Flight Risk

by Cara C. Putman

  “Hey, just the woman I was looking for.” Her purse swung from his fingertips like a pendulum.

  She sort of grimaced but then smiled, a little forced around the edges. “The words I wanted to hear.”

  “I think you left this.”

  “Thank you. I was headed to get it.” Her eyes were hooded and her shoulders sagged. She looked exhausted. “Dustin might be telling the truth.”

  Jett studied her. So she’d overheard part of their conversation. He shrugged like it was nothing important. “What do you mean?”

  “He claims he has proof.” Her lips quirked as if she knew something he didn’t, which, considering the topic, was likely. “We’ll see.”

  “Will you let me know if he does?”

  She considered him. “Maybe, but he has to have something first.”

  He nodded but felt weighted like a barbell had been placed across his shoulders, pressing him down. “Would you tell your niece I’m sorry?” The words slipped out before he’d formed the thought.

  She seemed to catch his surprise and gave a slow nod. “I’ll tell her, but I wouldn’t expect any more from her than her dad. As much as I’d love to listen to that conversation, I’ll spare you the fireworks.”

  “The what?”

  “Intense emotions. She’s a fourteen-year-old girl. Emotions all over on the best of days, and your article ruined that for at least a week.”

  Fair enough. Time to restart this conversation. “We’ve gotten off on the wrong foot.” He waggled his fingers in front of the attorney and applied his best cocky, trust-me grin. “I’m Jett Glover, a man who’s obsessed with the truth.”

  She left his hand hanging there as she looked away. “I’ve heard more convincing lies from defendants. You really need to work on your technique.”

  Her words stung. “Thanks for the tip.”

  “Well, thanks for bringing me this.” She held up her purse. “Good-bye.”

  He watched her walk off. He had the desire to follow her, but she’d take it as hounding. The beauty had no interest in him. Not that he had an interest in her. He wanted to slap that idea from his thoughts.

  Time to do anything else.

  He glanced at his phone, but still no return call from his caller. He left another message in case this one generated a response.

  When he got home, he headed immediately to the woodshed. The only way to focus would be to run the plane along the wood. If he calmed his body with steady motions, maybe his mind would cooperate. After ten minutes of deliberate movement, his thoughts continued to swirl as if he had an IV of caffeine flowing straight into his bloodstream. At this rate, it would be a long, sleepless night.

  He tried to direct his thoughts along the length of the board but cycled through the interviews he’d conducted over the last two days.

  Logan Donnelly and Dustin Tate had grown up in the same neighborhood, but Dustin had been friends with Logan’s older brother, Tyler. Tyler had joined the military with Dustin, then died on a tour of duty in the Middle East. At that time, Dustin stepped into the role of big brother for Logan, who had been eight years younger than his hero brother. Jett had seen a couple of photos of the two together when he’d tracked down Logan’s old Sunday school teacher. The sixtyish woman had taught the same class to thirteen-year-olds for twenty years. Her stories about Dustin and Logan had been entertaining.

  Typical boys.

  Then he’d tracked down a couple of guys Logan had played with in high school. Same story, different voices.

  Everything indicated the move to the major leagues and an extravagant lifestyle changed the man, though he maintained a facade of good character.

  Jett himself hadn’t believed the story until he received the USB drive with video of Donnelly negotiating with a pimp.

  It validated other evidence that Logan had changed. He had a ream of paper filled with flight manifests and other details he’d put together while in Thailand. He’d retraced the team’s itinerary on two of their trips. Each one followed a disturbing pattern. Purchase the penthouse suite of a hotel that catered to rich foreigners. Throw an extravagant party. Watch the girls come in. And then it got hazy.

  Until the video.

  Then the truth was in pixelated black and white.

  Dustin’s fall had been more circuitous.

  Jett’s wood plane skipped on the board as he thought of the man’s ex-wife.

  Dustin had started well. He married the moment he finished undergrad while his new wife was still a student. Then she’d gone to law school while he was deployed as a pilot. It seemed 9/11 undid him. He headed out on another deployment and left the divorce paperwork for her to deal with.

  Dustin lost his way for a few years as he completed his commitment to the Air Force. He rebounded after that, getting the job with Western World and seeming to fly a straight if lonely course.

  The plane skipped again. Jett straightened, then twisted to ease the tension in his back. His attention had wavered, and now he’d have to resmooth this area. If he was lucky, he wouldn’t have to replane the entire surface. If he did, the plank could end up being too thin.

  He had mounds of evidence.

  He thrust the plane away.

  Time to get some sleep before he ruined the plank.

  * * *

  Saturday, December 12

  The next morning Jett headed in for another Saturday at the Washington Source offices.

  A weekend in this city could either be sleepy or overwhelmed with news. This was the nation’s capital after all. Even without a plane crash in the heart of the city, there would be the pressure to complete legislative work before both houses of Congress adjourned for the holiday season.

  He planned to settle into his cubicle, put on his headphones, and make progress on crafting the follow-up story from his trip to Boston and the crash. First, he needed more coffee.

  Chase sat in the small breakroom, but popped up the instant he spotted Jett. “Need some coffee?”

  The kid had eager beaver written all over. Wonder how long it will take for that to be beaten out of him by the cutthroat pace and business of journalism. “I can get my own. Thanks.” He gave the kid a wry grin and stepped to the old-school coffeemaker.

  As it hissed and brewed, Chase didn’t return to his seat. “I’ve been wondering something, Mr. Glover.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Where’s Logan Donnelly? He hasn’t turned up since the crash.”

  “Hopefully he’s in a hospital recovering.” He wouldn’t wish anything else on the man, no matter what he’d done in Asia.

  “I thought so too.” Chase pulled a notepad from the table. “Except I’ve called all the local hospitals. Nothing doing. Can’t find him.”

  “Or you’re reaching people who are concerned about violating privacy.”

  “Sure. But all I’m finding is this.” The kid took his cell phone from his back pocket and pulled up a video. “Watch.”

  Jett stepped closer and leaned forward. Jett had driven on the Fourteenth Street Bridge earlier in the week and could imagine the scene clearly. The bridge had three spans, each with multiple lanes. As a main artery into the capital, it usually had heavy traffic with planes taking off and landing at Reagan National in the background. The video had been filmed from the bridge, and showed a man helping survivors out of the plane into the river. One woman floundered in the water, and he pulled her to the surface and secured a life vest on her. Looking heroic.

  No, being heroic.

  Jett squinted as the video played again. Yep, it was Donnelly.

  The short video ended with Logan still in the water, but it was clear he had survived the crash. “Have you checked his social media accounts?”

  The kid rolled his eyes as if that was a dumb question. Maybe it was. “Of course. No activity since your article broke.”

  “All right. I’ll keep digging too. We’ll find him.” After he filled a coffee mug with the fresh brew, Jett wandered through the hi
ve of cubicles in the newsroom. The cacophony that buzzed around him indicated it would be a busy news day. The aroma of too much perfume blended with a locker room assaulted his nose. Seemed like a few had come straight from the gym, something Ted wouldn’t like. It might be Saturday, but that didn’t slack the normal workday expectations.

  After he reached his cubicle and booted his laptop, he pulled up notes on one half of the monitor and a blank document for the new story on the other half. Then he did a quick search of Logan’s social media accounts. It was possible Chase had missed something important. After twenty minutes of clicking around, Jett had to admit the kid was right because he couldn’t find a post made in the last two days. Logan’s last post had been immediately after Jett’s story hit the web on Wednesday. That one had been a quick tweet that the story was inaccurate and incomplete. A flash of frustration climbed Jett’s neck. He’d tried to interview Logan prior to the release of the story, but the man had been obstinately silent. He clenched his jaw as he sent a direct message to the man with what must be the tenth invitation to tell his side of the story, but as he clicked send, he didn’t expect a reply.

  He went back and did a general search on Twitter. He noticed a recurring tweet with a link to his article. The tweet was odd but had the same weird tone and misspelling of the one he’d noticed earlier.

  Harm the innocent and you’ll get your due. If not from God then from those who avenge the damaged and abused. The crash was God’s judgment, but next time it will be mine. The trueth will be revealed.

  Jett sank against his seat back. That tweet contained a lot of angry emotion. He clicked on the handle, UndergroundVigil486, no one visible using it. No picture, no mini-bio.

  Was it a simple troll?

  Maybe, but the anger reflected in the words felt connected to a living, breathing person. The questions were who and if it even mattered.

  The background of clacking keys and voices ebbed, and Jett looked out of his cube to see Ted had stepped out of his office. “Editorial meeting in five.”

  Good. That gave him time to try his mystery caller’s number again.

  The call bounced to voice mail. Maybe it was a burner phone or something similar that the man didn’t check often. Jett left a message anyway.

  “Glover.” Ted did not sound happy. Great.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jett double-timed it to the conference room. The force in Ted’s voice warned today was not the day to stroll into the meeting just on time. A large walnut table anchored the space, with sixteen chairs crammed around it. Jett decided to stand. He’d spent too much time sitting in the car or at his desk. Leaning against the wall felt good, and he liked the vantage point that allowed him to see every facial expression and movement.

  Sometimes what wasn’t said revealed more than what was. Those nuances were key and could give him an advantage.

  “Jett.” Brett Sanderson, the walking Pulitzer prize, leaned against the wall next to him. The man was in his late thirties and had the glow of a career that had been touched by journalism gold. As a graduate student at a top journalism school, he’d been part of an investigative team that won a Pulitzer. Then lightning struck again when the man stumbled onto a Wall Street scandal that bled onto Capitol Hill and turned into that award last year.

  Jett wasn’t jealous. Much. He forced a grin. “Whatcha working on?”

  “Flight 2840. My contacts in the agencies are tight-lipped about causes.”

  “Can’t say I’m surprised.” He maintained a nonchalant air as he studied Brett from the corner of his eye.

  “Sure, but usually I can get a whiff of which way they’re leaning. This time nothing.”

  “It’s only been forty-eight hours. These investigations take weeks. Any thoughts?”

  “Not sure. Just glad it wasn’t terrorism. Have you seen a fatality list?”

  “No. Thinking it’s long since it hasn’t released yet. Bet it has a few politicos and local celebrities.”

  Brett snorted, a rough sound that belied his urban air with a goatee that was perfectly trimmed and tortoiseshell glasses. “What plane flying out of DC doesn’t?”

  “You’ve got me there.”

  The man crossed his arms and shifted as Ted strode into the room. So much for hoping Brett would take the last empty chair at the table. “Lance thinks you’ve got an award hinging on the Donnelly piece. Good work.”

  “Thanks.” Jett didn’t want to acknowledge how much he hoped the same. “Can’t control the awards.”

  “You can write a story that screams ‘recognize me.’ You’ve checked that box.”

  “Maybe.” He wouldn’t hang his hat on it even if he held a spot on his wall for the picture of him receiving his Pulitzer. Would that get Savannah’s attention? He froze. Why did he care? Other than she was accomplished and he wanted to catch her eye. “Not all of us are lucky.”

  Brett’s shoulders tightened and his eyes narrowed. “Luck didn’t have a thing to do with it.”

  “You’re right.” Jett covered a yawn. All he had for his time at the hospital last night was an exhaustion hangover and time with a spitfire. “What’s your working theory?”

  “Not sure. Maybe human error.”

  “Really? Not ice?”

  Brett stroked his goatee. “Maybe, but don’t think so. Call it a feeling.”

  “Not buying it.” No way would Brett say something that certain without evidence.

  The man tipped his head closer to Jett. “My source in the State Department let it slip last night over drinks. The only person who talked. Off the record of course.”

  “Always.” This was too important not to press hard for confirmation.

  “He said it while bemoaning the loss of the beautiful undersecretary, who had a seat on the plane. Guess they were close.” He waggled his eyebrows in a way that made it impossible to miss his meaning.

  “You mean they had an affair.”

  “If you need it spelled out, yes.”

  The woman had been reckless to get embroiled in something that could compromise her career and security clearance. “Where does your source work?”

  “Terrorism task force. Says the crash is definitely not his area. No groups claiming credit, so pilot error or equipment failure.”

  “Sounds like he’d know.”

  “Yep. But look at the passenger manifest. That dictates a comprehensive and fast response.”

  Jett nodded, but fast also meant margin of error. Something that couldn’t be allowed on a disaster like this. It was tragic as an accident. It was response worthy as terrorism. With both Donnelly and Tate on the flight, he’d leave the actual crash investigation to other reporters. Unless assigned by Ted, he’d investigate the angles related to the passengers that featured in his investigation. He still had a week for follow-ups.

  Ted cleared his throat and placed his hands on his hips. His expression was stern, especially for a Saturday where he’d called in a large number of the team. “I appreciate you coming in on the weekend. Good thing none of you signed on for a regular nine-to-five job. Let’s go through assignments for today. It’s going to be fast and furious as we work through plane crash coverage along with our regular slate of weekend news.”

  The next fifteen minutes were filled with the routine of schedules and story ideas. In a city as big and multifaceted as DC there were always events waiting to be covered and investigated. International affairs, domestic squabbles involving the three branches of government, run-of-the-mill crime, and local, national, and state politics. It was the city to be in if you wanted to be at the heart of the stories that impacted the world.

  “Glover, I want you working with Sanderson on Flight 2840. You’ll keep following Donnelly and Tate, and work with Sanderson on anything else that comes up related to the crash. Have Bowers and Penny help as needed.”

  Penny Sheldon bristled, and he didn’t blame her. Lance consistently used the guys’ last names and her first. Nothing like calling out her gender
in a word.

  “On it.” Sanderson nudged him. “You and me. We got this.”

  Penny looked up from her phone. “Rumor has it Donnelly didn’t survive.” She showed the screen to Jett. “Guess he died to save the woman in the video.”

  * * *

  Monday, December 14

  Over the snowy weekend news headlines and social media had lit up with the news that Logan Donnelly had perished in the Potomac. Savannah had repeatedly watched the dramatic footage of him helping a woman escape the sinking fuselage. Posts all over social media were calling him a hero who laid down his life for another. Her gut had clenched as she watched him thrust the woman onto a flotation device while it was clear he was worn out by the cold waters.

  Who was he?

  She couldn’t reconcile the man in Jett Glover’s article with the man in the video. Maybe it would make more sense when she had whatever proof Dustin had mentioned at the hospital.

  The morning coffee conversation at the firm had surrounded those who’d died, a list of eighty-five souls including the undersecretary of state and the chief of staff for a congressman, someone Hayden knew thanks to Andrew, her fiancé. Savannah had watched a video put together by one of the news outlets of the names and images of those who had perished with tears in her eyes. Early speculation was that many had died on impact, while those closest to where the plane broke apart may have died from drowning.

  Divers were still searching in the icy Potomac for the black box that would explain what had happened in the cockpit in the minutes leading up to the crash.

  This was why the technology her clients were developing mattered. If Flight 2840 had used Mnemosyne’s black-box alternative, maybe the cause would already be determined. The case needed to settle.

  She picked up her phone and placed a call to Reginald Nash. The man wasn’t thrilled to hear from her.

  “Come on, Reggie. Let’s get this resolved so both our clients can get on with their core work.” She crossed her fingers but didn’t harbor high expectations.

  “Not now. My client is adamant. They won’t do anything until mediation is complete.”