“Maybe because reporters take so much delight in pointing it out when bureaucrats do,” Kathy suggested.
He smiled and tipped his glass of sangria in her direction.
They were having a late dinner at Diablo, a restaurant at 20th and K Streets that billed itself as gourmet Mexican.
“So did you get what you needed?” she asked.
He swallowed a sip of wine and nodded. “I got most of it. It’s still pretty speculative. The NTSB won’t release stuff from the flight data recorder, but Justin Smith must have gotten some access because the recorder is the only place there would be information on engine thrust.”
“But you got enough to write it?”
“I got enough to mention it. My story’s pegged to whether the FAA is thinking about grounding the 811 fleet.”
“Is it?”
“Apparently so. Nobody will come right out and say it, and it might not happen, but I got enough positive feedback to be able to write that it is under consideration.”
Kathy looked puzzled. “The chances of another 811 hitting another bird must be pretty slim,” she said.
“It doesn’t have to be a bird,” Pace replied. “A bird triggered this accident, but the engine should have been able to contain it. Something else is wrong.”
He reached across the table and took her hand. “All we’ve done is babble on about my problems,” he said. “How was your day? How are you getting along?”
“It’s easier when I don’t talk about it, at least not in terms of how I feel,” she said. “I’m still pretty shaky. Everyone at the office was very solicitous. I talked to Daddy this morning, and he sounded strong. They’ve still got Betsy in bed, but I guess she’s talking about going back to Chicago tomorrow or the next day. I told Daddy to make sure she didn’t fly on a Sexton 811, and from what you’ve told me tonight, I’m glad I did.”
Pace felt the hairs bristle on his neck. Kathy saw a look of concern cross his face.
“What is it?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I completely forgot to check Melissa’s flight Sunday. I don’t want her on an 811, either.”
“You can switch her to another flight,” Kathy said. “But if you’ve got a discount ticket, it’ll cost you some money.”
“A cost we can bear,” he said. She knew exactly what he meant.
“I remember when Sissy visited last year,” Kathy said. “I really liked her. I’d love to see her again if you have time to fit me into your busy schedule.”
“I think Sissy would like that, too,” Pace agreed. “I’m going to see about taking next Monday off. I thought we’d go up to the Blue Ridge for a picnic. It would be great to have you go along.”
“On a work day? I don’t think so.”
“Why not? The Senate’s not back from its spring break until Wednesday. Take a day’s vacation or personal leave.”
She cocked her head and smiled. It was the first time he’d seen her smile in over a year. “Maybe I’ll consider it,” she said. Then she grew pensive. “Do you think there’s something really wrong with the 811s?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “But I think we have to look at that possibility.”
“Find out the truth,” she said. “I have to know.”
“My word on it,” he promised.
He drove Kathy home to Georgetown after dinner. She asked him to come in. He declined. He knew where that could lead, and somehow it didn’t feel right so soon after her brother’s death.
But as they stood in the doorway and kissed deeply, the kiss of two people rediscovering something each had thought lost, Pace almost changed his mind.
13
The last twenty-four hours left Pace spent, physically and emotionally, by a crazy-quilt pattern of highs and lows. The professional side was low. He hadn’t been beaten this day, but he hadn’t scored any major victories, either. Both Justin Smith at the Times and Russell Ethrich at the Post had the angle that the FAA was considering grounding the Sexton 811 fleet as a precautionary measure. The personal side was high. He would rather have dwelt on that, on Kathy, but business intruded.
He had to follow up the Virginia accident. Although he’d dismissed the idea of a conspiracy yesterday when he talked to Mike, he hadn’t been able to let it go. Mike had him pegged right: He would stay with it until all the mysterious questions had answers.
He stopped by his mailbox and found two pink telephone-message slips, one from Sally Incaveria, the other from Clay Helm. Maybe, finally, there was an end to the car-accident investigation. He returned Helm’s call first.
The captain was in but he was on another line. Pace left word.
Then he called Sally at the paper’s office in McLean, Virginia. She was waiting to hear from him. “Have you talked to Clay?” she asked immediately.
“Yeah, but he was on the phone when I called back. Did he turn up something?”
“The ID of the driver. I wrote the name down, but it doesn’t mean anything to me.”
“Who was it?”
“Mark Antravanian. I don’t know anything about him. I didn’t try to find out where he lived because I didn’t want to call his family.”
“I know. Those calls are tough.”
“I keep thinking maybe they don’t know yet. I’d hate to be the one to break the news. Does the name mean anything to you?”
It was vaguely familiar, but Pace couldn’t place it. “Spell it,” he said.
“A-n-t-r-a-v-a-n-i-a-n.”
“Mark?”
“Right, with a ‘K.’”
“Damn, I’ve heard it before. Did Helm tell you anything else?”
“A couple of things, but I think you should—”
Pace’s phone beeped.
“—hear it from him.”
“Sally, I’ve got another call. Maybe it’s Clay. I’ll give you a call-back later.”
“Right.”
“And thanks.”
It was Helm. “You talk to Sally this morning?” the police officer asked.
“Just now. She gave me the name. Said there was more I should hear from you.”
“I asked her not to give you the details until I had a chance to talk to you.”
“Why?”
“This is your story. I’m not going to ask you to give way to the police and not pursue it. But I think we should work it together. The car that burned was a rental. The driver was a man named Mark Antravanian. He was a specialist on turbine-engine performance from McDonnell Douglas. He was a member of the team investigating the Sexton crash.”
Pace started to say something, but his throat closed. Every nerve in his body was trilling. His mouth went dry, and his heart raced. He tried to get saliva across his tongue, but he couldn’t generate any. He squeezed the telephone receiver in a death grip.
“Pace?”
“Yeah.” His voice was barely audible.
“This could be bigger than you ever imagined.”
“I know.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I have to talk to someone.”
“Don’t do anything on your own.”
“I’ll get back to you.”
“Wait. There’s something else.”
“What?”
“I checked around. This guy was never reported missing. If I was on that team and one of my people suddenly disappeared, I’d say something to someone.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. But if I were you, I’d ask the question.”
“You mean all this time and his family didn’t call anybody?”
“He didn’t have a family that we can find. But he had co-workers. Nobody called.”