Up Close and Dangerous Read online

  31

  LOGAN TILLMAN, BAILEY’S BROTHER, SHOWED UP AT THE J&L offices the morning of the fifth day. Bret knew who he was immediately, before he even introduced himself. It wasn’t that he and Bailey resembled each other all that much—Logan was taller, his hair darker, his eyes bluer. But there was a similarity of expression that marked them as relatives, a certain reserve. Other than that, his face was haggard with grief, as was that of the tall, freckle-faced woman beside him.

  “I’m Bailey’s brother, Logan Tillman,” he said, introducing himself to Karen. “This is my wife, Peaches. I—We couldn’t stay in Denver any longer, with no contact, no news. We’d rather be here. Is there anything?”

  Bret came out of his office to shake their hands. “No, nothing. I’m sorry.” He was as haggard as they; he’d slept only fitfully since Cam’s plane went down. Despite that, he’d begun taking flights again, because the business had to go on.

  Financially he was in a tailspin, something he’d never counted on when he and Cam formed their partnership. They’d done the smart thing, insured their aircraft and themselves so the business would continue if anything happened to either of them, but they hadn’t reckoned on the insurance company’s natural inclination to hang on to money.

  Even though Cam’s plane had disappeared from radar over extremely rough terrain—meaning it had crashed—because the wreckage hadn’t been found and Cam’s body recovered, as far as the insurance company was concerned he was still alive until either his remains were found or a court declared him dead. The cold reality was that Bret was short a plane and short a pilot, therefore less money was coming in. He was walking the floor at night, worrying himself sick about the debts that were coming due. He couldn’t believe they—he—had been so shortsighted. He’d have to hire another pilot, of course, but finding someone who matched his qualifications would take time.

  He realized that Karen was giving him one of her narrow-eyed looks that promised retribution if he didn’t do what she wanted. He drew a weary breath. She was waiting for him to tell Bailey’s brother about the fuel discrepancy.

  She was right; Logan had to know. Bret didn’t want to be the one to tell him, but he had no choice.

  “Let’s go into my office,” he said heavily. “Would you like some coffee?”

  Peaches shot an assessing look at her husband, as if weighing whether or not he needed a shot of caffeine. “Yes, please,” she said, taking Logan’s hand. He squeezed her hand in return and managed a ghost of a smile.

  Bret led them into his office, got them seated in the two visitor’s chairs. “How do you like your coffee?”

  “Cream in one, the other black,” Peaches answered. Her voice was like Tinker Bell’s, light and quick. Bret had talked a lot with Bailey when he’d piloted her, and he remembered how much she’d liked her sister-in-law. Logan seemed to be the only family she kept in touch with; he was the only one she’d ever mentioned.

  Their grief was so acute it lay on them like a veil of suffering. He had to get out of there. “I’ll get the coffee,” he said quickly, and walked out to find Karen already preparing it because of course she’d been listening. She gave him a quick, piercing look, reading his expression.

  “Suck it up, boss,” she said, and he gave her a wry look. So much for sympathy, but then, anyone looking for sympathy from Karen Kaminski was out of luck. He noticed that she’d been in the hair dye again; before, there had been a few striking black streaks in her red hair, but now her hair was more black than red. He wondered if this was her way of wearing mourning.

  She had unearthed a small tray from somewhere and set three cups on it, some individual packs of creamer, stirrers, then poured the coffee. Silently Bret lifted the tray and carried it into his office where he placed it on his desk.

  Logan leaned forward, took a cup of black coffee, and gave it to his wife. Bret watched as he added the creamer to his own coffee, and remembered that was also how Bailey had taken hers. The memory was unexpectedly sharp, unexpectedly painful. A hundred times a day he had an impulse to tell Cam something, but that wasn’t surprising considering how long they’d been friends and then partners. Though his meetings with Bailey had been casual and sporadic, he’d liked her. When she unbent, she’d been funny and sarcastic and hadn’t taken herself seriously.

  Cam hadn’t liked her at all, and the feeling had been mutual. It was ironic that they’d died together, considering.

  Bret grabbed his own cup and stood with his back to them, looking out the window, as he fought to bring his expression under control.

  “There’s a discrepancy in the fuel records,” he finally said, his tone low and flat.

  There was a pause behind him, a complete absence of sound.

  “What’re you saying?” Logan asked carefully. “What kind of discrepancy?”

  “The plane didn’t have enough fuel. It took on less than half what was needed to get to Salt Lake City, where they were scheduled to refuel.”

  “What kind of pilot would take off without enough fuel? And why wouldn’t he just land somewhere and take on more?” Logan sounded angry, and Bret knew how he felt. He turned around and faced Bailey’s brother.

  “To answer your first question,” he said slowly, “a pilot who thought he had enough because the fuel load indicator said he did. That’s also the answer to your second question.”

  “Why wouldn’t he know? Are you saying the fuel gauge in your plane was wrong? How could you know that, when the wreckage hasn’t been found?”

  Logan was sharp, Bret would give him that. He grasped immediately what Bret was talking about, asked all the right questions.

  “The plane’s fuel tanks were almost empty when it landed the day before. But when it was refueled that morning, it took on only thirty-nine gallons, which is less than half what just one of the wing tanks would hold.”

  “Then the guy doing the refueling made a mistake, but that doesn’t answer why you think the fuel gauge was defective.” Logan was getting angry; it was plain in the growing impatience in his tone.

  “I haven’t said anything about the gauge being defective,” Bret said just as carefully as Logan had spoken a moment before. “I don’t think it was.”

  “Then—”

  “There are ways,” he continued, still cautiously picking his words, “to make a fuel tank gauge register as full when it really isn’t.”

  Silence fell again. Logan and Peaches looked at each other, then his brows snapped together and he said, “When we spoke on the phone, I told you what Tamzin had said and you blew it off. Are you saying now that sabotage is likely?”

  “I don’t know. Until the crash site is found, everything’s conjecture.” Tiredly he rubbed his forehead. “But nothing else makes sense. Cam was the most careful pilot I’ve ever met. He checked and he double-checked; he didn’t take anything for granted when it came to flying. There’s no way he wouldn’t have noticed a fuel gauge that showed the tanks were almost empty.”

  “How hard would that be, to tamper with a gauge?”

  “It isn’t hard at all,” Bret admitted. “And it isn’t the gauge that’s tampered with, it’s the fuel tanks themselves. They’re made to look full when they aren’t.”

  “You’ve told the authorities about this?” Logan barked. “And about what Tamzin said?”

  Bret nodded. “Without evidence, without finding the wreckage, there’s nothing that can be done.”

  “Surely to God there are security tapes. This is an airport, for crying out loud!”

  “A very small airport, with no commercial flights. But yes, there are security tapes.”

  “And?”

  “And the security firm won’t release them without a court order. The NTSB investigator, MaGuire, is pressing for one, but it hasn’t come through yet.”

  “Why in hell won’t they cooperate?” Pale and agitated, Logan shoved himself to his feet and paced around the room.

  “Fear of a lawsuit, probably. Could just be thei