“I’m all gratitude. What have you given me besides interesting? What’s the story?”
Pace ran his hands through his hair. He had no answers for those questions.
Pace grinned. “Would you or Sally have a problem with me talking to Clayton Helm?”
“Not if you take her along for the interview.”
“Suze, this is serious business,” Pace protested. “She doesn’t need to get involved. She wouldn’t understand—”
“That’s bullshit,” she snapped. “If there’s some sort of special story here, it happened on Sally’s turf, and the story’s hers. At the very least, she gets a piece of it, or I go to Wister.”
“Okay, joint venture. Have Sally set it up. She knows the guy. I’ve got to come up with a crash story for tomorrow, so the later the appointment, the better.”
“You wanna tell me what you suspect?”
“Not really,” Pace said. “The story’s pretty farfetched, and if there’s anything to it, it’s so sensitive I can’t risk having it get around. Except for Glenn Brennan’s sexist observations, I don’t know anything about Sally Incaveria.”
“Okay, suppose you tell me. I’ll tell Sally only what she absolutely has to know.”
Pace inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. O’Connor had a legitimate right to know the background on a sensitive story involving a member of her staff.
So he told it a third time, in abbreviated form and without naming names. It didn’t feel as good as the telling to Brennan, but he didn’t feel as foolish as when he’d told Schaeffer and Wister. When he finished, O’Connor didn’t scoff.
“I can see why you’re spooked about it,” she said. “I don’t think Sally needs to know any of it. But in return, I’d like a favor from you. If anything comes of the work you two do together, how about giving the kid a break and putting a double byline on the story?”
“No problem,” Pace promised.
“I’ll have her set up the interview.”
Shortly before three o’clock, Pace heard from McGill. Mike said he was late getting to Hangar Three and had been tied up with his systems group.
“Your team found anything?” Pace asked.
“No,” McGill replied. “We’re just getting into the guts of the plane.”
“Where are you calling from?” Pace asked.
“A pay phone in the lobby of the main Dulles terminal. I picked it at random, and there’s nobody within twenty yards of me.”
Pace brought him up to date on his morning.
“You’ve got the big boss interested, though,” McGill pointed out.
“This is true, but I can’t afford to alienate Paul. As much as I sometimes wish it weren’t so, I have to work for him every day.”
“So don’t push him, but get to that police captain, even if you have to do it on your own time. This stuff is fascinating. I’m beginning to feel like someone picked me up and set me down in a Ken Follett novel.”
“Just so it isn’t The Twilight Zone,” Pace said.
“I’ll call you later tonight,” McGill told him. “Don’t try to reach me unless it’s an emergency. You know the old line: the walls have ears.”
“Christ,” Pace said. “It is The Twilight Zone. ”
By 6:30, Pace was back at Dulles, sitting in the NTSB’s conference room. He hated leaving his side investigation, but he didn’t dare miss another briefing, not after Paul’s fit. He hoped the session would be short and vowed not to ask any questions of Lund that might prolong things. The bird evidence had taken the mystery out of the crash, and answers about the Converse engines probably were months away.
Lund announced that the last of the bodies had been recovered from the fuselage, and the next morning the main section of aircraft would be hoisted by a crane onto a motorized dolly that would carry it into Hangar Three. An area near the hangar had been roped off for media wishing to film or photograph the event.
The session deteriorated rapidly into redundancy. There were fewer reporters present, a sign the story was receding for lack of developments. Those who came had few questions, and the briefing lapsed into a debate on the apparent inability of the C-Fan to survive a bird strike.
“You think we can reach a consensus here, but that isn’t going to happen,” Lund said by way of ending the session. “The answer will come through painstaking investigative work, and the evidence probably will not be made public until we go to the public-hearing phase.” He paused, and there were no further questions or comments.
“Now,” he continued, “that brings me to the announcement that we are suspending these daily briefings. We don’t expect any major new developments, and it seems unnecessary to tie everyone to this fixed schedule. I will continue to be available as needed, as will Mitch Gabriel, to answer questions on a one-to-one basis. However, if something should develop and we feel the need to get to all of you, a briefing announcement will be placed on the wire-service daybooks. In that event, we would endeavor to give you at least several hours’ notice.”
As the reporters shuffled out of the room, Justin Smith of The New York Times wound up at Pace’s side.
“So what are you going to hit us with tomorrow, Steve?” Smith asked.
“I don’t want to hit anything but a bed,” Pace replied. And he meant it.
Shortly after 9:00 P.M., Pace transmitted his story into the storage file for the national-desk editors. As he listened to the ticks and purrs of the computer complying with his commands, he wondered if Suzy O’Connor was around this late. He’d been antsy all afternoon about talking to the state police captain, and it occurred to him it would be most productive to talk when Helm was off duty and more relaxed about discussing an ongoing investigation. He took the stairs and found O’Connor at her desk, on the phone.
“You are not working for the women’s section of the Catfish Falls Gazette, although you might be if you send me another piece of shit like this,” she was saying. Actually, hissing would have been a better way to describe the manner of her speech. “This is the worst kind of shoddy reporting. The story doesn’t tell me enough about why Loudoun County housing prices are soaring, and it doesn’t have a goddamn single example of the average family, driven out of Fairfax County by exorbitant costs and taxes, now having to go beyond Loudoun County to find a home they can afford. In short, it doesn’t tell me shit!”
There was a pause. Pace hurt for the green reporter who must have been struggling for composure on the other end of the line.
“You’re damned right you’re going back to redo it, Sally,” O’Connor answered what must have been an apology on the other end. She listened for a moment, then hung up.
Pace was suddenly wary.
Sally? That’s the kid she wants me to work with. Wonderful. I’m supposed to share an investigation of a possible conspiracy with a rookie who can’t get a housing story right?
O’Connor turned around, and Pace saw her smile at the uneasiness that must have been obvious on his face.
“Hey, just because she can’t report a housing story doesn’t mean she can’t handle a mysterious traffic accident,” O’Connor said, reading his mind and grinning. “Actually,” she continued, “Sally has set up something for you and her and Clayton Helm at seven tomorrow night in the Heritage House Restaurant in Reston. Can you make that?”
“I can make it. The NTSB called off any more scheduled briefings. They figure they’ve got the cause of the crash. The Heritage House?”