anything out of the ordinary. We got burned pretty bad on 9/11, didn’t connect a lot of the dots we should’ve connected. We can’t ignore anything that might relate to this bombing.”
“And does it?”
“It’s unlikely, but we don’t know for sure yet. That’s why we’re not releasing any information. I know it’s frustrating, but if local cops get involved, even someone as competent as you seem to be, it can only muddle things even further.”
“Thanks for the compliment,” Justin said. “That’s the first time anyone from your organization admitted I might even be competent.” He grinned easily. “So do you have a hunch? I mean, about the pilot’s connection to the bombing?”
The agent hesitated, furrowed his brow thoughtfully, then shook his head. “I think the plane crash is just a coincidence. Pilot error, accidental malfunction, something like that. Screwy. . but screwier things happen all the time.”
“That’s what I figured,” Justin said. And he did his best to furrow his own brow, before adding, “Except. . the pilot’s body disappeared.”
“Yes, we know.”
“Have a hunch about that?”
“More than a hunch,” Schrader said easily. “We’ve talked to Southampton Hospital and several other facilities within fifty miles of this place. They’ve had so many bodies, living and dead, after the explosion, they’re sure this one just got misplaced. Put in with all the others.” He shook his head at the tragedy of it all.
“There didn’t seem to be a record of any ambulance being dispatched to pick up this particular body,” Justin said.
“That also got lost in the confusion. But it’s been found now. I think if you get in touch with Southampton Hospital, they’ll corroborate what I’m telling you.”
“I’m sure they will,” Justin said.
Schrader stood up. “Well,” he said. “I just thought we should touch base. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful, but I wanted to fill you in.”
“I appreciate it. If there’s anything I can do for you while you’re around, just ask.”
“Same here,” Schrader said. And smiled.
Justin watched him go, but the agent didn’t leave the station. He stopped at Gary Jenkins’s desk, started up a casual conversation. Justin knew that Gary was smart enough not to reveal anything he shouldn’t. At some point, Schrader looked up and caught Justin’s eye. Justin flashed him a big smile and, staring straight at him, began opening the envelope that Stanton had dropped off. It was addressed only to Justin Westwood, East End Harbor Police Department. No street number. And no return address or name of sender.
Inside was a thick three-ring binder. Justin flipped it open to find pages filled with notes, diagrams, and hand-scribbled drawings. It took him a moment to realize what he was holding on to, and when he did, he involuntarily slammed the notebook shut. He glanced up, but Schrader wasn’t watching him now. The FBI agent was heading toward the door, on his way outside. That’s when Justin saw that there was a note taped to the cloth front of the book. It was handwritten and said, “Jay: Just for safekeeping. If I’ve already told you to FedEx this baby up to me, you can have a good laugh at my expense. If you’re surprised to get it, then it meant I did the right thing. Get the bastards.”
The note was from Chuck Billings.
He was holding all the information Billings had compiled on the bombing at Harper’s Restaurant.
Justin licked his lips because his mouth had suddenly gone dry. But before he could open the book up again, it was 12:40 P.M., and Stanton came racing back into the police station, yelling for them to turn on the TV or the goddamn radio. Special Agent Hubbell Schrader came racing in, too, as Stanton began screaming that the fuckers had done it again, the goddamn fucking shitheads had just blown up another restaurant, this time in New York City.
Justin shoved the notebook into a desk drawer, came racing out of the small office. Mike Haversham was the closest to the small TV they kept in the main room and he punched at the on button and, sure enough, Stanton was right. On the TV screen there was smoke and sirens and cops and firemen. There seemed to be blood everywhere and you could hear the hysteria that was happening in Manhattan. And as Justin looked up, saw Agent Schrader staring at the TV just like the rest of them, he thought two things.
One: when Schrader had come into the police station, he’d walked right up to Justin’s desk. He didn’t
