“The hotel has a pool!” Hannah added. “That’s where we’ll do most of the goofing off.”
“Tom can take you to an early dinner and meet up with us later,” Abe added, and seemed way too pleased about all of it.
“You could go to Legal Seafood,” Hannah suggested. When Ava raised her eyebrows, the girl added, “What? You love seafood. I read it on your Facebook page. Also, vampire movies, popcorn, and tailwinds out of the Midwest.”
Well, at least she isn’t telepathic. Probably.
“All right,” she said, and grinned at how happy Tom looked. “But you’re paying.”
“Of course.”
“No, wait. That’s not very twenty-first century.” She stuck a finger in his face. “I’m paying. Don’t try to talk me out of it.”
“Of course.”
“Oh, no you don’t! Wait. You know what? Let’s just split the bill.”
“Whatever you want.”
Good plan. And let’s not pretend this has anything to do with solving a murder. You like him and you want him to like you back. That’s all it is.
Well, that and the fact that you literally have nothing else going on right now. Blake’s out of the picture, Dennis was never in the picture—where the hell has he disappeared to, anyway?—and Doc Baker has wonderful eyes.
True enough. Although that last bit was irrelevant. That said, it would be easier for Tom to guard her bad bod if they were having dinner together. Time to chow down a boatload of chowder!
Well, maybe not chowder.
Thirty-One
“… please remain seated with your seat belts on until the aircraft comes to a complete stop. Complete. Stop. Thank you for flying with Northeastern Southwest and remember: nobody loves you or your money more than we do. And, as always, the last person off the plane has to clean it. So thanks in advance, mystery passenger!”
Tom was already on his feet despite Abe’s eye roll and Hannah’s “Uncle Tom, Ava just said not to do that until we stopped.” He hit his head on the overhead bin, but such things happened so often, he barely noticed.
“I’m sure she was only joking about how the last person off has to clean the plane, son.”
Tom grunted in response, but felt his cheeks warm a little. He would be embarrassed to admit how much he loved it when Abe slipped and called him son. It meant nothing, of course. Abe was a nice man who was nice to the people around him. But he liked that Abe was comfortable enough around him to make those slips.
And it was no surprise to him that Ava was relaxed enough to make jokes during flight announcements; one thing the woman never seemed to lack was confidence. Well, until he almost broke her spirit by implying she might have killed her best friend, took a ten-year vacation, then trashed that same friend’s memorial.
He got their bags sorted, double-checked to make sure Abe had all the details for their lodging
(“This isn’t my first jaunt out of the neighborhood, Tom. I know how hotels work. And airports. And the subway. And e-mail confirmations.”)
shook Abe’s hand, hugged Hannah, enjoined them to take every care, then planted himself like a redwood in the waiting area and waited. (Always nice to find an area appropriately named.)
He heard her before he saw her; she was scolding her first officer—fortunate bum!—as they came up the carpeted ramp.
“—with the cousins already!”
“No, no. You’ve got this all wrong, Ava. He’s not a cousin.”
“Oh.”
“He’s a stepbrother.”
“Dammit!”
“Why are you fighting me on this? When have I steered you wrong?”
“Chicago. Honolulu. Los Angeles. Anchorage. Portland. The other Portland. Dallas. San Fr—”
“You have to trust me. I’m literally your wingman.”
She groaned and rubbed her forehead. “First, this isn’t a movie. Or a Top Gun remake. Or a rom-com. Well, maybe that last. Eventually.”
“Don’t you ever make fun of Top Gun. You know it’s the reason I’m a commercial pilot.”
“Yeah, about that—if Top Gun, the gayest nongay movie ever, inspired you, why didn’t you join the navy?”
“Huh. That’s exactly what my mom said.”
Ava glanced up, spotted him, and Tom hoped the look of relief was more about real pleasure in seeing him rather than escaping the conversation. “Hi, Tom. Thanks for waiting. India, you remember Tom Baker, Hannah’s uncle. Tom here is my … uh…”
This he could handle. “Her podiatrist.”
“What? No, we’re not doing that anymore. Tell him who you really are.”
“Oh, apologies. I thought we were still using that subterfuge.” He extended a hand to First Officer James. “I’m the medical examiner for Ramsey County in Minnesota.”
“Sure you are.” India turned back to Ava. “Come on, you guys can’t even keep your stories straight. There’s clearly nothing happening here.”
“Ouch,” Tom said mildly.
“All I’m saying is give my guy a call. If you don’t like him, case closed.”
“Your wife has, at rough count, two thousand cousins and at least one stepsibling. The case will never be closed. But speaking of closing cases…” She paused and gave Tom an expectant look.
No worries; he still had this handled. “I’m not a podiatrist. I’m a medical examiner.”
“Oh my God. I gave you the perfect opening to talk about the—never mind.” She shook her head and took his arm, which he supposed some might have found inappropriately proprietary. “Let’s go. Chowder beckons. Well, maybe shrimp cocktail beckons. See you on the next leg, India, you annoying male version of Emma Woodhouse.”
“Hey, you finally watched it!”
“I read it, you troglodyte.” Then, under her breath to Tom: “Okay, I might have watched it, then read it. Still means I read it.”
“I heard that!”
“Run,” she told him, and they both broke into a jog.
Thirty-Two
Thanks to their timely sprint, they were able to beat a small crowd traveling together and snagged a decent table toward the back. Ava eschewed the justly famous chowder for a bucket of steamers, and Tom went with the grilled salmon. The waitress left, and they got down to business.
“What’s on your mind? Besides murder and bodyguarding?”
“I was wondering if you had heard from Dennis.”
“Uh…” She paused, thinking. “Not since I took him to see the disaster the vandal left. Haven’t heard from him since, and as you saw, he wasn’t at the second night of the memorial. Why? Do you think he’s in trouble?”
“… no.”
“You’re killing me with the pauses.” She heard herself and nearly choked. “Not literally.”
“Did he have an alibi ten years ago?”
“You know he didn’t,” she replied slowly, watching Tom’s face. Guy was probably an ace poker player; he might be concerned about Dennis, concerned for Dennis, or wondering where the salt was. “You’ve read the file. He was out of town to check out some colleges, but nobody could put him at the U of M or anywhere else he said he’d been. Which isn’t proof, by the way.” She leaned forward. “He’s a goofball with a flair for drama who might be an alcoholic, but he didn’t kill his own twin. They weren’t alike at all, but he’d never have hurt her.”
“Try and call him,” he urged. “Right now.”
“Okay, rude, but…” She hated when people played with their phones in restaurants, but this could be a literal matter of life or death. Which she would tell the first person who tried to give her any side-eye. She hit his number and it went straight to voice mail. “Not there. Or not where his phone is. Or his phone is off.” Or he’s dead, killed by the guy who just can’t let this shit go. “Should I report him as a missing person? Or…” She shivered, but it had to be said. “… reach out to his mother?”
Tom shook his head. “It’s too soon. But it’s something else to think about. Wouldn’
t you say? Identifying all the variables is always a positive.”
“Argh, science. You really can’t help yourself, can you?”
“I cannot,” he admitted, looking simultaneously stoic and embarrassed, which was quite a trick. “Has anything else happened since last night?”
“No. I haven’t gotten sick again, none of my belongings have disappeared, nobody fiddled with my last drug test. Except…”
“Tell me. Please.”
“Everyone seems to know all about it,” she explained. “Which was odd. The only people who should have been privy to the details were me, my union rep, HR, and my direct supervisor. But my crew had heard.”
“Not surprising, given the nature of the tampered drug test.”
“Sorry, what? Elaborate for the clueless layman, please.”
“That’s only half right,” he said, smiling. “I researched the test favored by that particular lab. Their protocols are exacting—”
“Well, yeah. The FAA’s like that. And they tend to be pretty detail-oriented. They wouldn’t farm that particular lab work out to amateurs.”
“Precisely. It would have been much easier for the killer/vandal to crack their server and change the numbers as opposed to sabotaging your urine.”
“Well, if there’s anything I hate, it’s people sabotaging my urine.”
“And if he or she can do that, perhaps they can hack into other servers. Or your company’s intranet.”
“Oh.”
“Yes.”
“Shit.”
“Quite.”
“I gotta think about what that means,” Ava said. “Right now, I’m thinking it’s nothing good.”
“And this is speculation on my part. I have no proof. And perhaps your union representative is a heartless gossip.” At Ava’s snort, he continued. “But I think you should proceed by assuming the killer has access to your e-mails and anything Ava-related on the company servers, and plan accordingly.”
“Fucking great.”
“And … may I ask an unrelated question?”
“Hit me.”
“I was researching the articles about your belly landing and got to wondering … your fellow pilot’s aneurysm aside, how often do such things happen?” He leaned forward. “Statistically speaking, it’s bound to happen, if infrequently. But … how often? Not murder, perhaps, but a passenger succumbing to a myocardial infarction or the like and dying in the air?”
“Well, first, we don’t call it ‘dying in the air,’ because yikes, think of the other passengers. It’s classified as a ‘catastrophic incident.’ And besides the belly landing, it only happened twice on my shift, and only once when I was the pilot. Poor guy keeled over in First, total cliché: overweight business guy in a nice suit fretting about important meetings and refusing to put his laptop away.”
“But that’s insane. It could become a projectile.”
She nearly threw up her hands in victory. “Thank you! We’re not trying to ruin their good time. It’s just we’re prejudiced against pesky details like a passenger getting beaned in the brain by a laptop going 150 miles an hour. Or not hearing the safety lecture because of their headphones, then losing their shit when there’s an emergency landing. ‘Wait, who gets the oxygen mask first? My dog?’”
Tom laughed. “It would depend on the dog, I think.”
“Don’t get me wrong. I love my job. Except for, y’know, the daily contact with people.
“So anyway, my crew knew CPR and how to use the defib, so they did their best while I landed. We had to stop on the runway so the ambulance had a clear path to the plane; the paramedics boarded, did their best, whisked him away; and the other passengers were really nice about it. There were a lot of ‘wow, that puts being mad about my layover in perspective’ observations. He was pronounced at the hospital, but to be honest, given that three billion people are in the air every year, I’m amazed it doesn’t happen more often. Yes!”
This to the waitress who was laden with clams and salmon. Delighted, Ava put the sexy plastic bib around her neck, the better to avoid clam spatter as the waitress set down the bucket of steamers. “Ohhhhhh, I love these little buggers so much. What? It’s not wet bread.”
“Bottom feeder.”
“That doesn’t mean they only eat bottoms, just that they eat near the bottom. And back off with the judgment.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. My focus is keeping you safe and remaining in your good graces. Everything else pales.”
She stripped three steamers out of their shells, rinsed them, dipped them, ate them. “You’re not fooling me. I can tell you’re dying to comment. So go ahead and criticize these delightful little fruits of the sea.”
“Clams are mud dwellers that will eat anything, including particles of deceased animals.” He sighed and slumped back. “Thank you for letting me get that off my chest.”
“If you’re angling to get me to share some, you’re going about it the wrong way.”
She almost laughed to see him visibly shudder. “I’m not angling for that at all. At. All.”
“Sure. So, what? You’re here for MAGE but wanted to bodyguard on the side?”
“That’s exactly right. I’m officially on vacation for the next few days, so this won’t cut into my other duties.”
“You’re kidding!” She stared at him. “That’s so great. Above and beyond, Tom. Truly.”
He shrugged, but she had the impression he was pleased. “I’m fortunate that my supervisor allowed me access to the relevant files, given that Danielle’s is a cold case and that my investigation isn’t necessarily in an official capacity.”
“Right. I mean—you’re not exactly Kay Scarpetta.”
“Pardon?” He’d begun to eat his salmon and paused to swallow. “Who?”
“The heroine of all those Patricia Cornwell novels? She’s an ME who teams up with the cops and solves murders while being a great cook and a supportive aunt. The books always hit the bestseller list. You’re an ME who has never heard of Kay Scarpetta?”
“It’s possible to be one,” he pointed out dryly.
“Right. Well, in the books and movies, coroners always team up with cops and catch killers—”
“Like in Bones! It inspired me to study forensics.”
“Wait, you’ve heard of Bones but not Cornwell?”
“Yes, David Boreanaz is my favorite actor.”
“David Boreanaz is your favorite actor,” she parroted. “You must have loved Buffy the Vampire Slayer. And Angel, though I’ve gotta say, Buffy was the superior show.”
“Mmmmm … I don’t believe so. I don’t care for paranormal shows.”
“David Boreanaz is your favorite actor but only because he played a cop in Bones, which made you want to be a medical examiner?”
“Now that I hear it out loud, I understand your surprise. It does seem odd.”
“Yeah, just a smidge. Hey, do you mind? Because it smells incredible.” He nodded at once and let her stab a chunk of salmon with her fork. “Great, thanks—anyway, my point is, in the real world, to the best of my knowledge—MEs don’t actually—”
“I see your point. I spend ninety-five percent of my time in a lab, which I imagine could make for dull television.”
“Good call.”
“For other people, not me … I would watch a show about someone who spends ninety-five percent of their time in a lab environment.”
“Of course you would. Well, what do you think?”
“I think you are a lovely, passionate, intelligent woman who eats garbage.”
“I meant, where do we go from here? And you’re wrong about that.” She left it vague so he could wonder which attribute she had a problem with. “I’m in the same boat you are, by the way. Actually, my boat’s much leakier—you’re at least part of the criminal justice system. I’ve got no official responsibilities and no training in forensics or law enforcement. But fuck it. The killer chased me away last time.
“Well, not aga
in. Not this time. This would normally be the part where I proclaim that I never make the same mistake twice, except I do that all the time. But I’m owning it now. I’m not running away. And I’m in the game now, Doc Baker! Not that this is a game.” Stop talking. Eat your bottom-feeder dinner.
Nope. Her inner voice was denied; turned out she had more to say. “I’m still using the playbook from ten years ago, is what I’m trying to stay. And it got me exactly where it did before: flying away and pretending nothing ever happened, or if it did, that it was so long ago it didn’t bother me anymore. But the hell with that playbook and the hell with the killer. You’re coming with me and we’re going to actually do something.”
“Technically, you’re coming with m—”
“Don’t wreck my self-actualization, Tom!”
“Right. Sorry.”
“Okay then.”
“Yes.”
“Glad we’re on the same page,” she added.
“As am I. Also, I suspect I am coming to adore you, which I can’t explain.”
“Probably just some bad fish.”
He laughed and made a show of gobbling the rest of his salmon.
Nice speech, her eternally snarky inner voice piped up. But for someone who keeps saying this isn’t the movies, you’re making lots of movie-heroine mistakes.
Maybe so. But at least she wasn’t hiding. She’d face her fuckups head-on, and nothing was going to stop her.
Probably.
Thirty-Three
“You’re grounding me?”
“Yes, Ava. I’m very sorry.”
“But my follow-up test was clean! Everyone agreed the first test was deeply screwed!”
“It’s not a punishment, Ava. But someone blasted past our firewalls and e-mailed half the company your fraudulent test results.”
“Good God!” And on the heels of that: holy shit, Tom was right! On the bright side, this latest unwelcome announcement saved her the “why does my entire crew know I flunked a piss test?” phone call to HR.
“You’re still getting occasional press about the belly landing, which means this has the potential to become a major news story. And while you’ve done nothing wrong, what do people usually assume when they hear a celebrity—”
Truth, Lies, and Second Dates Page 14