“I take it that investigators don’t usually die on the job?” Kaplan said quietly.
Jake looked at him for a moment without speaking, and then replied, “You think?”
Kaplan’s face was intent but calm. “Jake, this is high profile accident investigation. Now one of your investigators is dead. Sometimes accidents aren’t what they seem.”
Jake studied Kaplan. He recalled Kaplan’s Special Forces background and his candor and professionalism during the investigation team’s interview. Somehow he sensed that Kaplan had the kind of honesty and integrity that he could trust and the intelligence that might be a help to him. He was the second person to tell him things aren’t what they seem.
Jake figured he’d already put his career at risk so what would it matter now.
“I’d like to run something by you, get your opinion. But disclosing information about an ongoing investigation could get me fired, or at the very least, removed from the investigation,” Jake said. “I shouldn’t talk about this, I know, but now I don’t know who else on the Go Team is safe to talk to — or whether I’d be putting them in danger if I do tell them. Hell, I may be putting you in danger if I tell you.”
“Sounds like you’re between a rock and a hard place,” Kaplan said. He leaned against the front fender of the Mustang. “I’m a good listener and I can take care of myself.”
Jake made a quick decision. He lowered his voice. “I’m about to make a huge breach of protocol on my investigation. Hear me out and maybe you’ll understand.”
Jake began recounting to Kaplan all the things that had transpired so far in the investigation. He told him about the two mechanics in Dallas, the visit from the stranger in his hotel room, the man with the streaked hair and strange eyes, and the phone call from Dave right before the accident.
Kaplan threw his head back, furrowed his eyebrows and said, “That’s a hell of a lot of coincidences, don’t you think?”
“Yes, it is. But my gut instinct tells me I’m right. I just haven’t figured it all out yet and I don’t believe in coincidences.”
Jake noticed the NTSB Suburban coming down Gulfstream Road. “Here comes Pat. He’s been pissed at me ever since I told him my theory the first time. He won’t like seeing you here either. Please don’t mention any of this to anyone. I want to stay on this investigation until it’s resolved.”
Kaplan nodded. He looked at McGill then Jake. “My lips are sealed. Your boss, Pat. He has an Irish accent, doesn’t he? Where is he from?”
“He grew up in Northern Ireland, Londonderry, he said. Then he and his cousin and aunt moved here to Savannah.”
“Londonderry?”
“You better go now,” Jake said as he walked over to the Suburban.
McGill stared as Kaplan mounted his Harley and rode off. He glanced up at Jake and said, “What the hell did he want?”
“Nothing. He was on his way back to the TRACON, like you told him to do, and saw the emergency vehicles and me, so he just stopped to ask.”
“What’d you tell him?”
“I just said there was an accident at Gulfstream.”
“Okay, so tell me what the hell happened to Dave?”
CHAPTER 30
She sat in her dark house peering through the gap in the drapes, listening to the man on the other end of the phone. The afternoon sun beamed through the window and washed over the side of her face. Her hair was pulled tight into a bun on the top of her head.
She hung up the phone and let it fall to the table. She stared out the window.
After two minutes, she stood, turned around, and talked toward the darkness, “Mr. Jake Pendleton is going to cause us problems. We need to ensure he stays out of our business.”
A large figure rose up from a chair and moved through the dark room toward the woman. He stepped into the light. A streak of white hair down the middle of his head. His irises — one blue, one brown.
“I’ll take care of Mr. Pendleton and anyone else who gets in our way, Jillian.”
“Have you located Sullivan yet?”
“No, but I know he’s here, and I believe he’s talked to Pendleton too.”
She raised her voice. “What would make you think that?”
The assassin moved to the window, stuck out his hand and parted the drapes. The sunlight brightened the room. “How else could Mr. Pendleton have become suspicious so quickly?”
“He’s supposed to be quite an adept investigator,” she replied.
“No, he’s not that smart. He was tipped off about the bomb. This is one case he won’t get a chance to solve.”
She grinned. “Well, this time knowledge comes with a price.”
CHAPTER 31
Jake and Beth listened to the music playing in the restaurant on River Street. Island reggae sounds of Bob Marley’s “Get Up, Stand Up,” filled the air, adding to the calypso flavor of the room. Bamboobladed ceiling fans turned slowly, enhancing the festive atmosphere inside the restaurant. Their waitress delivered a plate full of cracked conch fritters to the table, and poured them each a glass of red zinfandel, their favorite.
Taking a bite of fritter, he looked at Beth, picked up his glass and took a sip. This might not be the ideal time and place, but he knew she wanted to hear about what he was doing.
“I know it sounds coincidental but I have a gut feeling about this one,” he said. “There are too many suspicious circumstances to just dismiss the possibility of sabotage. The whole mechanic scene in Dallas, the man shot in the head. The missing mechanic who just happens to look like the guy we saw here, the one with Whataburger syndrome. The girlfriend drugged and unable to recall anything that happened for a two-day period. Dave is killed in some freak accident. And don’t forget the section of the Challenger missing from beneath the cockpit—”
“Here’s what I think,” Beth said. “First of all, it’s Waardenburg’s Syndrome. Second, I think that the crazy man who broke into our room is the reason you’re so suspicious. He planted this whole sabotage thing in your head — for what reason? I don’t know. He wouldn’t give his name, he held a gun on us, and then he gave us some cryptic conspiracy theory with no proof. I think he was just some Irish crackpot—and I still think we should have called hotel security or the police. Let’s just say, for a minute, that all that stuff is true, how do you explain the midair?”
“I can’t. That’s the one thing that keeps baffling me about this investigation. Without the midair, there are too many indicators to not to seriously consider sabotage. Without all the other factors, the Irish man, the two mechanics, Dave’s phone call and death, it would scream midair only,” Jake argued. “But for a sabotaged aircraft to have a midair while it’s falling out of the sky — well, the odds must be staggering.’
The waitress returned with their order, cutting their conversation short. “Blackened grouper for the gentleman and fried shrimp for the lady.”
She refilled their wine glasses and asked if she could get them anything else. When they said no, she smiled and returned to the kitchen.
“Exactly. The odds are staggering. Too staggering. Somebody’s playing games with you, Jake. Can’t you see that?”
“Yeah, maybe you’re right.”
“It’s horrible about Dave,” she said. “He was such a funny little man. The way he walked and talked reminded me of Danny DeVito. He even had that little yarmulke-looking bald spot on the back of his head. I’m going to miss him. What did Pat have to say about the accident at the hangar?”