Wanda Chinkle was the assistant director of the FBI responsible for the New England bureau. She’d been in charge for a little over two years now. She’d gone up there to work when Justin Westwood was still on the Providence police force, and they’d joined together on a case. She still felt a little guilty that she’d been unable to protect his family in the mob attack that ultimately took their lives, which is why, when their paths had crossed a year ago, when he’d gotten caught up in the middle of the hunt to stop Douglas Kransten and his Aphrodite experiment, she’d helped Justin out. That helping hand had greatly jeopardized her standing with her bosses. But Justin had managed to repay the favor and dig her out of the jam. She liked Justin. He could be charming as hell. He could also be cold as steel and just as hard. She hadn’t known him all that well before his daughter was killed and she sometimes wondered if he’d been any softer before that. Something told her that wasn’t the case. Wanda’s experience was that people didn’t really change. The older they got-the more life they experienced-they just tapped into what was already there. What was just waiting for an excuse to come out.
As soon as she heard Justin’s voice on the phone, Wanda knew he wanted something. That was okay. Very few people talked to Wanda unless they wanted something. It didn’t bother her. She was tough enough and smart enough to handle most things. Even Justin Westwood.
“It’s good to hear from you, Jay. How are things there? You’re not far from the bombing, are you? At the restaurant.”
“Maybe five or six miles away.”
“Jesus. You okay?”
“I’m fine. I was nowhere near it. But my boss wasn’t so lucky. He was there.”
“Was he. .?”
“Yeah. He was.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too. But that doesn’t have anything to do with why I’m calling. I need a favor.”
“Well, we’re a little busy right now, considering what’s going on. Full antiterrorist mode. Did you see Stuller’s speech?”
“I saw it. And I appreciate what you’re going through. But this won’t take much time.”
“What kind of trouble are you in now?”
“No trouble. I swear. I just have a question.”
“I know your questions. They usually lead to trouble.”
“Wanda, I’m just trying to get to the bottom of something. Something that shouldn’t be that complicated. But I keep hitting a wall.”
“All right, let’s hear it.”
He told her about the plane crash. She’d heard some of the details; a memo had been e-mailed with an update saying that any connection to the nearby bombing had been ruled out. Justin didn’t respond to that, just explained to her about Martin Heffernan’s behavior at the crash site. He told her about being denied access to the fingerprint records. He left out the part about the exhaust manifold that had been tampered with. Better to keep some things in reserve.
“That is definitely strange,” she said. “But, you know, the fingerprint thing-there might simply be nothing there. Some kind of snafu. Maybe because of the proximity to Harper’s. It could have been a precautionary restriction.”
“That’s probably right, but. .”
“But you’re curious.”
“I’m definitely curious.” When she stayed silent on the other end, Justin said, “Funny that none of your guys came to talk to me about the crash, don’t you think?”
“They’ve got other things on their minds, Jay.”
“Still, you’d think they’d want to check this out.”
“Sounds like the FAA already checked it out. They got word to us about the pilot error, end of story. No need to put in the extra hours if we already know it’s pointless. It doesn’t seem like a big deal.” She thought for a moment, then said, “Of course, with you just about everything’s a big deal, isn’t it?”
“I just like to be thorough,” he said. “If it wasn’t for me, what would you do for aggravation?”
She sighed. “All right. Get me a set of the prints. I can’t see any reason not to check ’em out.”
“I sent them already. They’re probably in your computer.”
“Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you, Jay?” She was certain he was smiling smugly on the other end of the phone line.
“I’m just sure who my friends are, Wanda, that’s all.” She didn’t say anything. So he said, “Call me when you’ve got something, okay?” And when she still didn’t say anything, he figured it was okay to hang up.
Forty-five minutes after Justin spoke to Wanda Chinkle, the call came in from Oklahoma City.
The woman who called was named Cherry Flynn. He asked her to repeat it, but she just said, “You heard it right. Cherry, like the little red fruit.”
“Thanks for calling back. . um. . Cherry.”
“My pleasure. What can I do for you?”
“Well, I went online looking for some information,” Justin told her. “But I couldn’t log into the public records.”
“That’s right. In the last month or so, we had to eliminate access for the general public. Security reasons.”
“Then maybe you should change the name.”
“What?”
“You shouldn’t call them public records if the public isn’t allowed to see them anymore.”
“Oh, I see what you mean.”
“So, listen, Cherry. Here’s what I need. I’m investigating a murder case. .”
“Oh my.”
“Right. I’ve got the tail number of a plane that I think belongs to the victim. I need to know how to trace the number back to the owner.”
“Well, that’s what we do.”
“Good. So if I just give you the number. .”
“Well, I’ll need some sort of authorization. Otherwise we might just as well let anyone still go online. If you see what I mean.”
“Okay, fair enough,” Justin said. “What kind of authorization?”
“Well, you said you’re from the police?”
“That’s right. I’m the chief of police for East End Harbor.”
“Where’s that?”
“Long Island. New York. Right near where the restaurant was bombed the other day.”
“Oh my. Does this have anything to do with that?”
For the briefest of moments, Justin thought about lying, thought it might help his cause. Then he realized the possible ramifications, so he quickly said, “No. It’s something completely separate.”
“Oh. Well. . why don’t you fax me something on your official police stationery. And include your badge number. I’ll get verification and approval, and then I can call you back with the information.”
“Do you know approximately how long all that might take?”
“I’m afraid I don’t. It’ll take as long as it takes.”
“Right. That was always one of my favorite axioms.”
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing.”
“Would you like the fax number?”
He said that he would and then he copied it down. He told her he’d get the request to her momentarily. She said she’d respond as soon as she could. Justin hung up and realized he’d now spent the morning accomplishing absolutely nothing thus far. He’d been stymied using official police channels, the Internet, and the phone. He’d talked to one suspicious friend who was reluctantly trying to help him with something that probably wouldn’t pan out, and one near-idiot woman who might never call him back. He hoped the afternoon would be slightly more productive.
It wasn’t.
Cherry Flynn called back around 3 P.M. Her voice was not nearly as friendly and open as it had been six hours earlier.
“I’m afraid we can’t grant your request, Mr. Westwood. I mean, Chief Westwood.”
“Can’t grant it because you don’t have the info? Or won’t grant it because you don’t want to give it to me?”
This threw her for a major loop. She was not used to any response that didn’t retreat in the face of authority. The stammering-intermixed with long silences-went on for so long that even Justin finally felt sorry for her.
“Cherry, may I ask you a couple of simple questions? Nothing that can possibly get you in trouble, I promise.”
“Well, okay. I guess.”
“I understand that you can’t give me the information I want. But just tell me if you have it. This way, I won’t have to bother you anymore and I can go to your supervisor and try to get it. If you don’t even have it, then I won’t pursue it.”
“We don’t have it.”
She was lying. He was absolutely positive. He hadn’t counted on that. He’d thought she wasn’t smart enough to lie.
“Are you sure about that?” he said.
“Well.” Her voice broke the word into two, maybe three syllables. And she waited a long time before uttering her next sentence. “Could you ask another question?”
“What?”
“Ask another question. On that same subject.”
“What kind of question should I ask?”
“Oh gosh, I don’t know how to say it. I shouldn’t really help you too much, should I? But this doesn’t seem very fair.”
“You want me to ask you a question that’ll help you give me a better answer? Is that what you’re saying?”
“I don’t think I should say anything else,” Cherry decided. “Even if this is a murder investigation.”
“All right, all right, hold it.” Justin closed his eyes. She said she didn’t have the information on the tail number. But she wanted him to ask more about it. What more is there to know? Something similar? A number close to the one I gave her? No, what good would that do? She has it or she doesn’t have it, right? What’s another alternative. You have it, you don’t have it. . Bingo! “You had the information. You had the file. But you don’t have it anymore, is that right?”
“That’s very possible,” she breathed. “Uh-huh.”
“Who took it?”
“Well, it’s not really paper anymore, you know. So you can’t just take it. .”
“Okay. Cherry, who transferred it? Or erased it?”
“I don’t think I can really tell you that.”
Justin bit down on his lip until it turned white. She wants to help. She’s trying to help. Think, think, think. “How about this?” he asked. “Who has the authority to remove a file from the computer system? Not this file. Not the file for tail number NOV 6909 Juliet. I don’t want to know who has that file. But who can remove any file? Can you?”
“Oh no,” Cherry said. “I could get in a lot of trouble for that. I can only do that when someone tells me to.”
“So your boss can tell you to do that?”
“Well, not really,” she said now, and her words were very breathy now, as if she were starting to realize that she was getting in too deep. “I mean, he could, I guess, but he would get in trouble, too. We’re not allowed just to alter or delete a file. I think it’s against the law.”
“Well, how about his boss, then?”
“Oh, his boss could do that. She’s probably allowed to take any file she wants out. She sure should be, anyway.”
“And who’s your boss’s boss, Cherry? Can you tell me who that is?”
“Well, sure. There’s nothing wrong with saying who the chain of command is, is there?”
“No, there isn’t.” He waited. Silence. “So who is your boss’s boss, Cherry?”
“Martha Peck.”
“Uh-huh. And what’s her job exactly?”
“You don’t know Martha Peck?” Cherry was astonished.
“I’m afraid not.”
“She’s the head of the FAA.”
“In Oklahoma City?”
“No. Uh-uh. She’s all the way in Washington, D.C.”
Justin let this sink in for a moment. “Someone in Washington told you to get rid of the file?”
“I never said that, did I?” Cherry sounded extremely worried. “I never said we got rid of that file!”
“No, you didn’t,” Justin reassured her. “You absolutely didn’t.” He could feel her relax. “I just have one more question, Cherry. That’s it. Then you can go back to work.”
“What is it?”
“The file you weren’t told to remove. When was that?”
“Four days ago.” He could hear her bang something, presumably with her fist. “That was a trick question!” she said. “That wasn’t fair!”
Four days ago.
Someone got rid of the pilot’s file the day before his plane crashed.
Somebody knew what was going to happen.
No. More than that. Somebody with clout knew what was going to happen.
“Thank you very much, Cherry. I appreciate all your help.”
“Damn it!” she said. “And have a nice day.”