Pointer #5: “You had one eye in the mirror as you watched yourself gavotte”
Gavotte—a lively French dance. You started your career as a fifteen-year-old singer/dancer. You learned to “swing” with the best.
Pointer #6: “And all the girls dreamed that they’d be your partner”
Perhaps your most (in)famous attribute. Crooning to throngs of adoring teenagers. Embarking on your solo career, you were once welcomed by five thousand swooning and screaming teenage girls at New York’s Paramount Theater, shattering the previous attendance record.
Pointer #7: “You had me several years ago when I was still quite naïve”
A collective lament for all those immature, adolescent, and inexperienced virgins that you had “under your skin.”
Pointer #8: “You said that we made such a pretty pair, and that you would never leave”
When you were young, you plastered walls during the day and sang at Irish political rallies and Democratic Party meetings at night. You jilted and betrayed many people by your shocking political shift from left-wing liberal Democrat to staunch conservative Republican.
Pointer #9: “Well, I hear you went up to Saratoga, and your horse naturally won”
Gambling was in your vain veins. You were appointed director of the Berkshire Downs Racetrack in Massachusetts and regularly performed at Saratoga. You were forever indebted to Las Vegas for resurrecting your failing career.
Pointer #10 You flew your Learjet up to Nova Scotia to see the total eclipse of the sun
It was actually over Nova Scotia — twice. You named your jet after your daughter Christina, and it was really a Grumman Gulfstream equipped with a bed and bar. In the summer of 1972, you left America in a political huff and flew round trip across the North Atlantic for England. The flight path followed the precise track of the famous July 10 solar eclipse.
Pointer #11: “You’re with some underworld spy or the wife of a close friend”
The FBI developed thousands of pages of testimony on, from, and about you. You chummed with mobsters Lucky Luciano, Sam Giancana, and Carlo Gambino. You even shared women with your personal friend, President John F. Kennedy.
Griffin’s phone startled her. Early morning calls were always ominous and usually involved family.
“Neela, it’s Marty. There’s been a crash at Mitchell. A passenger jet.”
“Oh no,” she said, putting her hand on her chest. “Bad? Which airline?”
“We’re not sure. We’re hearing either American or Delta. Gillespie just called and said he wants you there ASAP. They’ve shut down the airport and… hang on. Someone’s on the other line.”
She closed her laptop and flew into the bathroom.
“Neela, that was Terry,” Marty’s voice returned. “It’s Delta, and it’s bad. It went into the lake right over Grant Park. He’s on his way and said you should take Lake Shore Boulevard to 5th Avenue. He’ll meet you at that yacht club across from the water filtration plant. Don’t forget your phone. He’ll call you.”
“Thanks,” she sighed but she didn’t mean it. Thanks for what? Turning the rest of my day into one filled with horrific sorrow? She’d covered just one plane crash before — a small, single-engine type. A pilot had taken his neighbor’s kids for a ride in his Cessna. At three thousand feet, the propeller shaft literally disintegrated, sending the blade twirling through the air. Oil covered the windshield. Luckily, he had enough skill to safely land in a hayfield, but that wasn’t where his good fortune came from — it was the fact that the whole propeller had spun off. Otherwise, steering would have become aerodynamically impossible.
Griffin clicked the TV remote. There was breaking news of a Metra train derailment in Chicago.
Chapter 20
Eight hundred miles away, Tom Ross stepped out of the shower. He dried himself and turned on the TV. The screen showed Chicago emergency personnel. He managed to catch the end of the scrolling text that said something about a five-car, two-engine commuter train on fire with 125 injured. What a way to start Monday rush hour, he thought. Thankfully, no one had been killed.
His cordless phone chirped. He sat on the edge of the bed and picked up.
“Tom, this is John DeLane. How are you this morning?”
“Fine,” Ross answered suspiciously. He knew immediately that something was up. He’d bet money it was a special assignment and that DeLane needed a volunteer. Dotted-line projects never flowed through the management chain. It made it virtually impossible for the victim to say no. In this case, the requestor was the department’s director himself.
“Tom, are you aware that a major incident just happened in Central?”
“Uh-huh. It’s all over the news.”
“Good. I’d like you to handle it. Nothing against Chief Bowling, but his plate is full. And, frankly, you have the experience with crashes like this. I need someone with a good profile. Get your team on board and get out there, okay?”
Ross figured DeLane meant Central Chicago. Assuming there was no tampering with the rails themselves, the first point of concentration should be on area crossing switches and Chicago satellite photos. But why is he considering this a major incident? Ross wondered. He figured senior NTSB managers were so out of touch with the operational team members and skill sets that they often pulled in the wrong people. DeLane had to be stopped tactfully.
“Since there are no fatalities, I think Joe Scott over in Railroads should log in on this one.”
DeLane paused. “What do you mean?”
“The train derailment. I’ll be glad to speak to Joe about protocol and handling national media.”
“Mr. Ross, we have a downed passenger plane. Delta Airlines in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. The Learjet is standing by at Dulles. I suggest you get cracking.” Click.
Ross tore open a bag of pumpkin seeds and filled his mouth. His cell phone chirped. The ID said “Unknown Caller.” There was a muffled hum in the background.
“Hello?”
“This is Jack Riley. Are you eating that salt again?”
Ross shifted the mouthful. “Sorry about that. What’s up?”
“You tell me. I assume you know that a plane went down, so advise me. Who’s in charge? The NTSB has a Central Region Chief, right?”
“Normally, yes.”
“Who is it?”
“Me.”
Riley digested that. “I need answers.”
Ross put his phone on speaker and pulled on his socks. “What are the questions?”
“I need to brief Secretary Bridge ten minutes from now. Sorry, but that’s his personal rule. He’s real funny about airplane crashes. He’ll want to know the number of casualties, how it happened, and if there’s any possible terrorism connection.”
“Jack, that’s impossible,” Ross said, the salty juice burning his throat as he swallowed. “That’s the FBI. As far as cause, there’s no way to tell anything at this point—”
“Mr. NTSB, I’m telling you that I need answers, and I need them now. If you don’t know, just say so. As a precautionary measure, the FBI is already setting up HQ at a local hotel. I just left Cincinnati. I’ll be on the ground in Milwaukee in… fifteen minutes. My job is to gather information from their case agent and the NTSB’s investigator-in-charge. You just told me that’s you. Three answers, please.”
“I don’t know, I don’t know, and I don’t know.”
The line went silent. “When will you?”
Ross glanced at the time. “My team should be in Milwaukee in two hours and ten minutes. I’ll call you. What hotel?”