by Larsen, Ward
The guy took a long look at the ID, which was unusual. Most people only glanced. "She's had a pretty rough time. Can't it wait?"
"I'm afraid not. But it won't take long."
He hesitated.
Davis said, "And you are -- ?"
"I'm Jason Lavender, her attorney."
Lavender, Davis thought. Like the color of a flower. He said, "Nice to meet you."
The guy deliberated, waffled, then said, "Just a minute." He disappeared into the house.
A lawyer wasn't what Davis needed right now. He'd always had a knack for sifting through data and debris, finding the secrets of what brought airplanes down. But delicate conversations with grieving widows, fencing with attorneys -- not his game. That required tact and finesse. Soft words and gentle smiles. Like you might get from a crisis counselor or a parish priest. Jammer Davis had the god-given finesse of a wrecking ball. Which wasn't always a bad thing. Wrecking balls got results. Maybe not what you were after, but something always came down.
A woman came to the door. She was fortyish and looked a lot like the house -- well-tended. She was fit, probably worked out a lot. Her short brown hair was nicely cut and styled with blonde highlights. Davis noticed her eyes, a cool blue with subtle makeup -- makeup one day after her nearly ex-husband had died in a terrible crash. He also saw what wasn't there. No redness, no puffy bags. No crumpled tissue in her hand.
"Hello, miss. I'm Jammer Davis, an investigator with the NTSB."
He pushed out his ID again. Karen Moore didn't even look. "I realize this might not be a great time, but there are a few important questions I need to ask."
"No, it's not a good time." Her voice was winter.
"Eventually we'll want to talk more, once you're up to it, but there are a few things we need to get straight right away. Just basic stuff."
She nodded. "All right. Come in, Mr. Davis."
She led him to the living room. The lawyer was nowhere in sight, but had to be lurking within earshot. Right away, Davis spotted the I-love-me wall. All pilots had them, and former military guys had the biggest ones. Pictures of airplanes they'd flown, plaques of appreciation and commendation, maybe a chromed twenty-millimeter bullet they'd won in a strafing competition. In ten seconds, Davis' first five questions were answered -- Earl Moore was a former Navy guy, flew F-18s in the fleet followed by a stint in training command. He put in maybe eight years, made lieutenant, then jumped to the airlines. These were the kinds of things Sparky should have told him -- not just that the guy was a divorcing alcoholic.
"I was Air Force, myself," Davis said, meandering along the wall while Mrs. Moore took a seat on the couch. He saw an eight-by-ten picture of Earl Moore dancing on a stage in a Hawaiian shirt, clearly drunk, with a beer in one hand, a cigar in the other, and a no-kidding monkey on his shoulders. Davis smiled inwardly and thought, My kind of guy.
"I really never cared for those pictures," she said.
Davis nodded. "Yeah, my wife was never a big fan of mine either." He went to sit down, vaguely remembering some psychobabble crap he'd been taught about where to sit in relation to a distraught witness. Was it next to her? Or across? He couldn't remember. The couch looked more comfortable so that's where he parked.
She asked, "Can you tell me anything more about what happened?"
"No, sorry. I've only seen what's on the news."
She nodded. "I've just begun to make -- arrangements. I've never done anything like this before."
"Do you have anyone helping?"
"Yes. His mother is still alive, and a brother is coming down from Chicago. Tell me, Mr. Davis, will there be an autopsy?"
"Yes." The real answer wasn't quite so easy, but Davis wasn't going to bring the condition of the body into play. "I'm here to do what we call a seventy-two-hour history. I need to know as much as possible about what your husband did in the days before the accident. Had he been eating right, taking any medications, getting his sleep?"
"Getting his sleep? He was a cargo pilot."
"Right," Davis said. He thought, Widow-1 , Jammer-0. Of all the world's vampire shifts, none were worse than the one worked by cargo pilots. Go to work when everyone else was climbing into bed. Fly across a few time zones and land. Sit next to a coffeepot for an hour or two while packages are sorted, then fly again. More time zones. When you get to your layover city, take a shuttle to a hotel room while the horizon starts to glow in the east -- reveille for the rest of civilization. Bacon and eggs for dinner, easy on the coffee. Then try to get some sleep so you can do it all again the next night. Just try.
Karen Moore said, "Look, Mr. Davis. I don't know if you're aware, but my husband and I had recently separated."
"Actually, yeah, I knew that. But not much more. Where was he living?"
"He had an apartment a few miles from here." She gave the address. Davis wrote it down. Then she pointed to the wall and said, "He never did get all his stuff out of here."
"I see. So was he living by himself?"
"No." A long pause, then, "Well, sometimes -- I don't know."
"You mean there was a woman?"
The ice turned to venom. "I'd call her something else. She was there sometimes when I'd go to pick up Luke."
"Luke?"
"We have a son. He's twelve." She put on her battle tone, "And he's trying to deal with the death of his father. I don't want him involved in any of this, Mr. Davis."
"No, no need for that."
"So what else can I tell you? I saw Earl the day before he left for France. I picked up Luke at the apartment. They'd gone to a ballgame, I think."
"Just the two of them?"
"I didn't stalk him," she snipped.
"Okay." There was a long silence, and Davis sat uneasily on his next question. "Your husband was out on medical leave last year-- alcohol. Had he been drinking lately?"
"How would I know?"
"You were married to him. I think you'd know."
She glared and fell silent. Then Karen Moore began to fidget, began to lightly wring her hands together. Davis heard papers shuffling in the next room -- the lawyer in the kitchen. Still no answer. Instead, she said, "Excuse me, Mr. Davis. I'll be back in a moment." She stood, reflexively smoothing the front of her slacks, and walked more quickly than she should have into the kitchen.
Dammit. He had pushed too hard. It wasn't the first time. Davis had a knack for balling up interviews. He stood up, didn't smooth his Dockers. He'd never had these kinds of problems when he'd just flown airplanes for a living. Maybe when this investigation was done he could look around for a flying job. A cushy corporate gig might be nice. Fly a Learjet down to the Caymans, hang out with some Fortune 500 execs for a nice long weekend. It sounded good.
He heard Karen Moore talking in hushed tones to Lavender, heard more papers being shuffled. Davis strolled back to the wall and found another picture of Earl Moore -- a team lineup, rowing crew in college. He was built for it, tall and beefy. Might have made a good rugby player -- second row forward, Davis figured. Finally, Karen Moore came back. She returned to the couch, but this time her attorney stood behind her, hovering like a mortician at a funeral service that had overstayed its time slot.
"Yes," she said.
Davis was lost. "Yes what?"
"Yes, Earl had been drinking lately."
"Oh -- I see." Davis didn't. "So you were with him at the time?"
"No, but like you said, I'd know. He was unhappy. That's always when he drank, when he was unhappy."
Davis was unhappy right now. He could really go for a beer. He didn't ask for one. "Unhappy? How?"
"He just seemed depressed. It could have been girlfriend trouble. Or perhaps he felt guilty about not seeing Luke very much."
"How much was that?"
The mouthpiece jumped in. "Earl Moore had been granted visitation one weekend a month and one week each summer."
Davis tried to imagine how he would react if a judge -- or anyone-- tried to tell him that he could only see
Jenny a few days each month. Depressed? Unhappy? Homicidal was more like it. He knew what he had to ask next. "Mrs. Moore, why had the two of you split up?"
She said nothing, and her attorney filled the void again. "The grounds for divorce were irreconcilable differences. It was uncontested, nearly complete."
Davis ignored him, kept his eyes fixed on the widow. "That's not what I asked."
Silence from above and below. The interview was going south fast.
Lavender said, "I think we're done, Mr. Davis."
"Yeah, I guess so." He stood and meandered toward the door, then paused. He hoped they really wanted to get rid of him. "Oh, there is one thing," he said, his eyes on the widow.
"What?" she asked.
"Do you have a key to his apartment?" Strictly speaking, Davis doubted it was legal for him to search the place, but he didn't have time for any screwy court warrants.
"I think Luke might have a key," she said, turning to her attorney.
"Why don't you go check his room," Lavender suggested.
Davis thought, Lousy lawyer,; He said, "Thanks."
With the widow Moore upstairs and Lavender guarding the couch, Davis strolled back to the wall. He stared at the picture of Earl Moore on stage. A drink, a cigar, and a monkey on his back. Loving life.
Chapter FIVE
In Davis' experience there were two kinds of flight surgeons. There was the one you visited twice a year that checked your eyes, took your blood pressure, and thumped your back. They got you in and out of the office quick, a rubber stamp. Then there was the kind you tracked down if you had a real medical issue. The kind of doctor you wanted on your side if you were fighting the feds to get your flight medical back.
As he sat in the waiting room, Davis studied the wall and decided that Dr. James Black was the latter type. There were two large, ornate diplomas -- Dartmouth and Georgetown -- and a bunch of smaller certificates for smaller achievements. FAA Aviation Medical Examiner, chairman of a professional association. The guy even had a law degree to boot. M. D., J. D. Now there was a scary concept, Davis thought. All the same, a good guy to have in your corner if you were up against the system. Dr. Black was probably on retainer for the World Express pilot's union, paid a healthy sum to wrestle a few tricky cases each year.
Office hours had ended for the day, but the doctor was still in and had agreed to an interview. Davis only waited five minutes, his personal record at any doctors office. A receptionist led past a single exam room -- not the usual row of holding pens -- to a small, nicely appointed suite. Dr. Black was behind his desk and stood when Davis came in. He was middle-aged, medium height, medium build. He wore designer glasses and a lab coat with his name embroidered in black script. Black in black. The coat was pressed and clean. No blood, no wrinkles, no tongue depressor in the breast pocket. He didn't even bother with a physician's most basic accessory -- a stethoscope hanging around his neck.
"Hello, I'm Jim Black."
Davis took a firm, professional handshake.
"Jammer Davis, NTSB."
The doctor cocked his head slightly. The "Jammer" part often threw people off.
"Thanks for seeing me on short notice."
"No problem. I was going to be in my office dictating for another hour. So you've come about Earl Moore?"
"Yes."
"Terrible, what happened. I suppose you know my reason for taking him as a patient?"
The doctor didn't mess around. Which was all right with Jammer Davis. "I know he took time off for alcohol rehab. You helped him get his medical back."
The doctor nodded. "Tell me, Mr. Davis, is this a formal interview?"
"I'm not a very formal guy, but yeah, I guess it has to be."
The flight surgeon shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his lab coat, and his expression took on an air of increased gravity. It was probably the same face that came when he was giving a patient bad news.
Davis tried to lighten the mood. "Look, Doc -- I just need to get a few things straight before I go sticking my nose under charred lumps of metal. A brand-new airplane fell out of the sky, and it's important for us to find out why. Earl Moore had a recent medical history that's got to be looked at."
Black said, "You know about the alcohol. What about the divorce?"
"Yes. I just spent some time with his wife this afternoon."
"I've never met her."
"She's charming. Tell me, Doctor, when Moore had his ticket pulled last year -- how did that come about?"
"It was pretty straightforward, as those things go. Moore's wife called his chief pilot, said he was drinking far too much. The chief pilot confronted Moore, who pretty much confessed."
"Confessed."
"Just said he'd been drinking heavily, volunteered for the rehab program"
"So an ex-Navy guy puts himself in drydock."
"Yes. It's a good program. For a first timer, very straightforward. Counseling, recurrent monitoring. Over ninety percent are back flying within a few months. And the recurrence rate is quite low"
Davis said, "I got the impression that Moore and his wife weren't getting along. Was there ever any suggestion of other problems -- say, physical abuse, anything like that?"
"No. Nothing I know of."
"Were there other medical issues? Waivers for any conditions?"
"I think he had to wear glasses for far vision," Black said.
"Okay. So when did you see Moore last?"
"He dropped in last week."
"Dropped in? You mean he didn't have an appointment?"
"That's right."
Davis paused. A bright red flag fluttered in his cranium. Standard flight physicals were every six months -- and always scheduled far in advance. "Was he having some kind of problem?"
"Well," the doctor hedged, "I'm not sure. He wanted to know what would happen to a pilot who got a DUI."
The red flag snapped stiff. "What did you tell him?"
"I said it would have to be reported to the FAA right away. And if he had gotten a DUI, given his background, his ticket would be pulled within twenty-four hours."
"So did he admit to it?"
"I asked. He said no."
There was a pause before Davis said, "And that was the end of it?"
"Yes."
"Forgive me, Doc, but it seems a little strange. A guy coming in unscheduled and asking something like that. Didn't you try to check it out? Maybe make a phone call or two?"
Blacks tone was combative. "No. My patient told me he was clean. I'm not a detective."
Not much of a doctor either, Davis thought.
Black added, "And I can assure you that I was under no regulatory obligation to go digging."
Davis had no idea what the legalities were. The doctor probably did. Davis figured the Texas Bar Association would have been proud. Hippocrates pretty disappointed. "All right," he said. "I'll check with the Houston Police and Harris County Sheriff's Department."
"I think you should," the doctor agreed.
Perfect answer. Davis moved on. "Was he on any kind of medication that you know of--either prescription or over-the-counter?"
"Not to my knowledge."
The lawyer half was taking over, and Davis felt another interview ebbing. He was up against Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, except the monster was an expert in torts and civil procedure. Davis covered a few more formalities, then arranged to get copies of the patient records on Earl Moore. He thanked Black for his help, and headed to the elevator. For the second time today, he was an unhappy man.
He hoped to hell the toxicology run-up on the body of Earl Moore came out negative. He hoped to hell they could find enough of Earl Moore to do a toxicology run-up. But even if the skipper had been under the influence, it didn't explain much in Davis' mind. A drunk pilot might make mistakes, but it wasn't the kind of thing that would bring down a brand-new jet from six miles up.
Waiting for the elevator, Davis checked his cell phone. He saw a text message from Jen. omg Daddy! Bobb
y Taylor just asked me to sophomore dance a week from Friday! aunt L says I have to ask you. Please! Please! Please! Kisses, J.
The elevator opened. He snapped his phone shut and stepped in. There was another guy already there -- thin, long hair, nurse's scrubs. Davis barely noticed. A vision of Bobby Taylor came to mind, his spindly little arms and legs. Davis needed to get home before next Friday. He wanted to shake Bobby Taylor's hand. Shake it with a real firm grip. A grip that would --