“That’s very possible,” she breathed. “Uh-huh.”
“Who took it?”
“Well, it’s not really paper anymore, you know. So you can’t just take it. .”
“Okay. Cherry, who transferred it? Or erased it?”
“I don’t think I can really tell you that.”
Justin bit down on his lip until it turned white. She wants to help. She’s trying to help. Think, think, think. “How about this?” he asked. “Who has the authority to remove a file from the computer system? Not this file. Not the file for tail number NOV 6909 Juliet. I don’t want to know who has that file. But who can remove any file? Can you?”
“Oh no,” Cherry said. “I could get in a lot of trouble for that. I can only do that when someone tells me to.”
“So your boss can tell you to do that?”
“Well, not really,” she said now, and her words were very breathy now, as if she were starting to realize that she was getting in too deep. “I mean, he could, I guess, but he would get in trouble, too. We’re not allowed just to alter or delete a file. I think it’s against the law.”
“Well, how about his boss, then?”
“Oh, his boss could do that. She’s probably allowed to take any file she wants out. She sure should be, anyway.”
“And who’s your boss’s boss, Cherry? Can you tell me who that is?”
“Well, sure. There’s nothing wrong with saying who the chain of command is, is there?”
“No, there isn’t.” He waited. Silence. “So who is your boss’s boss, Cherry?”
“Martha Peck.”
“Uh-huh. And what’s her job exactly?”
“You don’t know Martha Peck?” Cherry was astonished.
“I’m afraid not.”
“She’s the head of the FAA.”
“In Oklahoma City?”
“No. Uh-uh. She’s all the way in Washington, D.C.”
Justin let this sink in for a moment. “Someone in Washington told you to get rid of the file?”
“I never said that, did I?” Cherry sounded extremely worried. “I never said we got rid of that file!”
“No, you didn’t,” Justin reassured her. “You absolutely didn’t.” He could feel her relax. “I just have one more question, Cherry. That’s it. Then you can go back to work.”
“What is it?”
“The file you weren’t told to remove. When was that?”
“Four days ago.” He could hear her bang something, presumably with her fist. “That was a trick question!” she said. “That wasn’t fair!”
Four days ago.
Someone got rid of the pilot’s file the day before his plane crashed.
Somebody knew what was going to happen.
No. More than that. Somebody with clout knew what was going to happen.
“Thank you very much, Cherry. I appreciate all your help.”
“Damn it!” she said. “And have a nice day.”
7
Around six that evening, Justin left his third or fourth message, he couldn’t remember which, for Chuck Billings at the Fisherman Motel. Soon after that, all five members of the East End police force appeared at the station. Gary Jenkins said that they’d decided they should take Justin out for a drink. Maybe even dinner if he was free.
“Not to celebrate exactly,” Gary said. “’Cause, you know. . But to kind of celebrate.”
“I wouldn’t mind a kind of celebration,” Justin said. “But I’ll do the treating. My first official act.”
Nobody argued, and within fifteen minutes they were a block down from the police station at Duffy’s Tavern. Justin liked Duffy’s because it was the last remaining place in East End-or anywhere in the Hamptons as near as he could tell-that hadn’t gone upscale. For that matter, it seemed not to have changed at all in twenty years. It was a no-frills bar. If you wanted to eat there, you got a tuna fish sandwich wrapped in plastic and a bag of potato chips. Their wine list had two listings: red and white. But Donnie, the bartender, made sensational martinis, and he didn’t stint on the shots of liquor. Duffy’s was dark and quiet. There was often a sports event playing on the TV over the bar. There was a dartboard and some strange game where you tried to swing a piece of string with a metal loop attached to it onto a nail embedded in a wooden beam. That’s what passed for serious entertainment at Duffy’s.
By 8 P.M. that night, the place was crowded. And the entire East End police force was reasonably bombed.
They weren’t rowdy, the way they usually were. Duffy’s as a whole was subdued, had been since the bombing. The guys on the force were doing the same thing everyone else in the place was: slowly sipping beer or tequila or scotch or bourbon, talking about life and death and the present and the future, while half listening to Charles Barkley on TNT.
At some point, Mike Haversham said to Justin, “I think that guy over there knows you.”
“Of course he knows me,” Justin said. He was feeling a little wobbly. “I’m the police chief. What’s he wanna do, buy me a drink?”
“I don’t think so,” Haversham said. “He just kinda seems to like starin’ at you.”
Justin nodded, as if this made perfect sense, then shifted in his seat so he could turn around and look at his admirer. As soon as the man came into his line of sight, Justin’s posture straightened, his eyes hardened, and his lips twisted into a small but distinct smile.
“You know him?” Gary Jenkins asked.
Justin nodded. “Yes. I know him.”
“From around here?”
“No,” Justin said. “He’s from another life.”
He stared over at the man, then nodded. One firm nod. Taking his cue, the guy at the other table stood up and came over to the group of cops.
“Guys,” Justin said. “Say hello to Bruno Pecozzi.”
There was a murmuring from the five cops and an easy wave in return from the man, who was still standing.
“You’re a big motherfucker,” Thomas Fronde, the youngest, cockiest, and drunkest cop at the table, said. “What do you go, six-three?”
“Four,” Bruno Pecozzi said.
“Two-forty? Two-fifty?”
“Two-sixty-five. But I’m very sensitive about my weight, so I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention it again, please.”
There was something about the man’s tone-it wasn’t just the hoarseness of his voice, a rasping that made it seem as if someone had driven a knife into his vocal cords; it was also that he spoke so quietly you could barely hear him, and said the word “please” like it wasn’t really a request, more like an order-that made the cocky young cop sober up quickly and say, “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“Thank you,” Bruno Pecozzi said. Then, turning to Justin, “Can I buy a round?”
Justin nodded again; Bruno caught the eye of the bartender and signaled for more drinks, then pulled up a chair, and wedged his huge frame in next to Justin.
“Good to see you, Jay. I was hopin’ I’d bump into you.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” Justin asked.
“Me?” Bruno Pecozzi said. “I’m shootin’ a movie.”
“What?”
“Yeah. I’m in the fuckin’ movie business now. Can you believe it?”
Justin couldn’t believe it. But over several more rounds of drinks, Bruno explained his new job.
“Been doin’ it for almost three years now. It’s a great gig. It started with this picture, Dead to Rights. .”
“Hey, I saw that,” Gary Jenkins said.
“Yeah, it was a good little picture,” Bruno said.
“What’d you do on it?”
“I was kind of a facilitator.”
“What does that mean?” Gary asked.
“It means,” Justin said, “that Bruno knows a lot of people. He’s very well connected.”
“Your boss is a smart guy,” Bruno said. “You got it exactly right. We were shootin’ in the city, mostly down in Little Italy. The producers or the director needed to get something done, something, you know, a little out of the ordinary, they’d call on me.”