Page 50 of Red Boar's Baby

Benny looked shocked—genuinely, as far as Costa could tell. “Oh, wow, no. Not in the slightest. Forget I said anything. Anyway, here’s Thornburg’s office—he’s the guy in charge that you’ll want to talk to.”

He left them at the door to the office of Desert Tours, a small room with a couple of couches and some desks jammed together. A radio in the corner was producing bursts of static along with air traffic control chatter. The walls were covered with maps and charts, the desks cluttered with binders and more maps. A heavyset man with short gray hair was just getting up from the desk, presumably Thornburg.

“Hi there,” Costa said, shaking hands. “Quinn Costa with the SCB. This is my associate Diana Reid.” He flashed his badge again, briefly. “We just need to ask you some quick questions about the accident.”

“We’ve already had the sheriff, the NTSB, the FAA, the DEA, and a whole bowl of other alphabet soup in here asking questions,” Thornburg grumbled. “What’s one more, I guess. SCB—what’s that?”

“Special Crimes Bureau,” Costa said smoothly, and watched the man’s spine straighten, his eyes flash.

“Crimes? There hasn’t been any crime. My pilot made an error and it caused a tragedy. The FAA agrees, and the DEA said they didn’t see any signs of drug activity.”

“I’m sure we’ll agree too,” Costa said. “We’re just here to check out anything that’s not under the DEA’s mandate. I know you’ve already been over this, but could you show us the original flight plan?”

Thornburg sighed. “I wish you guys would talk to each other. At least I already have the papers handy. Here you go.” He pulled out a few sheets of paper and gave them to Costa, who glanced at it to confirm what he already knew and then passed them to Diana. “It was a charter flight to Alamagordo, New Mexico. He was picking up cargo. Left at first light, everything went fine, went off signal shortly after leaving Alamagordo. We reported in once it was clear that he wasn’t responding to radio signals.”

“What was the cargo?” Costa asked, although he already knew.

Thornburg pulled out another paper off the bottom stack. “Looks like he was carrying live cargo. Transporting some crates of chickens from a farm near Alamagordo.”

“People pay to transport chickens on a private charter?”

Thornburg shrugged. “People will pay for all sorts of things. I’ve had folks charter an entire plane just to carry a couple cases of beer to someone’s private mountain cabin.”

Diana cleared her throat. “We were at the crash site. I didn’t see any chickens.”

“Flew the coop?” Costa suggested.

“There are a lot of things that could’ve happened. The pilot might have jettisoned the cargo if there was engine trouble, or possibly a cargo door came open in mid-flight. The crates might break open on landing, letting them escape.”

“Leaving not even a feather behind?” Diana asked skeptically.

“Not my area, lady. Look, I have all the paperwork here if you need to see it.”

Costa flipped through the papers. “Big Clucking Deal Chicken Farms, Inc.” He snorted. “Did they get their feathers ruffled over the missing chickens?”

“Insurance paid out,” Thornburg said. “Look, I’d love to help, but I’ve got a business to run. The death of our pilot is tragic, of course, but there’s nothing mysterious about it.”

“No?” Diana said. “He just spontaneously fell out of a clear blue sky?”

“Ma’am, with all due respect, I’m sure some obvious cause will turn up eventually, a sudden updraft or an engine problem. I know that flying seems like a mysterious, magical art to laypeople, but it’s actually very straightforward?—”

“Iama pilot,” Diana snapped. “I know how straightforward it is. Nothing that’s turned up so far explains why an experienced pilot would crash on a clear day.”

Thornburg’s face set in angry lines. “I already told you everything I know. How long are you two going to waste my time? The case is closed as far as I’m concerned.”

“Unfortunately for you, the people who will be closing the case are us, and we’re not there yet.”

Diana studied the papers Costa had given her for a moment longer, her brow furrowed. He couldn’t help tracing the lines of her face with his eyes, wishing it could be his fingers instead.

Abruptly she looked up. “Can we charter a flight to retrace this flight path? Fly the exact same route?”

Thornburg threw his hands up in the air. “There’s no point!”

But Costa was looking at her curiously. “Why?”

“Due diligence. Would the SCB pay for it?”

“I don’t see why not.” In fact, as the person who had the final say on what his division paid for (well, except the budgetary higher-ups who controlled the master purse strings) he could guarantee it. “Could you take us out this afternoon?” he asked Thornburg. “Do you have anything available?”

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