"Dad—" she sniffled, "I want you to stop the bad language."
"Bad language?" Davis tried to remember what the hell he'd said. "Baby, you hear worse than that a hundred times every day in school."
"No! Mom never allowed it in the house, and with her gone, it's up to me to keep you in line."
In a reflex probably born from some long-ago martial arts training, Davis took a deep, deep breath. "Your Mom was a strong woman, Jen. I'm glad you are too. I promise to mind my tongue."
Her head came up and she used the corner of a bed sheet to wipe her eyes. As she did, Davis noticed the framed picture on the night-stand next to her bed, the three of them with arms around shoulders, smiling on a ski slope. At least that hadn't been stuffed in a drawer.
He said, "And you have to promise not to throw any more hair care products at me."
She smiled. "Sorry."
He gave her a lopsided grin — the one that Diane had always said was roguish. The one that Jen said made him look like a big doofus. All a matter of perspective, he figured. "Okay. Let's get ready."
"But I still need something for my hair."
Davis got up and headed toward the door. "I'll go down to the kitchen and get you a twisty tie — you know, the ones we use for the garbage bags." Davis bolted for the stairs. Too slow. Just before he rounded the corner, a flying hairbrush smacked him in the hip. He heard the giggle, her mood having completed its one-eighty.
With no small amount of pride Davis thought, That's my daughter. Her hormones might be in a blender. But her aim was dead sure.
Ten minutes later, Jen was waiting in the car.
Davis was still in the kitchen poking buttons on the dishwasher, trying to get it out of the damned "pot scrubber" cycle, when the phone rang. Davis wanted to ignore it. Should have ignored it. He picked up.
"Jammer here."
There was a pause at the other end of the line, then, "Hello, Frank."
Aside from the occasional phone solicitor or census taker — people he didn't want to talk to anyway — there was only one person in the world who called Davis by his given name. "Hello, Sparky."
Only one person in the world called Rita McCracken anything but Mrs. McCracken. Or Assistant Supervisor McCracken of the National Transportation Safety Board. Davis had given her the name on the spot when they'd first met, a not so subtle jibe at her fiery red hair. Davis often gave call signs to his friends, but in her case it was more like naming a hurricane. After first impressions had gone south, he'd kept at it just to torque her off. Not good form with the boss, but that's how Davis was. And probably why he'd never made it past the rank of major in the Air Force.
"Pack your bags," she said.
"Pack? Why?"
"Haven't you seen the news?"
"No, I'm a busy guy."
"Well, you just got busier. A World Express C-500 went down in France yesterday. I need you to go to Houston this afternoon for a seventy-two-hour on the captain."
Davis frowned. Much of the information gathered in aircraft accident investigations was a simple matter of reviewing records. Maintenance logbooks, flight plans, and air traffic control data were all documented, either electronically or on paper. But some of the most pertinent history was perishable — the short-term personal background of crewmembers. A seventy-two-hour look-back was standard procedure.
"You know my situation, Rita. I can't—"
"I know that you are on the 'go team,' Davis! Now pack your bags and get in here. I'll brief you myself." She hung up.
The horn honked in the garage.
Davis seethed. He had an urge to crack the phone across the counter. That would feel good. But then he'd just have to go out and buy a new one. He hurried into his room and slammed some clothes into a suitcase. As a member of the "go team" he was supposed to have his bag already packed, available on a moment's notice. One minute was all he needed. Davis traveled light.
The drive to school was quiet. Davis tried to think of a good way to break it to Jen that he had to go out of town for a couple of days. She interrupted his mission planning.
"You know, Dad, for a big-shot investigator you're not very observant."
"How's that?"
"We need gas."
He looked down at the gauge. One eighth. Davis never filled up until he had to. "Don't worry, baby. I keep up with these things."
"Go to Mel's. It's always five cents cheaper than that other place you use."
He considered explaining that a six-pack of his preferred beer at "that other place" was a buck less, which made for a wash. Now probably wasn't the time.
She said, "I'll be driving soon, you know."
"Don't remind me."
But he was reminded — a whole new set of worries, right around the pubescent corner. Jen was going to take driver's ed over the summer, learn to merge and parallel park, keep her hands at ten and two.
Right then, Davis decided he'd brake hard for any yellow traffic lights. Not step on the gas. Like she'd been watching him do for the last fifteen years.
"Your hair looks cool, Dad."
"Huh?"
"Your hair, it's getting longer. That tight military cut was getting pretty tired."
Davis looked in the rearview mirror. He needed a trim.
Jen said, "And we still have to work on your wardrobe."
He looked down. For twenty years it had been a uniform, something he'd never really minded. One less decision each day. Now that he was a civilian, Davis tried to keep things simple. He had on khaki pants and a brown polo shirt. He owned six polo shirts. Three were in a suitcase in the trunk. His leather shoes were old and comfortable, strung with the second pair of laces. A long time ago they'd been expensive. Davis didn't mind buying expensive stuff — not because he cared a whit about style, but because it usually wore well. Fewer shopping trips.
"Maybe some baggy gangsta pants and a Hawaiian-print shirt," she prodded.
He looked at her sourly, saw the grin. "You're yankin' my chain again."
"I'm the only one who can."
He nodded. "Yep."
Davis slowed as they came to the school drop-off loop. He still hadn't thought of an easy way to break it to Jen that he had to leave town. That being the case, he laced his voice in parental graveness and just said it. "Baby, I have to go away for a couple of days on business. You'll need to stay at Aunt Laura's. I'll set everything up."
Davis looked at his daughter, expecting concern or anxiety. She looked positively giddy. He tracked her gaze to the campus entrance.
"It's Bobby Taylor!" she gushed. "Red shirt."
A tall young boy leaned on a pole. The kid was rail thin and gawky, all elbows and knees and pointed shoulders. He was cutting up with his friends.
"Did you hear me?" he asked.
"What? Oh, yeah. You gotta go away." She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "Have a good time, Daddy."
"A good time? It's a crash investigation."
"Oh, right. Well, you'll figure it out, Daddy. You always do."
Davis watched his daughter get out of the car like she was arriving at the Academy Awards. "Aunt Laura will pick you up," he called out. The door closed in his face and Jen gave a finger wave behind her back. She strutted by the Taylor kid like a runway model.
If he looks at her butt, Davis thought, I'll break his skinny neck.
Chapter TWO
The Headquarters of the NTSB was centrally located, two blocks from the National Mall in L'Enfant Plaza. It was very nearly, and perhaps should have been, in the shadow of the FAA building, a far more imposing mountain of gray roughly a block away. The NTSB structure was demure by D. C. standards, a modernist undertaking rife with raw concrete and glass that blended to the point of invisibility among an ocean of the same. Unpretentious and anonymous. Which suited Davis just fine.
He crossed the lobby, his soft soles having minimal impact on an overpolished marble floor. Davis approached the elevator just as the door slid open. A pair of men had been waiting — perfectly Windsored ties, starch-stiffened collars, venti Starbucks lattes. They stepped inside and turned toward the opening, gave him an inquisitive look.