Nothing unusual, even to his trained detective's eye. He fingered
the water-logged bills in the man's money clip, extracted them and counted nine
hundred and thirty dollars, including eight hundred-dollar bills. It seemed
like a great deal of cash for a four-day trip, considering the number of credit
cards. A bit of circumstantial deduction, he thought. A cheater would not use
the cards. Cash only. No records. In theory, there was little doubt in his mind
that the two were connected.
Somewhere, perhaps among the objects spread on the table,
was hard evidence of the connection. Why search for it, he wondered? Unless it
led to a conclusion of foul play in terms of the crash itself. Others were
pursuing that end of the investigation. So far they had recovered the little
black box of pre-crash tapes, and he had heard that the salvaged pieces of the
plane were being assembled in a heavily guarded hangar. It would, nevertheless,
disturb him if something were overlookedâmurder for insurance or revenge or
political advantage. The stuff of thrillers, to be sure, but possible, quite
possible. In this case the devastation to the living was profound. The
bastards, he thought, feeling the anger well up inside him, his suspicion
concentrated impotently in a dark void.
"All wrapped up?"
From behind him he heard the familiar voice of Southair's
young vice-president, Jack Farnsworth. The man looked pale and haggard, worse
than he had ever seen him.
"Seems to be."
"The Marlboros?"
"A facsimile thereof."
McCarthy provided the terse information on the
identification.
"How do you read it?" Farnsworth asked. He lit a
cigarette and inhaled deeply.
"Except for conjecture, there is no conclusive
connection." McCarthy paused. "Not yet. Is it possible that there are
two bodies still not accounted for?"
"We've been assured that there are no more bodies on
the bottom, and the numbers check out."
"Then it has to be them," McCarthy said.
Unconsciously, he put the woman's key ring around one of his fingers and
twirled it.
"Doesn't matter," Farnsworth sighed.
"It does to their spouses."
"Maybe they know all about it. Maybe they don't really
care."
"They care," McCarthy said with some
embarrassment.
"Wouldn't they have called Missing Persons?"
"Maybe. It's a drastic step, and most people don't
call until desperation, which should be just about setting in."
Farnsworth sighed.
"Nasty business," he said. "Are you
sure?"
"In my gut," McCarthy admitted. "Now comes
the worst part. The telling."
"Damn," Farnsworth said, growing more ashen.
"Complications. My job is to tie up all loose ends as fast as
possible." He lifted sad eyes that locked into McCarthy's. "Does the
media have to knowâI mean, if there's no foul play, no real negligence, nothing
relevant? Death is final. Scandal goes on."
"You're right there," McCarthy said, showing
Farnsworth a policeman's hearty distaste for the media.
"Besides, there might not be a connection after all.
Why make assumptions without absolute proof?"
McCarthy snickered. He liked the young man.
"Not absolute," he said.
"And we still have nothing definite on the cause of
the crash."
"So why sprinkle skunk juice on the roses?"
"Right."
It was then that the keys he had been twirling gave him an
idea, and he opened the man's leather key case and compared keys.
"Bingo," he said, holding up two Yale keys.
Pressed together, they were perfectly matched.
"You're a helluva detective," Farnsworth said.
"I wish you weren't." Again he looked directly into McCarthy's eyes.
"Do we have to tell them that?"
"I hope not."
"Why hope? Let's just not do it."
McCarthy thought about it for a moment. If there had been
no foul play, it might not be relevant, but if there had, the dead couple could
be exhibit A. On the other hand, if human error was deduced as a cause of the
crash, the dead couple would only serve to impress the story further in the
public mind. It was little bits of dirt like this that people
the water-logged bills in the man's money clip, extracted them and counted nine
hundred and thirty dollars, including eight hundred-dollar bills. It seemed
like a great deal of cash for a four-day trip, considering the number of credit
cards. A bit of circumstantial deduction, he thought. A cheater would not use
the cards. Cash only. No records. In theory, there was little doubt in his mind
that the two were connected.
Somewhere, perhaps among the objects spread on the table,
was hard evidence of the connection. Why search for it, he wondered? Unless it
led to a conclusion of foul play in terms of the crash itself. Others were
pursuing that end of the investigation. So far they had recovered the little
black box of pre-crash tapes, and he had heard that the salvaged pieces of the
plane were being assembled in a heavily guarded hangar. It would, nevertheless,
disturb him if something were overlookedâmurder for insurance or revenge or
political advantage. The stuff of thrillers, to be sure, but possible, quite
possible. In this case the devastation to the living was profound. The
bastards, he thought, feeling the anger well up inside him, his suspicion
concentrated impotently in a dark void.
"All wrapped up?"
From behind him he heard the familiar voice of Southair's
young vice-president, Jack Farnsworth. The man looked pale and haggard, worse
than he had ever seen him.
"Seems to be."
"The Marlboros?"
"A facsimile thereof."
McCarthy provided the terse information on the
identification.
"How do you read it?" Farnsworth asked. He lit a
cigarette and inhaled deeply.
"Except for conjecture, there is no conclusive
connection." McCarthy paused. "Not yet. Is it possible that there are
two bodies still not accounted for?"
"We've been assured that there are no more bodies on
the bottom, and the numbers check out."
"Then it has to be them," McCarthy said.
Unconsciously, he put the woman's key ring around one of his fingers and
twirled it.
"Doesn't matter," Farnsworth sighed.
"It does to their spouses."
"Maybe they know all about it. Maybe they don't really
care."
"They care," McCarthy said with some
embarrassment.
"Wouldn't they have called Missing Persons?"
"Maybe. It's a drastic step, and most people don't
call until desperation, which should be just about setting in."
Farnsworth sighed.
"Nasty business," he said. "Are you
sure?"
"In my gut," McCarthy admitted. "Now comes
the worst part. The telling."
"Damn," Farnsworth said, growing more ashen.
"Complications. My job is to tie up all loose ends as fast as
possible." He lifted sad eyes that locked into McCarthy's. "Does the
media have to knowâI mean, if there's no foul play, no real negligence, nothing
relevant? Death is final. Scandal goes on."
"You're right there," McCarthy said, showing
Farnsworth a policeman's hearty distaste for the media.
"Besides, there might not be a connection after all.
Why make assumptions without absolute proof?"
McCarthy snickered. He liked the young man.
"Not absolute," he said.
"And we still have nothing definite on the cause of
the crash."
"So why sprinkle skunk juice on the roses?"
"Right."
It was then that the keys he had been twirling gave him an
idea, and he opened the man's leather key case and compared keys.
"Bingo," he said, holding up two Yale keys.
Pressed together, they were perfectly matched.
"You're a helluva detective," Farnsworth said.
"I wish you weren't." Again he looked directly into McCarthy's eyes.
"Do we have to tell them that?"
"I hope not."
"Why hope? Let's just not do it."
McCarthy thought about it for a moment. If there had been
no foul play, it might not be relevant, but if there had, the dead couple could
be exhibit A. On the other hand, if human error was deduced as a cause of the
crash, the dead couple would only serve to impress the story further in the
public mind. It was little bits of dirt like this that people
Similar Books
