The store owner couldn’t recall from where or whom he’d obtained the trunk, so Rye never learned the name or fate of the aviator who’d worn the jacket during the war. The patches on it designated his squadron and various air bases, but Rye never pursued those clues. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the pilot’s fate, because odds were good that he hadn’t survived. If he had, he never would have parted with his bomber jacket.
Rye ran his hand over the creased and scored leather, wishing he knew how each imperfection had come to be there. They were imbedded into the leather, representing chapters in the jacket’s history. He’d added nicks and scratches of his own, making him an intrinsic part of it, yet he didn’t consider himself its owner. He was merely its caretaker, the flyer to whom it had been temporarily entrusted until he passed it on to another.
Thinking back to Dr. O’Neal’s prissy disapproval of the lining, he snickered. He stretched his legs out, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes. Except for the nap he’d taken on Dash’s sofa, he hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours. He was beat.
The next thing he knew, Rawlins was back. Rye sat up straight, dry-scrubbed his face, and glanced at his watch. He’d dozed for nearly fifteen minutes.
During that time, the deputy had been busy. His hands were so full, he had to push the door shut with his heel. He passed Rye a phone charger and pointed to the nearest wall outlet.
“Thanks.” Rye took his spare phone from his flight bag and plugged into it.
Rawlins set a Styrofoam cup of coffee in front of him. “Cream’s curdled and we’ve run out of powdered. I have sweetener.” He scattered a variety of packets on the desk as he sat down.
“I’m good.” Rye removed the plastic lid and sipped. The brew was scalding, strong, and bracing.
Rawlins set his cell phone within reach on his cluttered desk, drank from his cup of coffee, then worked an oversize paperclip off the sheaf of paper he’d carried in tucked under his arm. Rye saw that it was a stack of printouts of official-looking forms and documents.
Fuck.
Rawlins said, “You’re a surprise, Mr. Mallett.”
Rye kept his expression a blank. “How’s that?”
“You look like a bum and act like a prick, but you graduated from the Air Force Academy with honors, flew dangerous missions in Afghanistan, returned from your second tour a decorated hero.” Rawlins looked across the desk at him. “What happened?”
“I found God.”
The deputy heaved a weary sigh and leaned back in his desk chair. “Your comic timing needs work.”
“Speaking of timing, how soon can I get out of here?”
Rawlins reacted to that with a show of temper. “I don’t want to be here, either, you know. The sun is about to come up on Thanksgiving, and my wife is mad as hell because a passel of kinfolk is descending at noon, and I forgot to pick up evaporated milk last night. Or maybe it was condensed milk. Whichever, she can’t finish her pie-baking, and I’m catching the blame.” He brought his chair upright like he was about to launch. “All because of you.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“No?”
“No. Well, except for keeping my plane aloft long enough to spare Dr. O’Neal’s life, but good flying doesn’t seem to go very far with you people.”
“You ever been arrested?”
Rye hitched his chin toward the stack of paperwork. “What’s it say?”
Rawlins thumbed through several sheets. “Says disturbing the peace.”
“When and where, specifically?”
“That’s rather the point,” Rawlins returned dryly. “All over the place.” He scanned more sheets. “Says drunkenness.”
“Guilty. San Diego. Bad batch of tequila. Spent the night in the drunk tank, which was a lot more luxurious than the motel the skinflint client had agreed to cover. At least I knew whose pee it was on the floor.”
“Reno, Nevada. Assault in a hotel room.”
“You’re reading it wrong. I filed the complaint. He assaulted me.”
“He?”
“She failed to mention she had a husband.”
Rawlins snuffled and shook his head. “Man. When you bottomed out, you bottomed out good, didn’t you?”
“I’m an overachiever.”
The deputy wasn’t amused. “Who won? You or the husband?”
“I threatened to throw him out the tenth-floor window if he didn’t back off.”
“Were you bluffing?”
“We’ll never know. He backed off before I was tested.”
Rawlins studied him over his cup of coffee as he took another drink, then said, “You’re lying.”
“I’ll swear under oath that it was the tenth floor.”
“You’re lying when you say you don’t know what’s in that box of Dr. O’Neal’s.”
“I don’t.”
“Or why Brady White was attacked.”
“No idea.”
“That’s a crock of shit, Mr. Mallett.”
Rye yawned widely.
Rawlins looked through more of the sheets. “You’ve spent a lot of time flying in Central and South America.”
“I’ve logged thousands of hours.”
“Any particular reason why?”
“Big continent. Lots of real estate to cover. Lots of out-of-the-way places that can only be reached by air. Peru alone has—”
“Have you ever flown weapons?”
“Only for the U.S. Air Force.”
“Drugs?”
“Yes.”
He could tell the swift admission took Rawlins aback.
“Once,” Rye qualified, holding up his index finger. “Without my knowledge. The payload was knock-off designer handbags destined for a discount department store chain in south Texas. When I arrived and started unloading the freight, I discovered the damn purses were stuffed with heroin. I was pissed. Anonymously tipped both the DEA and Customs, but not before making the guy who set me up rue the day he was born.”
“You’re telling me that no one’s ever tried to hire you—”
“I didn’t tell you that. I’m approached all the time. Kingpins, penny-ante pushers, corrupt government officials. They’ve all offered me top dollar because they know I’ll fly anywhere.
“But the thought of federal prison doesn’t appeal to me, and, in any effing case, I’m not a damn drug runner.” He stood up and pulled on his jacket. “You haven’t thought this through, Rawlins.”
“Sit down.”
Rye remained standing and kept talking. “I’m up there, skirting mountains and power lines. Can’t see a goddamn thing through the fog, relying on instruments and Brady White, who’s doing all he can to help me make a safe landing. Now, why in hell, after walking away from what could easily have been a fatal crash, would I want to bash that man in the skull?” Rawlins didn’t need to know that his initial intention had been to do just that.
“Easy,” the deputy said. “You blamed him for missing the runway.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Your instruments blinked out? Come on, Mallett. Admit it. You screwed up big, and Brady was your scapegoat.”
It was all he could do to keep quiet about the laser. He had not one iota of evidence that it had happened. It would look like whining, blaming the crash on something besides his own fallibility. Rawlins already had a trustworthiness issue with him. He would probably laugh out loud.
Rye also had nothing to back up an allegation that Brady White’s attackers had been the ones who had shone the laser at him. But, being a conscientious cop, Rawlins would grudgingly look into it, and looking into it would take time, and Rye was long past ready to clear out. Let this going-to-fat ex-jock think what he wanted about the crash.
Rye told him the truth. “I didn’t attack Brady, and I don’t know who did.” He picked up his flight bag. “You want to take that as my statement and have me sign it, fine. Type it up, and we’re both outta here. You pick up canned milk on your way home to pacify the angry wife.
“Or. If you want to hold me for suspicion of a crime, I’ll shut down all talk and lawyer up so fast your head will spin. Even if you put me in lockup, your passel of kinfolk will celebrate Thanksgiving without you, because you’ll be here filling out forms, trying to make up for your misjudgment, and preventing your fine sheriff’s department from being sued for keeping me in a holding cell when I didn’t do anything.”