by Dee Davis
“Hematoma,” Simon said, his eyes back on the body.
“Right. In some cases, the swelling itself can be lethal. But if the hematoma breaks or tears, then the brain is going to fill with blood. And unless there’s immediate medical care, chances of survival are nil.”
“But when I checked the guy, he was already dead,” Simon said. “Before the fire started. So how did he wind up with smoke in his lungs?”
“Could be a couple of things.” Lydia shrugged. “There may have been a smaller fire in the helicopter on impact. Maybe electrical. And that would be the source of the smoke. I should be able to verify that with more testing. But it’s equally possible that the pilot was still alive when you checked. He’d have been unconscious and, considering the impact, quite possibly in a coma. So for all practical purposes, he’d have looked dead.”
“So you’re saying that if I could have gotten to him, I could have saved him?”
“Not with that kind of brain injury.” She shook her head. “He was dead the moment his brain began to bleed. There’s nothing you could have done.”
“But he was in the middle of a hospital,” J.J. whispered to no one in particular, the horror in her voice reaching something deep inside him.
“Doesn’t matter. He didn’t have a chance.” Lydia reached out to cover him up. “Sometimes there’s just nothing we can do.”
“Did the autopsy show any signs of a struggle?” Simon asked, already pretty sure he knew the answer. “We think it’s possible that his passenger forced him to crash the helicopter.”
“If that’s the case, then I think maybe you have it backward,” Lydia said, moving over to the other body. “If there was coercion involved, I’d say it was this guy that was on the wrong end of that stick.”
“I don’t understand,” J.J. said, her confusion mirroring his own.
“It’s pretty straightforward,” Lydia said, pulling back the sheet to reveal an equally mutilated body. “I’ve got postmortem bruising consistent with his position during the crash. And look at these gashes,” she pointed to a portion of the man’s arm that was relatively unburned, “there’s no sign of blood loss. Bottom line, this guy was already dead when the helicopter slammed into the hospital.”
“Son of a bitch,” Simon said. “That sure as hell changes the game. Looks like GI Joe might not have been as red, white, and blue as we were led to believe.”
Although Jillian had flown in helicopters as part of her training at Homeland Security, she’d never actually been to a heliport. Of course she’d seen this particular one in many movies, and in truth, it looked pretty much the same in person as it did on the big screen. A giant L-shaped slab of concrete jutted out into the mouth of the East River, fronted by a parking lot and a two-story building just off the FDR.
She and Simon had come to meet with Aerial Manhattan’s owner about their newest discoveries concerning the crash, in particular any insight he might have into Nicolas Essex, the pilot. Something that might point to the man’s involvement with what now appeared to be a deliberate assault on the hospital. Drake Flynn was on his way to Essex’s apartment with the same goal. Hopefully, between the three of them, they’d hit pay dirt.
The families of the people lying in the morgue deserved answers. And the first step was to find out what role Nicolas Essex had played in all of this. The wind off the river was brisk, and Jillian grabbed the end of her ponytail to keep her hair out of her face as they walked toward the heliport offices. Definite downside to long hair. She’d considered cutting it when she’d taken the job with Homeland Security. One more way to make herself into someone new. But in the end, she’d settled for pulling it back.
Once, a long time ago, Simon had teased her that it was her crowning glory. She’d held the compliment close long after he’d stopped being a permanent fixture in her life. Maybe because no one else had ever said anything like that to her before. Or maybe because she was a glutton for self-flagellation.
She shook her head, pushing aside her thoughts. She wasn’t going to let him get to her. Not now. Not after fighting so hard to get to this point. Simon represented everything that she’d sworn to walk away from. And she sure as hell wasn’t going to let go of everything she’d gained for the faded memory of a man who’d walked out of her life without looking back. This was just business. Or maybe it was some kind of cosmic test. Either way, she was determined to get through it without letting the past rear its ugly head.
“So what’s the director’s name again?” Simon asked, his voice cutting through her thoughts.
“Alan Neiman,” she said, checking her iPad for verification. “He founded the company. He grew up in Flatbush. Never went to college. Was drafted and did a couple tours in Vietnam, then he was stationed stateside until he retired and founded Aerial Manhattan.”
“And they’re headquartered out of here?” Simon held the door open as they stepped into the lobby of the building, a sign posted on the wall directing them to a suite in the back.
“No,” Jillian shook her head, still reading on her tablet. “Their main offices are in Brooklyn. But this is where most of their flights originate, so they keep an office here as well. The manager is actually Neiman’s son. Gideon.”
“And I’m guessing you have a dossier on him as well.” Simon grinned as they stopped outside the doors leading to Aerial Manhattan.
“I do,” she acknowledged, closing the cover on the iPad, “but I can tell you right now that it’s pretty uninteresting. Started with Aerial out of college, worked his way up to running the heliport office. Been with the company almost eleven years. No record and nothing that would flag him as a person of interest.”
“All right, then, let’s do this,” Simon said, his fingers cupping her elbow, the warmth sending a fission of electricity pulsing through her, his nearness making her shiver in anticipation of something that could never—would never—be.
God, she was a fool. One night out of her life. One stupid, incredible night, and she’d given her heart to a man who didn’t want it. And to make it all the more reprehensible, she’d turned around and married his best friend. A man whose anger and jealousy had destroyed any chance they might have had at happiness.
It wasn’t Simon’s fault. Intellectually she knew that. But she’d also been devastated when he hadn’t come to her rescue. As always, in the end, he’d chosen Ryan. And now… now she was having trouble just standing close to him, the memories, both good and bad, threatening to tear her apart.
Inside the office, he let go of her arm, and she forced her thoughts away from the past. A man rose from behind a desk, identifying himself as Gideon Neiman. After introductions, he ushered them into a small conference room. The man standing at the far end of the room turned immediately, and Jillian recognized Gideon’s father, Alan, from the photo in their file.
“I appreciate your meeting with us on such short notice,” Simon said, as they all took seats around the table, Neiman at the head, his son on his right.
“I’m happy to do it,” Neiman replied. “Although I’m not sure what else we can tell you. We’ve both been interviewed by the NYPD and the FBI, as well as having the FAA hovering—excuse the pun—at every turn. I’m afraid there’s nothing new to offer.”
“We’re not part of the original investigation,” Jillian said, opening her iPad to her notes.
“I don’t understand.” Gideon frowned, shooting a look at his father. “I thought this had been deemed an accident.”
“Actually, we’re taking a second look at that,” Simon said, leaning back as he studied the two men. “There have been some developments that are calling the original determination into question.”
“What kind of developments?” the older Neiman asked.
“Most of it is need to know, unfortunately.” Jillian smiled. “But we’re hoping you won’t mind going over a few things again with us.”
“Should I be calling a lawyer?” Gideon asked, reaching into his pocket for his cellphon
e.
“I don’t see why,” Simon answered with a frown. “Unless, of course, you have something to hide.”
Gideon opened his mouth to respond, but Jillian waved him off. “There’s nothing to be concerned about, I promise. We’re not interested in either of you. Or, as far as we know, your company. We’re actually here to talk about Nicolas Essex.”
“Nicky?” Gideon said, his surprise evident. “Surely you don’t believe he’s involved with this? I’ve known him since I was a kid.”
“We have some evidence that seems to suggest that Mr. Essex may have been involved in what happened.”
“I don’t believe it,” Alan said, his eyes narrowing. “There’s no way Nicky would be involved in anything that even remotely resembled treason. If he had a hand in the crash then I can assure you it was an accident.”
“But he was a seasoned pilot, Mr. Neiman,” Jillian said, her gaze on the older man. “And there was nothing about the weather or, according to your statement to the police, the helicopter that would have been problematic. Add that to our information and we come full circle back to Mr. Essex.”
“Captain Essex,” Neiman corrected, his gaze shrewd. “And I can guarantee you the boy had nothing to do with this. His father and I fought in ’Nam together. Hell, I practically raised him. Not to mention the fact that he’s a decorated war hero.”
Jillian swallowed, fighting her own emotions. In her experience, decorated war heroes weren’t always what they seemed to be. “So you’ve never had any reason to be concerned about Captain Essex’s state of mind?” she asked, focusing on the conversation at hand. “No signs of uncontrolled anger, detachment, loss of interest—”
“I’m more than aware of the symptoms of PTSD, Ms. Montgomery,” Neiman said. “And I can tell you unequivocally that Nicky didn’t suffer from it.”
“I agree,” Gideon said. “We were close. I’d have noticed if something was wrong.”
“What about the day of the crash? Anything happen that was out of the ordinary?”
“No.” Gideon shook his head, his gaze cutting to his father’s. “But I told you, I’ve already been over all of this.”
“So humor us,” Simon said. “We wouldn’t be bothering you if we didn’t think it was important.”
“It was a routine day.” Gideon sat back, blowing out a breath. “I came in around nine. Nicky was already here.”
“And it’s just the two of you?”
“Usually. Although I have an assistant that comes in three days a week. But she wasn’t there that day.”
“What about mechanics?” Simon asked.
“We share them with the others who use the heliport. They’re actually employees of the city. It’s regulation.” The elder Neiman shrugged. “I’ve got my own mechanics, of course, but they don’t handle routine maintenance. And there was no one here the day the helicopter crashed. Just my son and Nicky.”
“And everything seemed normal?”
“Yeah,” Gideon said. “Nicky took a couple of Wall Street bigwigs for a run in the morning, and then he had the tour in the afternoon.”
“With Eric Wilderman.”
“Right.” Gideon nodded. “I checked him in myself. And if you ask me, he’s the one you should be looking at.”
“Is there something specific that makes you say that?” Simon asked.
“No. Just that the little guy seemed off somehow. I don’t know. It’s not something you can put into words.”
“But there wasn’t anything about that in the original report,” Simon prompted, his brows drawn together in a frown.
“No one asked. I didn’t even think about it, really. I mean, they were so sure it was an accident.”
“You said Wilderman was little. What exactly did you mean by that?” Jillian asked, pulling Eric Wilderman’s photo up on her iPad.
“Just what I said. The guy was real small. Five-five max.”
“And just to be clear, you’re referring to Eric Wilderman, right?”
“Yes,” Gideon said, confusion playing across his face. “Eric Wilderman, the man who signed up for the tour.” Simon leaned forward, clearly at a loss as well.
“Can you give me a description?” Jillian said, looking down at Mr. Wilderman’s photo, his balding pate glistening in the sunlight.
“Um, he was short. Like I said. And kind of wiry.” Gideon looked over to his father, who shrugged. Gideon sighed and then scrunched up his face as he tried to remember. “He had dark hair. Cropped short. But not like a buzz cut. And more than a few days’ growth on his face, but it wasn’t a full beard. More like he just hadn’t shaved in a while.”
“What about ethnicity? White, Asian, Latino?”
“I don’t know. Nothing really. I mean, I guess, white. He was definitely American, complete with a midwestern nasal drawl.”
“How about his clothes?” she prompted, Simon showing signs of comprehension now.
“Expensive. The suit had to have cost a couple thousand. And the shoes. Oh, and there was a watch. A Rolex or something like it. It was big and definitely expensive. I remember being surprised. I mean he was an insurance salesman, right?” He shot an apologetic look at his dad, and J.J. lifted the iPad so that they could all see it.
“Is this the guy?” she asked.
“No. He didn’t look anything at all like that. Who is that?”
“Eric Wilderman,” Jillian said, alarm bells ringing. “No one showed you this photograph, I take it?”
“Like I said”—this from the elder Neiman—“everyone thought it was an accident. They were far more interested in our maintenance records.”
“Did you confirm his identification?” Simon asked.
“Yes, of course,” Gideon said, looking something close to befuddled. “I have to for insurance purposes. I always check the driver’s license. I’ve got the form right here.” He reached over to a pile of papers sitting in front of his father, and, after rifling through a file, handed Jillian a handwritten form.
She quickly checked the information against the file she had on Wilderman, aware that tension was rising as the men awaited her response. “It matches what we’ve got for him. The address, the phone numbers. Even the license number is the same. At least on paper it was Wilderman.”
“So you actually saw the driver’s license, right?” Simon asked Gideon.
He nodded. “Absolutely. And I can promise you the photo was of the guy I described. The one standing in my office. Not the one in your photo.”
There was a moment of silence as everyone digested this newest information.
“What about interaction between Essex and Wilderman?” Simon asked finally. “Did they seem to know each other?”
“Not from what I could see,” Gideon said. “But I wasn’t with them very long. I took Wilderman, or whoever he was, out to the helipad and introduced him to Nicky, but then I got a call so I left.”
“Everything seem normal at takeoff?” Simon continued to probe.
“Yeah, nothing out of the ordinary… except,” Gideon paused, clearly considering his words, “there was a glitch in communications, but it was only for a second or so. I didn’t really think anything of it. I mean they took off okay, and everything seemed fine until we got the call about the crash.” He shrugged, looking over at his father, who reached out to squeeze his arm.
“It’s fine, son,” Neiman said. “No one is questioning your part in this. They’re just trying to understand what happened.”
Jillian looked to Simon, who nodded at the two men reassuringly. “We appreciate your cooperation,” he said, pushing to his feet. “And we’ll get back to you if we need anything else.”
“You’re thinking that this man, whoever he was, might have been behind the crash,” the older Neiman said, his gaze assessing.
“It’s possible.” Simon shrugged. “It’s certainly something we’ll be looking into, you can rest assured.”
“And Nicky?” Gideon asked. “Are you convinced now that
he’s innocent?”
“At this point, we can’t rule anyone out.”
CHAPTER 4
You don’t really consider the Neimans suspect, do you?” J.J. asked as they walked toward the front desk of Eric Wilderman’s hotel.
“I meant what I said. We can’t rule anyone out. But no, I don’t actually think they were involved.”
“And the captain?”
“Him, I haven’t ruled out,” Simon said, with a shrug. “But the switched ID for Wilderman seems like the bigger red flag of the two.”
“But if he was dead at takeoff?” J.J. queried.
“I know. None of it really makes any sense. Seems like every answer only creates more questions.”
“Well, maybe Drake is having more luck.”
They stopped in front of the desk, flashed J.J’s ID, and waited for the manager.
“So does it feel odd?” J.J. asked, shooting a sideways glance in his direction. “Working together like this, I mean?”
“I suppose it’s a little weird,” Simon admitted, drumming his fingers on the counter. Hell, of course it was weird, fucking crazy weird. Half of him wanted to fall prostrate at her feet, apologizing for all the pain he’d caused, and the other half wanted to take her into his arms and kiss her until neither of them could feel anything but each other. But he wasn’t about to admit either one. “But it’s not like this is the first time we’ve been joined at the hip.”
“Yes, but this is different,” she pressed.
“You mean because Ryan isn’t here.” The words came out of their own accord, and a shadow flashed across her face. He cursed himself for being so insensitive. Of course, she missed Ryan. Hell, he did, too. It was bad enough that he’d played a role in her husband’s death. The least he could do was try not to remind her of the fact.
