Hank Phillippi Ryan
Air Time
The third book in the Charlotte McNally Mystery series, 2009
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Unending gratitude to
Ann Leslie Tuttle, my brilliant, wise and gracious editor; Charles Griemsman, patient and droll, king of deadlines. To the remarkable team at MIRA Books, Tara Gavin, Margaret O’Neill Marbury and Valerie Gray. The inspirational Donna Hayes. Your unerring judgment and unfailing support make this an extraordinary experience.
Kristin Nelson, the most remarkable agent.
Francesca Coltrera, my astonishingly skilled independent editor, who lets me believe all the good ideas are mine.
The artistry and savvy of Madeira James, Bonnie Katz, Judy Spagnola, Charlie Anctil, Jonathan Hall, Kurt Hartwell, Janet Koch and Nancy Berland.
The inside info and unique knowledge of intellectual property attorney Mark Schonfeld; a fashion expert I promised not to name; and the FBI Citizens’ Academy.
The bravery, skill and patience of airline flight attendants.
The inspiration of David Morrell, Mary Jane Clark, Amy MacKinnon, Jim Huang, Marianne Mancusi, Norman Knight and Margaret Maron.
The posse at Sisters in Crime and Mystery Writers of America.
My amazing blog sisters. At Jungle Red Writers: Jan Brogan, Hallie Ephron, Roberta Isleib, Rosemary Harris and Rhys Bowen. At Femmes Fatales: Charlaine Harris, Dana Cameron, Elaine Viets, Kris Neri, Mary Saums, Toni Kelner and Donna Andrews.
My dear friends Amy Isaac, Mary Schwager and Katherine Hall Page; and my darling sister Nancy Landman.
Mom-Mrs. McNally is not you, except for the wonderful parts. Dad-who loves every moment of this.
And of course Jonathan, who never complained about all the pizza.
Chapter One
It’s never a good thing when the flight attendant is crying. Franklin, strapped into the seat beside me, his seat back and tray table in the full upright position, headphones on and deep into Columbia Journalism Review, doesn’t notice her tears. But I do.
She’s wearing a name tag that says Tracy, a navy blue pencil skirt, a bow-tied striped scarf, flat-heeled pumps and dripping mascara. We’re sitting on the Baltimore airport tarmac, still attached to the jetway, a full fifteen minutes past our scheduled takeoff for Boston and home. And Tracy’s crying.
I nudge Franklin with my elbow and tilt my head toward her. “Franko, check it out.”
Only Franklin’s eyes move as, with a sigh, he glances up from under his new wire-rimmed glasses. He looks like an owl. Then, without a word, he slowly closes his CJR and finally looks at me. I can see he’s as unnerved as I am. His eyes question, and I have the only answer a television reporter can give.
“Get your cell,” I whisper. “Turn it on.”
“But, Charlotte-” he begins.
He’s undoubtedly going to tell me some Federal Aviation Administration rule about not using cell phones in flight. Like any successful television producer, Frank-in always knows all the rules. Like any successful television reporter, I’m more often about breaking them. If it could mean a good story.
“We’re not in flight,” I hiss. “We haven’t budged on this runway. But one of us-you-is going to get video of whatever it is that’s going on here. The other-me-is going to call the assignment desk back at Channel 3 and see if they know what the heck is happening at this airport.”
I look out my window. Nothing. I look back up at Tracy, who’s now huddling with her colleagues in the galley a few rows in front of us. Their coiffed heads are bent close together and one has a comforting arm around another’s shoulders. The faces I can see look concerned. One looks up and catches me staring. She swipes a tapestry curtain across the aisle, blocking my view.
Part of me is, absurdly, relieved that our takeoff is delayed. I hate takeoffs. I hate landings. I hate flying. And if something terrible has happened, all I can say is, I’m not surprised.
But I have to find out if there’s a story here. Maybe Tracy just has some sort of a personal problem and I’m making breaking news out of a broken heart. I yank my bag from under the seat in front of me and slide out my own cell phone. Bending double so my phone is buried in my lap, I pretend to sneeze to cover the tim-tee-tum sound of it powering up, then sneeze again to make it more convincing. As I’m contemplating sneeze three, I hear my call to the assignment desk connect.
“It’s me. Charlie,” I whisper. I pause, closing my eyes in annoyance at the response. “Charlie McNally. The reporter? Is this an intern?” I pause again, picturing a newbie twentysomething in over her head. Me, twenty-two years ago. Twenty-three, maybe. I start again, calm. Taking the snark out of my voice. “It’s Charlotte McNally, the investigative reporter? Give me Roger, please.” I glance at the curtain to the galley. Still closed. “Right now.”
Franklin’s up and in the aisle, holding his cell phone as if it’s off as he pretends to take a casual stroll toward the galley curtains. I know he’s got video rolling. I know his phone has a ten-minute photo capacity, and he’s done this so many times he can click it off and on without looking. Talk about a hidden camera. Our fellow passengers will only see an attractive thirtysomething black guy in a preppy pink oxford shirt checking out the flight attendants. I see Franklin Brooks Parrish, my faithful producer, getting the shots we need. Whatever is happening-all caught on camera. Exclusive.
“Roger Zelinsky.” The night assignment editor’s Boston accent makes it Rah-jah. “What’s up, C?”
“We’re in Baltimore, on the way home from the National Journalism Convention,” I say, still doubled over into my lap and whispering. Luckily Franklin and I had an empty seat between us. A hidden camera is one thing-a hidden forbidden conversation on a cell phone is another. “We’re at the airport. In a plane. On the tarmac.”
“So?” Roger replies.
“Exactly,” I say. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.” I give him the short-version scoop on the tears, the delay, the closed curtain. Franklin’s now made it to the galley, his phone camera nonchalantly pointed at the spot where the curtain would open. But it hasn’t opened. Maybe Tracy broke up with the pilot. Maybe they don’t have enough packages of peanuts. Maybe someone decided to smoke in the bathroom.
Then, even through the fuzzy phone connection, I hear all hell break loose at Channel 3. Strapped in and surrounded by passengers and pillows and carry-on bags, on Flight 632 there’s only the muted sounds of passengers muttering, speculating. But about five hundred miles away, in a Boston television newsroom, bells are ringing and alarms are going off. I know it’s the breaking news signal. The Associated Press is banging out a hot story. I bet it’s centered right here. And any second, I’m gonna know the scoop in Baltimore.
“Runway collision. Two planes. A 737 and some commuter jet. Cessna. I’m reading from the wires, hang on.” Roger’s voice is now urgent. I can picture him, eyes narrowed, racing through the information coming through on his computer. Bulletins appear one or two sentences at a time and with every new addition more alert bells ping. “No casualty count yet. One plane taxiing toward takeoff, one on the ground.”
“The little plane,” I begin. “How many-was it-which-”
“Don’t know,” Roger replies. Terse. The bell pings again and our connection breaks up a bit. “Fire engines,” he says.
I’ve got to get off this plane. I’ve got to get into the terminal. This story is big, it’s breaking, and I’m ready to handle it.
“Call you asap,” I whisper, interrupting. “I’m getting out of here.” I snap my phone closed, tuck it into my bag, unclasp my seat belt and stand up. Franklin looks over, and I signal with widening eyes and a tilt of my head. Come back.