Page 24 of Holmes, Margaret and Poe

“Five years, less if the IPO came through early.” The attorney was leaning back in his chair, seeming pleased.

“What do you get out of this, Counselor? And don’t tell me gratitude.”

He smiled. “A significant amount of Amalgam stock, a roll in the hay every once in a while, and Maggie Fontaine’s gratitude forever.”

“Maggie Fontaine?”

“Leigh Anne’s real name. She changed it shortly before she started Amalgam. Said it was time for a completely new beginning.”

“And you’ll deny all of this if the police ask.”

“I will. Actions speak louder than words, and every action we’ve taken legally says it was a real marriage that soured. End of story.”

“Where do you think she is?”

“Honestly? Given how close we are to Amalgam going public? I’m betting she picked up a boy toy and headed off somewhere to blow off a little steam.”

CHAPTER 24

AFTER MAHONEY’S UPDATE, SAMPSONand I helped contact the victims’ families, looking for any evidence that specific passengers on AA 839 had been targeted.

Other investigators might have wanted to look in more fruitful evidential terrain, but talking to the relatives began to give me a solid understanding of the victims I was serving: A thirty-three-year-old traveling nurse. A young father and his toddler son on their way home from the son’s medical procedure. A couple who’d been married fifty years; they were returning from a weeklong trip that had been an anniversary gift from loving family members.

When I got off that last call, I felt like crying myself. I looked up to see Ned Mahoney coming through the tent toward us.

“Leave the manifest work to other agents for now,” he said. “I want you two with me.”

“Where are we going?”

“An unincorporated area west of Fredericksburg. Hot tip.”

Sampson shook his head. “I promised Willow I’d be home for dinner tonight. I haven’t had dinner with her in a week.”

I could tell Ned wanted to order him to come, but instead he said, “Go. Alex and I will handle it.”

“You sure?”

“Work on the manifests until six and then knock off,” Mahoney said. “But give me as much time as you can tomorrow.”

I grabbed my things and followed Mahoney as he hurried out. I was surprised to find him heading not to the cars but to the field behind the tent.

“I thought we were going to Fredericksburg,” I called.

“We are,” he said. “In a chopper.”

Ten minutes later, we were in the back of an FBI helicopter as it lifted off. The pilot looped around, giving us a clear view of the runway where AA 839 had gone down. The airport remained closed; all traffic had been diverted to Dulles International. Dozens of forensics experts in hazmat suits were still gathering evidence out there.

“They’ll be at it for days,” Mahoney said grimly into the mic of his headset.

I nodded as we flew south. “Going to fill me in?”

He handed me a file. “The agents combing social media found this guy on an internet chat site known to attract anarchists. He’s made threats against aircraft in the past, even talked about machine-gunning a commercial jet out of the sky.”

“What about the actual shootdown?” I said, opening the folder. I saw the mug shot and rap sheet of Cameron Blades, a massive, swarthy, bearded man with big bloodshot eyes.

“It’s there after his sheet. Blades goes by the name ‘Hand of Fate.’”

I turned the pages of the file. Blades had served in Afghanistan as a U.S. Army bomb-disposal technician but had received a dishonorable discharge for repeatedly drinking on duty and getting into violent altercations while on leave. Blades’s brushes with the law continued after his discharge, most of them for battery in one form or another. He was also believed to be involved in a gunrunning ring.

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