Dammit. He had pushed too hard. It wasn't the first time. Davis had a knack for balling up interviews. He stood up, didn't smooth his Dockers. He'd never had these kinds of problems when he'd just flown airplanes for a living. Maybe when this investigation was done he could look around for a flying job. A cushy corporate gig might be nice. Fly a Learjet down to the Caymans, hang out with some Fortune 500 execs for a nice long weekend. It sounded good.
He heard Karen Moore talking in hushed tones to Lavender, heard more papers being shuffled. Davis strolled back to the wall and found another picture of Earl Moore — a team lineup, rowing crew in college. He was built for it, tall and beefy. Might have made a good rugby player — second row forward, Davis figured. Finally, Karen Moore came back. She returned to the couch, but this time her attorney stood behind her, hovering like a mortician at a funeral service that had overstayed its time slot.
"Yes," she said.
Davis was lost. "Yes what?"
"Yes, Earl had been drinking lately."
"Oh — I see." Davis didn't. "So you were with him at the time?"
"No, but like you said, I'd know. He was unhappy. That's always when he drank, when he was unhappy."
Davis was unhappy right now. He could really go for a beer. He didn't ask for one. "Unhappy? How?"
"He just seemed depressed. It could have been girlfriend trouble. Or perhaps he felt guilty about not seeing Luke very much."
"How much was that?"
The mouthpiece jumped in. "Earl Moore had been granted visitation one weekend a month and one week each summer."
Davis tried to imagine how he would react if a judge — or anyone— tried to tell him that he could only see Jenny a few days each month. Depressed? Unhappy? Homicidal was more like it. He knew what he had to ask next. "Mrs. Moore, why had the two of you split up?"
She said nothing, and her attorney filled the void again. "The grounds for divorce were irreconcilable differences. It was uncontested, nearly complete."
Davis ignored him, kept his eyes fixed on the widow. "That's not what I asked."
Silence from above and below. The interview was going south fast.
Lavender said, "I think we're done, Mr. Davis."
"Yeah, I guess so." He stood and meandered toward the door, then paused. He hoped they really wanted to get rid of him. "Oh, there is one thing," he said, his eyes on the widow.
"What?" she asked.
"Do you have a key to his apartment?" Strictly speaking, Davis doubted it was legal for him to search the place, but he didn't have time for any screwy court warrants.
"I think Luke might have a key," she said, turning to her attorney.
"Why don't you go check his room," Lavender suggested.
Davis thought, Lousy lawyer, He said, "Thanks."
With the widow Moore upstairs and Lavender guarding the couch, Davis strolled back to the wall. He stared at the picture of Earl Moore on stage. A drink, a cigar, and a monkey on his back. Loving life.
Chapter FIVE
In Davis' experience there were two kinds of flight surgeons. There was the one you visited twice a year that checked your eyes, took your blood pressure, and thumped your back. They got you in and out of the office quick, a rubber stamp. Then there was the kind you tracked down if you had a real medical issue. The kind of doctor you wanted on your side if you were fighting the feds to get your flight medical back.
As he sat in the waiting room, Davis studied the wall and decided that Dr. James Black was the latter type. There were two large, ornate diplomas — Dartmouth and Georgetown — and a bunch of smaller certificates for smaller achievements. FAA Aviation Medical Examiner, chairman of a professional association. The guy even had a law degree to boot. M. D., J. D. Now there was a scary concept, Davis thought. All the same, a good guy to have in your corner if you were up against the system. Dr. Black was probably on retainer for the World Express pilot's union, paid a healthy sum to wrestle a few tricky cases each year.
Office hours had ended for the day, but the doctor was still in and had agreed to an interview. Davis only waited five minutes, his personal record at any doctors office. A receptionist led past a single exam room — not the usual row of holding pens — to a small, nicely appointed suite. Dr. Black was behind his desk and stood when Davis came in. He was middle-aged, medium height, medium build. He wore designer glasses and a lab coat with his name embroidered in black script. Black in black. The coat was pressed and clean. No blood, no wrinkles, no tongue depressor in the breast pocket. He didn't even bother with a physician's most basic accessory — a stethoscope hanging around his neck.
"Hello, I'm Jim Black."
Davis took a firm, professional handshake.
"Jammer Davis, NTSB."
The doctor cocked his head slightly. The "Jammer" part often threw people off.
"Thanks for seeing me on short notice."
"No problem. I was going to be in my office dictating for another hour. So you've come about Earl Moore?"
"Yes."
"Terrible, what happened. I suppose you know my reason for taking him as a patient?"
The doctor didn't mess around. Which was all right with Jammer Davis. "I know he took time off for alcohol rehab. You helped him get his medical back."
The doctor nodded. "Tell me, Mr. Davis, is this a formal interview?"
"I'm not a very formal guy, but yeah, I guess it has to be."
The flight surgeon shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his lab coat, and his expression took on an air of increased gravity. It was probably the same face that came when he was giving a patient bad news.
Davis tried to lighten the mood. "Look, Doc — I just need to get a few things straight before I go sticking my nose under charred lumps of metal. A brand-new airplane fell out of the sky, and it's important for us to find out why. Earl Moore had a recent medical history that's got to be looked at."
Black said, "You know about the alcohol. What about the divorce?"
"Yes. I just spent some time with his wife this afternoon."
"I've never met her."
"She's charming. Tell me, Doctor, when Moore had his ticket pulled last year — how did that come about?"
"It was pretty straightforward, as those things go. Moore's wife called his chief pilot, said he was drinking far too much. The chief pilot confronted Moore, who pretty much confessed."
"Confessed."
"Just said he'd been drinking heavily, volunteered for the rehab program"
"So an ex-Navy guy puts himself in drydock."
"Yes. It's a good program. For a first timer, very straightforward. Counseling, recurrent monitoring. Over ninety percent are back flying within a few months. And the recurrence rate is quite low"
Davis said, "I got the impression that Moore and his wife weren't getting along. Was there ever any suggestion of other problems — say, physical abuse, anything like that?"
"No. Nothing I know of."
"Were there other medical issues? Waivers for any conditions?"
"I think he had to wear glasses for far vision," Black said.
"Okay. So when did you see Moore last?"
"He dropped in last week."
"Dropped in? You mean he didn't have an appointment?"
"That's right."
Davis paused. A bright red flag fluttered in his cranium. Standard flight physicals were every six months — and always scheduled far in advance. "Was he having some kind of problem?"
"Well," the doctor hedged, "I'm not sure. He wanted to know what would happen to a pilot who got a DUI."
The red flag snapped stiff. "What did you tell him?"
"I said it would have to be reported to the FAA right away. And if he had gotten a DUI, given his background, his ticket would be pulled within twenty-four hours."