Tailspin(23)

“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.”

The last word was still reverberating when Rawlins’s cell phone rang. He picked it up and answered with his name. He listened, then reached for a notepad.