Gate 76 Read online

  It gets worse. This flight had four Smiths, four Johnsons, three Joneses, two Browns, two Greens, two Blacks, and two Whites. The airline has all their addresses, but I’m going to have to look up every one of these names and rule them out one by one, if that’s even possible. This is going to be a long day. Maybe a long week.

  I put in another call to my contact at the airline.

  “Who paid for Anna Brook’s ticket on the Honolulu flight?”

  “Excuse me?” There’s that snippy tone again.

  “Can you get me the name and credit card number that paid for Anna Brook’s ticket on the Hawaii flight?”

  “We don’t have access to credit card numbers,” she says with a tone that suggests she’s happy not to be able to help me. I hear her clack away at her keyboard for a few seconds, then she says, “I might be able to get you the name and the last four digits on the card.”

  “OK,” I say. “I appreciate that. Can you also give me a list of all the Chicago passengers who were not on a round-trip?”

  “You mean, like—”

  “I mean, most of the people on this flight were nurses returning home from a conference. That means they should have flown into San Francisco a few days earlier. Some of the ones who weren’t nurses maybe lived in San Francisco, so they would be flying back a few days later, right? I want to know which passengers were not flying round-trip.”

  “I’m sorry. I won’t be able to get to that for a few hours.”

  “I can wait.”

  The office is silent, except for the occasional tapping of keys and the muffled noise of traffic from the street. Bethany stares at her monitor and Leon stares at his.

  I start slogging through the list because… what the hell else am I gonna do? I’ll make a guess that I can rule out any woman on the Chicago flight who is an actual nurse. I just don’t think anyone would be lucky enough to pick a name that happened to belong to a nurse, and then board a flight full of nurses. I know some people who have the opposite kind of luck. Like they call 911 because they were in a bike accident and then the ambulance runs them over.

  * * *

  At two p.m., I get a call from my ex-wife wanting to know if I can watch Lenny for a few hours tomorrow. I’m tempted to say no, just because it’s her asking, but I happen to like the kid. And he calls me Daddy.

  “What time?” I ask.

  “Eleven to two,” she says. “He naps around one. Just bring him back when he wakes up.”

  “I have work do to,” I say. “I’ll take him, but he might not get his nap.”

  “Thank you, Freddy. His daycare is closed, and I have a job interview—”

  “You don’t have to explain.”

  I wonder sometimes why the hell she married that guy if he can’t watch her kid. And how could someone with so much promise turn out like her?

  If I had been a little wiser a few years ago, a little less blinded by her charm, I would have figured her out pretty quick. See, here’s an example. We’re out on a date at a nice restaurant, a fancy place with white tablecloths and crystal that was way beyond what I could afford. This is our second or third date. She tells me about growing up in Baltimore, her parents, her brother and sister, the family meals and all that, and then she says, “How about you?”

  “I was born in Philly.”

  “And?”

  “And then I went to New York.”

  “Your family moved?”

  “I moved.”

  “Without your mom and dad?”

  “Yeah.”

  She could see I was getting uncomfortable, but once something piqued her interest, she just had to pry. It was maybe the only thing that annoyed me about her before I started hating her.

  “Where’d your mother go?”

  “She stayed in Philly.” In a fucking coffin, where my dad put her.

  “You ever talk to her?”

  “No.”

  “What about your dad?”

  “What about him?” I asked as politely as possible, through clenched teeth. He was a drunk, violent bastard who died of liver disease eight years into a life sentence.

  “Ooh, you don’t like Dad, do you?”

  I slammed my fist on the table so hard the plates and the silverware jumped and the water sloshed out of the glasses. Everyone in the place looked over at us.

  “Sorry,” I said, and I had to take a couple of deep breaths to get a hold of myself. “My father passed away. How’s your… your, um…”

  “Lamb? It’s good. You want a bite?”

  I watched her make a mental note of my reaction and tuck it away for later. I didn’t quite understand her type at the time, but I get it now. Growing up, I always had my eye out for what the guys might try to do to me—the bullies at school, the thugs on the corner, and the fighter bouncing on his toes across the ring. I thought I had it all figured out. I didn’t know I had to be on guard against the girls too. But she taught me.

  Yes, she did.

  * * *

  The phone rings. It’s Ed calling from SFO.

  I must not have answered very politely, because the first thing out of his mouth is, “What’s with the tone? Something happen?”

  “Just one of my moods,” I say. “Listen, Ed. There’s a guy who empties garbage cans at SFO. Looks Vietnamese, about five foot six, age thirty or so, smooth skin, head shaved on the sides with plenty of hair up top. He’s got big ears that stick out. You need to talk to him.”

  “About what?”

  “About why he was watching the passengers board that Hawaii flight, and who he was calling.”

  Ed repeats the question like he doesn’t understand it. “Who he was calling?”

  “The guy was watching the gate,” I say. “And reporting back to someone on the phone.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I fucking know, Ed. I was there.”

  “Watch the tone, Freddy. What set you off today?”

  “Me,” I say. “What the hell else sets me off?”

  “So you were there when the Hawaii flight was boarding?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But you were flying to DC.”

  “I know, Ed. But I see something that grabs my interest, and I just start following it. You know how I am.”

  “What makes you think this guy was watching the passengers at gate seventy-six?”

  “I followed him. He waited till everyone boarded, then he made a call. He seemed specifically interested in one passenger.”

  “Who?”

  “A woman,” I say. “A blonde-haired woman named Anna Brook. Find that Vietnamese guy. Unless you have some better lead to chase.”

  “All right,” Ed says. “What do you know about Anna Brook?”

  Well, I know she’s the one person from that flight who isn’t dead. I know she went through Chicago on her way to somewhere else. But I’m not going to tell you that, Ed, even though I tell you everything. I got a strange premonition about her and it’s kinda personal. I can’t explain it and I’m not even going to try.

  “I’ll send you a photo from the security line,” I say. “She’s with a guy I don’t like the looks of. See if one of your buddies in the Bureau can ID him.”

  After we hang up, I crop the photo that I extracted from the security video, making one picture of the guy and one of Anna Brook. They go into the Gate 76 folder, along with the passenger list and the scan of the seating chart. I send the photos of Anna and her friend to Ed.

  * * *

  At six p.m., we’re still in the office. Bethany picked up Thai food for everyone. I’ve looked at so many nurses from that Chicago flight, I’ve forgotten what I’m after. Bethany’s looking at shoes online, and Leon is watching Fox News on his computer. They’re starting to delve into the human angle of the tragedy, with short profiles of people who were on the plane. Ted and Stacy Mills, a pair of newlyweds from Sacramento. Quinn Paddock, a financial advisor fro
m Phoenix who helped retirees manage their investments. Brandon Robertson and Manuel Martínez, a couple of Texas cops who had recently won awards for their good work.

  I spend a minute watching the video over Leon’s shoulder, then turn my attention back to my dinner, a box of Pad Thai that’s too sweet. I click over to MSNBC on my laptop, where they’re showing footage of a Coast Guard ship hauling in wreckage from Monterey Bay. You can see the shadow of the helicopter on the water. It’s the same footage they’re showing on CNN and Fox.

  The MSNBC report includes a look inside the hangar where the National Transportation Safety Board and Boeing engineers are reconstructing the plane. They don’t have much of it yet, even though they’re working round the clock.

  I click over to Fox, where they’re talking about the “person of interest,” Rashad Obasanjo, who they speculate may soon be an official suspect. They’re interviewing some analyst whose credentials I missed. He says Obasanjo “fits the profile.” I’m not sure what profile that is, but he says it like I should know what he means. They don’t even have a decent photo of the kid. They’re showing a picture of three smiling black guys standing in front of a picnic table loaded with food. The two on either side are dressed in white tunics with white skullcaps. They’re darkened, while the guy in the middle with the short Afro, blue slacks, and blue button-down shirt is highlighted in an oval of light. That’s Obasanjo.

  After a few minutes, Fox switches to election coverage and the big states that are still up for grabs. With less than five weeks to go, the Democrats are pulling ahead in New York and California. The Republicans are opening a slim lead in Ohio, Pennsylvania, and Florida. Texas is still a toss-up. I close the browser window and drop my empty food box into the garbage can.

  I’m on my way to the bathroom when Leon says, “Damn, this dude’s crazy!”

  “Who’s that?” I ask.

  Bethany and I walk over to his desk, and he points to his monitor, where a man paces in front of the windows at gate seventy-six in a clip of security footage just released by the TSA. The man wears a hood and keeps his head down as he shuffles back and forth. He moves slowly, wiping his nose now and then, and his feet never come up off the ground.

  “Owen Briscoe,” Leon says. This is the guy Ed mentioned on our call this morning, the one with a history of mental illness, who once belonged to a white separatist militia in Idaho. The CNN reporter says he was schizophrenic but had lately been sticking to his meds. He had been rejected by the Army several years ago when he tried to enlist. The state of Idaho revoked his gun permit after he assaulted a grocery store worker and his mental illness came to light. In a YouTube video from two years ago, he warned the president of Iceland he would be punished if he doesn’t get his nation’s volcanoes under control. The guy really was crazy.

  The reporter says that federal investigators are interested in talking with Briscoe’s associates.

  At half past seven, I get a new list from the airline: the Chicago passengers who weren’t flying round-trip. There are six of them. Four are women.

  And the Staunton News Leader posted an update. Anna Brook’s memorial service will be held at eleven a.m. the day after tomorrow, at the Presbyterian church in Staunton. That’s a three-hour drive from DC.

  6

  October 1

  I sat in front of my computer until ten last night. This morning, I was back at it at six-thirty. I have to get up and move, and I’m looking forward to a few hours with Lenny. The kid is happy, messy, and completely irrational. I hope that doesn’t change when he turns four. The only hard part of hanging out with him is the pickup and drop-off. His mom and I don’t get along.

  Back when we were married, on days like this when I had my mind too deep in work, Miriam would strike up a conversation and slip in some question about my mom or dad, or what we did around the house when I was a kid. It was a button she could push when she wasn’t getting enough attention, and somehow I never saw it coming. Those are the blows that really get you. The ones you don’t see coming. In a few minutes, she’d pull all those old emotions out of me, just to reassure herself I was still there. And then she’d soothe.

  “Poor Freddy needs a little love.”

  Miriam did one thing very well, and it wasn’t the kind of thing she wanted her partner to do by rote. She wanted the feelings right up on the surface, and she didn’t care if it was anger or love or hurt, just as long as it was all pouring out of you. She could draw it out of a guy whenever she pleased.

  Before she came along, I wasn’t careful enough with women. And after… Well, I don’t need anyone doing that to me again.

  When Ed Hartwell hired me, he did a background check. I remember sitting in his office. He had printed out a few pages, and he asked me about the hospitalization in New York and the injuries. He knew what had happened between me and DiLeo. He had the report in his folder, but he wanted to hear me tell it.

  After I told him, he flipped the page and I could see the Department of Corrections letterhead. It was something about my dad. He skimmed it, glanced up at me for a second, and then went on to the next page without saying a word. That’s a thing I like about Ed. Even though he’s a natural-born cop, an investigator who digs deep into everything, he knows when to leave things alone. A guy like that sees where another guy’s line is, and he acknowledges it by not crossing it. A woman sees that line and she just has to cross it.

  After Rizzardi, Miriam was my best teacher. She showed me what to watch out for.

  She’s a good-looking woman. Half Jewish, half Italian, and if her ancestors were anything like her, she’s half twenty other things too. She was the girlfriend of a guy I was investigating back in my early days, when I chased insurance cheats and petty thieves. Lenny D. fell into the latter category. He worked for a company that installed heat pumps and furnaces. He had a side business, stealing air-conditioners and copper pipe from his employer.

  Lenny D. was a real jackass. Four counts of grand theft, and he punched both officers who arrested him. That earned him two extra felony charges. He wouldn’t take a plea deal no matter what his lawyers said. I was a witness at his trial. That’s where I met Miriam. Like I said, a good-looking woman. Dark olive skin, dark curly hair, and dark-brown eyes that sparkled even in the low light of a fancy restaurant. She was a little full in the cheeks, with dark-red lips and white teeth that were just slightly crooked in this way that made you want to kiss her.

  She was shy, or at least she acted that way. She wore dresses that were high in the waist to try to hide the extra padding around her belly and thighs, like she truly didn’t know how much some guys like that. The trim ones are nice to look at, but when it comes to the one you keep, I like a woman who’s built for comfort. Someone I won’t knock off the bed when I roll over in the middle of the night.

  We had three dates before our first real kiss. She was so shy, I couldn’t even compliment her. She’d just smile and turn her eyes down and not say a word, so I got to feeling bad for making her self-conscious. I wanted to marry her after the first kiss.

  She’d had it kind of bad. No one was beating her up or anything, but Lenny D. neglected her, treated her like an old vacuum cleaner that belonged in the corner. I thought she was something special, a hidden gem whose beauty the rest of the world just didn’t take the time to notice.

  The first time I took her to bed I thought I’d have to take it slow. Be gentle. Maybe hold back a little on what I was really feeling because she was so shy. I didn’t want to overwhelm her.

  I was wrong about that. Shy over dinner and shy about compliments does not mean shy in bed. Looking back, I should have known. I should have had the same feeling I had with that bum trainer Slim stuck me with. When there’s that much of a mismatch between what you think you’re signing up for and what you actually get, it should set off alarm bells. Funny how I can see some people for one second and my instinct tells me to be wary, and then I can sleep with a woman and even marry her
and still not get it.

  So we got married, and we had this little apartment up in Rockville, just a short bus ride from the Metro. Everything was humming along beautifully. I’d always told myself that whoever I married would never doubt—not for a second—that she was the most special person in the world, the one and only, the be-all and end-all. I would open every door for her, pull out her chair at dinner, hold her coat so she could slide her arms right through—all of that. She would never have to wait tables at some dive where the guys leered at her ass and the women complained that their orders didn’t come out right. She wouldn’t have to worry about the bills being paid or keeping a roof over her head.

  That was the idea. Funny how life has its own ideas.

  I saw myself as a knight in her world, but I was a pawn in the real world. I’d come home tired and stressed out at whatever hour I managed to make it back—sleuthing is not a nine-to-five job. She’d be angry and anxious because she’d been alone all day, and that wasn’t what I wanted to come home to. Some of the sparkle went out of her eyes. I forgot to pull out her chair one night, and she didn’t make a fuss about it, so I started forgetting that every night. Then the charge went out of the sex. Instead of dynamite every night, we’d have a firecracker now and then. I was out working overtime, busting my ass, trying to give her the things I thought she wanted, and she just resented me for not being home.

  The long weekends and late nights and all the travel I was doing started to get to her. She complained all the time, calling me up in the middle of the night and nagging. Calling me on the road and nagging. I’d get off a plane and there’d be six messages from her.

  “You’re not making this any easier,” I’d say.

  “I want you home,” she’d say, and I could hear she was smoking a cigarette.