Family Money(45)

Staying perfectly still, I listened closely to see which direction Gloria chose to go first. I heard her say “I am hurrying” from the living room. I moved to my left, opposite from Gloria, stepped farther down the hallway, and slipped inside the kitchen just as she entered the same hallway where I’d been hiding. Wasting little time in the kitchen, I quickly moved to the back door, cautiously opened it, and then darted outside. I was through the backyard gate and out onto the driveway a couple of seconds later. I noticed a white Honda Pilot now parked under the carport. Tucked in beside the neighbor’s fence, I carefully moved up the driveway toward the street. I didn’t take another breath until I was inside my rental car again and racing out of the neighborhood.





TWENTY-EIGHT


Thirty minutes later, I stood in the center courtyard of a glitzy four-story mall called Fashion Centre at Pentagon City, where Greta’s husband, Scott Malone, was scheduled to have a campaign event in a few minutes. There was a small stage set up in the middle of the courtyard with about ten rows of chairs. Campaign signs were posted everywhere, and already a crowd of about a hundred or so people had gathered. So far, I’d seen no trace of Scott or Greta Malone. They were probably off getting last-minute makeup and such done before stepping up on the small stage and pandering for votes. I was very eager to finally put real eyes on the mystery woman who had first entered into this equation by sending the text to Joe’s phone before I even knew he was dead.

I again thought about that text. Call me ASAP. I think we’ve been found out. Who was she talking about? Who had found them out? Mexican intelligence? A drug cartel? The CIA? Two of the people who had been in the bar at the Hay-Adams hotel the other day were now dead. Was Greta Malone in danger, too? I had no way of knowing without speaking with the woman. I sure as hell hoped she would be here today.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I looked at the number calling me and recognized it as an El Paso area code. This got my attention. I had left a voice mail for a man named Blake Crosby a few hours ago. According to the Dallas Times Herald news article I’d found in the SMU archives, a man by that same name had been a technician at the small airfield the day the plane carrying Bruce and Daniel Gibson had crashed thirty-five years ago. I’d searched for the name in El Paso and happened to find someone who presented himself as a handyman and mechanic who—based off a picture in a cheap ad—looked like he was old enough to have been at the airfield on that day.

“This is Alex,” I said, answering the phone.

“Hey, did you call looking for a handyman?”

I hadn’t explained myself on the phone. “Is this Blake Crosby?”

“Yes, sir, at your service. What can I do for you?”

“I have a strange question for you, Mr. Crosby. Any chance you used to work at Burnett Airfield thirty-five years ago?”

“That is a strange question. But the answer is yes. How the heck did you know that?”

“I read an old newspaper story about a plane crash that killed two lawyers back when you used to work there. You were quoted in the story.”

“I’ll be damned. I do remember talking to a couple of reporters. But I never got a chance to read anything about it.”

“Do you remember much about the day that plane crashed?”

“Well, sure. Not every day you see a plane explode right in front of your eyes. It would’ve been pretty spectacular had it not been so damn tragic.”

“Where were you when you saw it happen?”

“You a reporter or something?”

“No, but I think I have a family connection to the two men who were killed.”

“Oh, I see. Well, I was over in a small hangar working on a prop plane. Looked up and watched a Cessna 152 that was just on the runway glide up into the air. Everything looked fine. Then all of a sudden, it just exploded. I mean, it was a real fireball. All of this debris just went everywhere.”

“Did you happen to see the two men before they climbed into the plane?”

“I did. They walked through the hangar over to where the plane was parked.”

This made me perk up. “Could you describe them to me?”

“Well, hell, now you’re really testing my memory. But I think one guy was probably fiftysomething. He wore a business suit and carried a briefcase, which I found kind of funny as he climbed into a little two-seater. I only found out later he was a lawyer.”

“What about the other guy?”

“He was a lot younger. Probably in his twenties.”

“Was he also in a business suit?”

“Nope. Just plain street clothes. Jeans and a T-shirt.”

That seemed odd. Why would Joe have been dressed down? “Did the younger guy kind of look like the older guy? They were father and son.”

“Hard to say. The older guy was clean-shaven. The younger guy had a thick beard.”

A beard? There were no photos of my father-in-law at that age with a beard. So who the hell got in the plane with Joe’s dad? Where was Joe?

“Mr. Crosby, are you sure both men got on the plane that day?”

“Yep. Watched them both climb inside and set off down the runway.”

“You’re an expert mechanic, wouldn’t you say?” I asked Crosby.

“Well, I don’t know about that. But I’ve certainly seen a lot of engines in my sixty-five years.”