Detour

by Kurtz, Sylvie

  “Play it cool,” I whispered to him.

  “As a cucumber.”

  A twinge of guilt niggled at my conscience. Pretexting came as easily as breathing to me but not to Wyatt. I was asking a man, honest to a fault, to go against his grain. But, for Sofia, he was willing to endure the ill fit. What would it be like to be loved so unconditionally by someone?

  Earth to Sierra, pay attention to the situation at hand. No side trips to the moon. Right. The contact.

  Paul Farr had a ruddy face. The loose skin of his jowls hung past his jawbone. His dark eyes were mere slits. And his sparse, greasy black hair was neatly spread out over his shiny pate.

  “Paul looks fierce,” Wyatt said as the man threaded his way to our table, “but he’s fair, hardworking and honest.”

  “Good to know.”

  Wyatt made introductions. Paul ordered a draft beer, then turned his attention to Wyatt. “So what do you really want, James? It’s been three years since you quit your job and not once since then have you invited me for a social drink.”

  Paul wasn’t going to make this easy. I shot Wyatt a meek smile and nudged his thigh with my knee under the table.

  “Something’s come up, and it looks like Sofia’s death might not have been an accident.”

  I cringed. Amateur! I’d told him to ease into the conversation, not plow right into it.

  “What are you saying?” Paul’s eyes widened to shiny black marbles. “Murder? Now, Wyatt, I know how much Sofia meant to you, but you’re taking your grief in the wrong direction.”

  “There’s a new report that says the air bag and seat belt were tampered with. Her briefcase was missing.”

  “Do you realize what you’re implying?”

  “Yes, I do.” Wyatt concentrated on the pale ale in his glass as if it held all the answers. “I want to know what was in her briefcase. What she was working on.”

  Paul studied me with a bulldog’s fascination for a bone. “Who’s your friend, again?”

  “The private investigator who uncovered the fraud.”

  Ack, I’d told him not to say that. Now I’d have to salvage the situation.

  “Well, it was nice seeing you again, James.” Paul scooted back his chair.

  Whoa, not so fast. “We still have a few more questions.” I flashed him a friendly smile that had hooked more than one slippery fish before.

  “Why should I answer them?”

  Paul fell into the “difficult” category. People like him wanted to argue every point and always needed to know why. Pushing back wasn’t going to help me break down the brick wall. “Because Sofia was one of your employees, and if she was murdered because of what she was working on, that means anyone else who’s working on the same project could also be in danger.”

  Paul grunted as the barmaid served his beer and placed a bowl of peanuts in the middle of the table. “It’s been a year. If there was anything to your theory, it’d have shown up by now.”

  “It is showing up right now,” I pointed out. “You must have seen the news about the F-117 and the F-22 crashes.”

  Wyatt snapped his head in my direction. His dark glower said he wasn’t pleased I’d kept my suspicions from him.

  Paul’s body stilled, alert like a buck caught in cross-hairs, not sure exactly what he’d walked into but aware of danger. “The crashes aren’t related.”

  “I think they are,” I said. “What was Sofia working on before she died?”

  Paul spoke to Wyatt. “I can’t talk about what Sofia was working on. It’s classified.”

  “I understand,” I said, refusing to be ignored. “But withholding information about a murder makes you an accessory.”

  That got his attention. He cracked a peanut between his pale, wurstlike fingers. “I probably shouldn’t even be seen talking to you. If security found out I was talking to a P.I. I could lose my job.”

  Paul needed to look at the big picture. “There’s evidence that someone rammed Sofia’s car off the road and stole data she was carrying. That’s not going to look good for you, Paul. Not when the military starts putting the crash pieces together and it all leads back to those missing data sheets. As her boss, you were responsible for the data. Now, if I can find out who took the sheets and what they did with them, that would help you out of your jam.”

  “How?”

  I shrugged one shoulder. “Armed with the information, you’d have time to go back and check if that data is the reason for the crashes and prepare yourself for the investigation.”

  He squeezed another peanut between his fingers. “I’d like to help, but protocol—”

  “That’s your choice, of course.” I sipped my soda. “You can know exactly where to shore up your defenses and prepare an offense. Or you can scramble and be on the defensive once the blame lands at your feet.”

  Paul’s eyes sparked and his mouth flattened, but he didn’t say anything.

  “We’re not asking for secrets, just a direction,” I continued. “That way you can leave the scut work to us, go about your business as usual and still come out looking like a hero for finding what went wrong and who killed Sofia.”

  “And if there’s no relation between Sofia’s death and the crashes, I risked my neck for nothing.”

  “Then you’ll know for sure,” I countered. “And when the military investigation hits your door, you can close the file with proof before Allied Defense makes the news with negative media suppositions that could hurt the company. Again, you come out the hero.”

  Paul pointed a thumb at me. “Is she for real?”

  “She’s for real. And she has a point, Paul. This is win-win.”

  Never taking his gaze off Wyatt, Paul chomped on a nutmeat. “Sofia was working on the HART. That’s all I can say.”

  “HART?” I asked.

  “High Amplification Radar Terminator,” Wyatt explained with the quiet authority of someone who belonged in that world. “It’s an instrument that allows for complete cloaking. The stealth aircrafts avoid radar detection because of their shape and their material but there’s still a weak image left behind. The Russians have managed to build a device that can enhance that faint image. The HART makes the aircraft completely invisible.”

  “So an error with the HART would affect only the stealth fighters?” I asked.

  “I can’t confirm or deny that information,” Paul said too fast.

  “Originally,” Wyatt said, “the military had planned to install the HART on the Raptor, the B-2 bomber and the stealth fighter.”

  Wyatt was proving useful after all.

  Paul’s jowls flapped as he squirmed in his chair. “I can’t talk about where it might be installed.”

  But Paul’s nervous shifting revealed so much more than words. I’d bet what was left in my savings account that the HART was on all three types of aircraft.

  “So if the HART was in testing when Sofia was killed,” Wyatt said, eagerness spiking his voice. “It would have to undergo qualifications testing, then advanced flight testing. That puts installation right around the time of the first crash.”

  I cheered silently. Wyatt had worked for Allied Defense. He knew the way they operated. As much as Paul wanted to keep his secrets, he was an open book.

  Paul took a long draft of his beer but said nothing—which, of course, told me a world.

  “Was she working off the old Trinity program?” Wyatt asked.

  “Wyatt…” Paul hedged.

  “Okay, okay,” Wyatt relented. “Why was she in Nashua?”

  Paul crunched on peanuts. “The Integration Lab was running a final test before we shrunk the components down to fit the military specifications. She asked to be invited. Everything went better than expected—”

  Wyatt lifted an eyebrow. “She asked to be invited?”

  “Yeah, there’s nothing unusual about that,” Paul said.

  “We’re talking about Sofia,” Wyatt said. His voice was calm, but his fingertips were red with pressure against
the glass.

  Paul’s eyes disappeared in the folds of his face. “What are you getting at?”

  “To speak up, she must have thought something wasn’t right.”

  Paul downed the rest of his beer and knocked the glass firmly against the table. “Everything passed with extreme confidence.”

  “Or maybe that’s what you were meant to believe.”

  Paul barked a laugh. “What you’re suggesting would require quite a conspiracy. As much as the government is a pain in the butt to work with, I don’t think anyone would resort to killing off a systems engineer to fudge test results. There’s too much at stake. And they’d have to kill off too many people to make it work. Including me.”

  “What specifically was she working on?” I asked.

  Paul slanted me a glance as if I were an annoying bug, then turned back to Wyatt. “Integrating circuits that use clockless logic technology with COTS technology.”

  “Which means?” I asked.

  Impatience reddened Paul’s face. “The new chip is small—less than two millimeters. The clockless logic allows it to use less power, improves reliability and gives it faster cycling. Integrate that with commercial off-the-shelf technology, and you’ve got state-of-the-art and affordable avionics. Everybody wins—the Air Force, the suppliers and the public that foots the bill.”

  “Everybody but Allied Defense,” I pointed out.

  “We win, too. It’s a cooperative effort. No one’s losing on this one.”

  Paul slapped some bills on the table. “Any other details about her job are not in the public domain.”

  “Thanks, Paul.” Wyatt pushed back the bills toward Paul, who ignored them. “You’ve been a great help.”

  “Yeah, well, I just hope you’re wrong.”

  “Hey, who took over Sofia’s job?” I asked.

  “I don’t want you talking to my people.” Paul hefted his bulk from the chair. “Wish I could say it was a pleasure. Next time, James, try to make your invitation a true social call.”

  “Will do.”

  Wyatt stood and shook Paul’s hand. “How’s Glenda doing these days?”

  Paul eyed Wyatt suspiciously. “She just got herself a promotion to manager.”

  “Avionics Management?”

  “Electronic Systems.”

  “Does that mean you got a promotion, too?” Wyatt asked.

  “I’m moving up to the third floor.”

  “VP?”

  Paul beamed and nodded.

  “Congratulations,” Wyatt said. “Is Glenda still into cutting?”

  “She’s looking to buy herself a new horse.”

  “Send her my way, then. I’ve got a fine crop of prospects. I’ll give her a good deal.”

  The chair scraped against the floor as Paul pushed it in. “Don’t even think about asking her any questions. I’ve already stuck out my neck for you. Don’t make me regret it.”

  After Paul left, I said, “Well, that was interesting.”

  “Paul was a friend when I worked for Allied Defense,” Wyatt said.

  “I know. I’m sorry.” I twirled my glass on the table. “But whoever killed Sofia had to know her intimately—where she worked, what she worked on, where she’d be. Either they surveilled her until they knew all her habits or they already knew her and made an opportunity. In my experience, the culprit in a business environment is usually internal. We have to list all the possibilities before we can start eliminating.”

  He slung down what was left of his beer. “So where does that leave us now?”

  “We know what she was working on. We have a better idea of the timeline. And if someone killed her to stop her from slowing down the HART project, then we have a why. It all points to business, Wyatt, so that’s where we keep digging. We have to find out who took over Sofia’s job.”

  He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Glenda will know. If she’s looking to get back into cutting, she’s bound to be at the Classic this weekend.”

  I wasn’t a cruel person. I knew how much all this digging into Sofia’s death was costing him. But he’d asked to be involved. And maybe the answers would free him. I wanted to hold his hand, but I couldn’t let his problems become mine. And I couldn’t afford to get attached to him—especially with all these unwanted feelings Sofia kept throwing at me. So I did what I always did when things got too touchy-feely, I made light of the situation. “Looks like Glenda’s about to become my new best friend. And this time, I’m asking the questions.”

  Chapter 7

  Friday, April 21

  The next afternoon Wyatt and I sped by the bronze statue called Will Rogers Riding into the Sunset, standing outside the Will Rogers Memorial Complex in the heart of Fort Worth’s Cultural District. We snaked our way through the squirming human mass and the echoing din. The smell of sweat and perfume competed with the pungent scent of arena dirt, horse and cow.

  Animals and crowds.

  A double whammy for the immune challenged. What was I thinking coming here? My hand dipped inside my tote, feathering the edge of the hospital mask. Not so great for blending in and extracting information.

  You took your pills, I reminded myself. You took your vitamins. You’re strong. Just do your job.

  Though Wyatt had a young horse entered in a class later in the afternoon, he trekked with me through the complex, searching for Glenda McCall, his former supervisor and the woman who now managed Sofia’s business area. Considering he knew what she looked like and I didn’t, I had no choice but to tag along.

  “I don’t think we’re going to find her sitting,” I said as Wyatt scoured the arena seating.

  “If she’s trying to get back into cutting, she’s going to want to watch the competition. Especially the young stock, because that’s what she’s most likely to be able to afford.”

  He so did not get the way a woman’s mind worked. “My point exactly. There’s no competition going on right now. Looks like they’re setting up for whatever’s coming next. If she’s here, she’s probably in the exhibit hall.”

  “Glenda’s not much into frills and things.”

  “She’s still a woman. She’s going to want to check out the merchandise.” Even someone like me who shopped mostly from the Lands’ End catalog couldn’t resist taking a peek at so many vendors crammed into one space.

  Wyatt slanted me a doubtful look as he wound his way around the arena boards at a ground-eating pace.

  I hitched one shoulder. “You never know when you might find a bargain.”

  “You might have something there.” Wyatt swerved, changing directions.

  The Amon G. Carter Exhibits Hall was filled with every imaginable stock-related item from horse trailers to cowboy-decorated night-lights. In the squeeze of people, my throat constricted and my palms grew sweaty.

  The mental huff of exasperation gave me the impression Sofia was rolling her eyes. She was right. I wasn’t going to die of a germ invasion today. Not that I was going to take her word for it. Delusions by definition weren’t trustworthy.

  Wyatt came to a halt in the middle of the aisleway. People streamed around us as if we were rocks in a river. “There she is.”

  In a booth filled with silk shirts, a woman bargained in a strident voice with the owner of the booth. Boy, had Wyatt ever pegged Glenda wrong. The woman dazzled in an expensive way with her custom-made jeans, bronze-sequined shirt and boots with fancy stitching.

  Both the pull of friendship and new mistrust seemed to tug at Wyatt as he greeted his old supervisor when we reached the booth. “Glenda.”

  Glenda whipped around, her face scrunched in annoyance until she recognized Wyatt’s solid frame blocking the booth’s exit. She crunched him into a bear hug. “Wyatt! It’s so nice to see you again.”

  When Glenda stepped back to admire Wyatt’s admittedly fine form, I hooked an arm possessively around his waist. He stiffened at my touch, and a nice shade of red crept up his neck at my boldness but he didn’t move away. And just as I’d
expected, Glenda’s brown eyes warmed with curiosity.

  “Hi, I’m Sierra.”

  “Oh, nice to meet you.” She extended a hand, and I had to shake it. I swallowed hard and reminded myself that I had antibacterial gel in my tote. “Glenda McCall. Wyatt used to work for me before going into ranching full-time.”

  “He’s told me you used to ride.” I purposefully didn’t give her any other information about me.

  “Haven’t really kept up since my son was born.”

  “How have you been doing?” Wyatt asked Glenda. The fingers of his right hand rested lightly on my shoulder in a way that warned me not to take my pretext too far. I leaned in closer and regretted it when a sigh of contentment rustled through me and fogged my brain. I shook my head to clear Sofia’s sticky gush of emotions.

  “Good, good.” Glenda’s mouth ran through every possible manifestation of a smile before she settled on a teeth-baring number. “And obviously you’re doing well, too.”

  He ignored her sideways poking into his personal life and jabbed her back with an intrusion of his own. “I was talking to Paul yesterday. I hear congratulations are in order.”

  “Yeah, I finally got the promotion I’ve been gunning for. They’re moving me to the bunker this weekend.” She snorted. “Took long enough. Had to bend over backward in ways Paul never did to get to a band-four pay grade.”

  “Bet Jack’s proud of you.”

  “Somehow I doubt it.” Her hand scrunched the shirt she was still holding, wrinkling the jade satin. “He left me last winter. He’s been fighting me for custody of Justin ever since.”

  “I’m real sorry to hear that.”

  “Yeah, well, I can blame all the overtime.” Regret strained Glenda’s voice. “Jack said he got tired of eating alone.”

  Couldn’t say I blamed the guy. Eating alone wasn’t one of my favorite things. And marriage was supposed to mean you’d have someone to share meals with. Even Van, who worked ungodly hours, still ate a late dinner with his wife every night.

  “Paul says you’re thinking of getting back into cutting,” Wyatt said.

  Glenda flicked away a stray wisp of auburn hair. “Yeah, now that I’m single again, I’m considering it.”