“Won’t fly,” Helm said. “Think it through. First off, I’m certain the bumper we found belonged to the victim’s car. It looks a lot more like a front bumper than a rear bumper, it’s about the right size for a small car, not a larger truck, and the wreck was missing its front bumper. That all adds up. Second…” He paused, his brow lined in thought. “…if you fell asleep at the wheel and hit a car in front of you, you’d wake up.”
“And you’d brake hard to get loose,” Sally said, “maybe get dragged 200 yards, and maybe rip your bumper off.”
“And your skid marks would be in a straight line,” Helm followed. “Besides, the driver of the front car wouldn’t drag you that far before he stopped to see what hit him.”
“You’re assuming the guy in the rear car was the victim,” Sally said, getting into the mystery. “Suppose it was the other way around. Suppose the victim was in the lead car, and the guy who came up behind him was trying to force the lead car off the road. The attacker lost his front bumper, went off the road, and died.”
“You’d have to be a pretty stupid assassin to try to force a truck off the road by hitting it with a small car,” Helm said.
They were quiet for a moment. Then Helm looked up, surprised.
“But I’ll tell you what will work. We’re operating here on a theory that maybe the driver was killed on purpose, forced off the road, right?” The reporters nodded in unison. “If you were going to force somebody off the road, how would you do it?”
“Like they do in the movies,” Sally said. “I’d slam him from the side.” She blinked and did a double take as she realized exactly where Helm was taking them.
“Maybe that’s what happened,” he continued. “What if the truck rammed the victim’s car from the side, in front of the driver’s door, and the car’s front bumper got caught up in the frame of the other vehicle? The victim would have tried to get away by turning his wheels to the right.”
“That would explain the skid marks,” Sally said jubilantly. “That would explain the loose bumper your people found.” Her face grew sad. “That would explain murder.”
“It explains something else, too,” Pace said. “It explains why, somehow, we’ve got to convince the FAA to ground the entire Sexton fleet.”
“Why?” Sally asked.
“Because one crashed at Dulles, and we don’t know why. The NTSB says a bird strike. But somebody committed murder to cover up something, and that might mean there’s more wrong with the 811 than birds it can’t digest.”
“You know,” Sally said to Pace, “it’s possible—even if our theory is correct—that it didn’t bear any relationship to Dulles. Maybe it was coincidental that you and your friend were expecting to meet somebody at the same time the bumper-car incident went down.”
Pace and Helm looked at Sally for a long moment.
“On the other hand,” the young reporter said, “I guess I wouldn’t want to bet another 300 lives on that.”
“Bright girl.” Helm smiled.
“You can’t have her,” Pace said. “She belongs to the Chronicle.”
“But I’m taking her home,” Helm replied.
The phone was ringing when Pace entered his apartment. It was Mike, eager to hear about the dinner with the cop. The pilot listened without interruption to Pace’s account.
“Fascinating,” he said when Pace had finished. “So the cops are ready to call this a murder case.”
“Not cops, Mike. Cop. Singular. And not ready to do it, exactly, but ready to consider the possibility. All of which means nothing until we know who the victim is.”
“Any timetable?”
“Helm says you never know. But I’d bet next week’s salary he’ll be on the medical examiner’s back until he gets that report.”
When Pace hung up, he checked his recorder for messages. There was one.
“Hi, Steve, I’m home. I got in about eight and thought you might like to have a brandy or a cup of coffee. You’re working incredibly long hours, aren’t you?” Kathy paused, but only briefly, so the recorder didn’t cut her off. “The funeral was okay, as those things go. Mercifully short. Daddy said no High Mass because he knew Jonny wouldn’t have wanted it, and, of course, Betsy isn’t Catholic. She held up pretty well, but she said she felt sick. I hope she doesn’t lose the baby. I’m rambling. Call when you can.”
She sounded anguished. His watch said it was 10:45, and he took a chance she’d be up at that hour, despite her difficult day.
Kathy answered on the second ring.
“Hi,” he said. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No, I’m up,” she said, an edge of exhaustion in her voice. “Even if I went to bed, I couldn’t sleep.”
“How are you holding up?”
He heard her begin to cry softly. “I don’t feel like I’ll ever get over this,” she said. “The funeral was gut-wrenching, especially for Betsy, with the baby coming and all.” Kathy sighed heavily. “I wanted so much to do something for her, but I can’t even hold myself together. I wanted to stay, at least the night, but Daddy wouldn’t hear of it. I wanted to because they put Betsy under a doctor’s care, mainly to protect the baby. But Jennifer said she would take care of everything and I should come home. She’s just like Daddy.”
Jennifer Wheaton was Joseph McGovern’s second wife, and from all accounts, Pace thought she must be one hell of a woman.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked.
“What I want most is an explanation,” she said again. He desperately wanted to give her one; the bird-strike theory seemed so mundane and inadequate.
“I know,” he said. “We’re all doing our best. Do you want me to come over?”
“Oh, it’s probably too late now.”
“How about tomorrow, if you feel up to it?”
“I’d like that.”
“I’ll catch up with you late tomorrow afternoon when I see how the day’s going.”
“Fine. I’ll be at the office.”
Pace shook his head. “Don’t you think you deserve another day to yourself?”
“And do what? Sit around here crying? That won’t help anybody.”
“As Daddy would put it?”
“And as I would put it.”
“Oh, shit!”
Pace cursed himself as he emptied the pockets of his slacks onto the top of the bureau in his bedroom. Sitting there in the old souvenir ashtray where he normally kept his change, staring at him like an accusatory eyeball, was the metal ball he’d found at Dulles when he was on the field with Mike.
He picked it up and inspected it closely. Deep scratches marred the surface, and it was chipped in two places. Maybe the ball wasn’t from the Sexton after all. A new aircraft shouldn’t have any parts that badly worn. It probably was a discard from some old aircraft, or from another type of vehicle entirely. Pace tossed it back into the ashtray and headed for a shower.
Later, dressed only in a pair of denim shorts, he went to the kitchen and poured himself a stiff Black Jack on the rocks. Comfortably settled in his favorite chair, he let his head fall onto the top of the backrest and allowed his mind to wander to Kathleen McGovern, the mysterious metal ball forgotten completely.
When he opened his eyes again, it was 2:30. Half his drink stood untouched, diluted by melted ice. He set it in the kitchen sink, turned off the lights, and went to bed.
12