Justin looked up at Schrader and bit his lip, his expression as full of regret as he could muster. The guy wanted to throw around the bullshit, Justin could toss it with the best of them. “You’re right,” he said. “Sorry. What can I do for you?”
“Is there an office or someplace a little more private?”
Justin hesitated, then stood and led Schrader back to Jimmy Leggett’s office. He flicked the light switch and the fluorescent light flickered on for the first time since Jimmy had been killed.
The two men sat-Justin a bit uncomfortably behind Jimmy’s desk-and the FBI agent said, “I’ve been one of the men in charge of investigating the Harper’s explosion. One of the reasons I’m here is that I know Billings took you there, gave you a little look-see.” When Justin didn’t say anything, Schrader went on quickly. “I said I’m not looking to bust your balls and I’m not. I don’t know why he took you there and I don’t really care. I assume he had his reasons. What I want to know is if he might have told you something that could in any way be useful.”
Justin hesitated, then said, “He didn’t really tell me anything.”
“So can I ask why you were there?”
Justin made a show of shrugging, as if apologizing for what he was about to say. “My boss, the guy whose office we’re in, was killed in the explosion.”
“Jimmy Leggett. I know. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well, the thing is, I made a promise to his wife. She was kind of hysterical and asked me to find out why he was killed. I asked Chuck to show me the site, no reason really, just so I could tell her I saw it. I mean, there’s not much I’m going to be able to tell her-what the hell can I really do or find out? — but I at least wanted to make it look good.”
“So was it helpful?”
“No. Mostly it was just depressing as hell.”
“Did Billings give you any of his theories on what happened?”
“He tried. Not in any great depth or anything. I have to say, I wasn’t able to understand most of what he was talking about. It was a lot of technical bomb stuff, and that’s hardly my area.”
“Kind of a self-effacing guy, aren’t you?”
Justin shrugged again. “Just telling you what happened.”
“Did Chuck discuss with you anything about a notebook?”
“What kind of notebook?”
“His notes on the case. Anything he might have written down about his investigation.”
“No. I don’t think he was carrying anything when he gave me the tour. I hate to use that word, but you know what I mean.”
“He didn’t have a casebook with him?”
“No. But we weren’t really there on official business. He was just showing me the site as a favor. I wasn’t really picking his brains and he certainly wasn’t picking mine.”
It was now a little after twelve-thirty, and Justin glanced up from the desk because Stanton “Don’t call me Stan, my name’s Stanton” Carman from the East End post office was tapping his thin, nervous fingers on the doorframe. Stanton, a small, wiry guy with a thin mustache that looked like it had been penciled on, had worked in the post office for fourteen years. He liked to think he was both tough and cool, although he was far from either. In keeping with his self-image, he flirted with every single woman who mailed a letter or picked up a package, and on his lunch breaks he often stopped in at the police station to chat, annoying the hell out of everyone. He was harmless, and sometimes he’d take mail from them, saving a trip and a wait on line, so the cops all tolerated him. He always came in with a little swagger-the closer he got to the police station, the more he swaggered-and even lounging in the doorway his body language was self-important. Justin’s eyes were raised but he didn’t speak, because any opening for conversation was an invitation for Stanton to talk your head off, so the post office clerk just dropped a large manila envelope on the desk.
“Came for you this morning, Chief,” Stanton said. “You in this office now?”
Justin looked up at him. Usually they were on a first-name basis. This “Chief” thing was new. He shook his head, a silent answer to Stanton’s question, and did his best to look as if Stanton should get the hell out now.
“Looked like it might be important, so I thought I’d drop it by.”
Justin nodded again. He knew if he said a word, he’d be stuck for the next ten minutes. Maybe longer. Even with Hubbell Schrader in the room. Stanton never seemed to care if he was interrupting even the most important business conversation.
“Expecting something?” Schrader asked.
Justin wasn’t. He rarely got anything besides bills and the occasional postcard from Deena’s young daughter, Kendall, when she went away on a short trip. But without thinking he answered, “Yeah.” With a smile, as if there were something sentimental inside. “From my dad.”
“Well. . see ya,” Stanton said, and Justin waited until he was out the door before casually dropping the envelope on the desk and saying to the FBI agent, “Anything else?”
“Maybe,” Schrader said. “The plane crash a few days ago. Got anything on that?”
“I was wondering if you guys were going to get around to that. You interested?” Justin did his best to register genuine surprise.
“It hasn’t been a top priority because our info is that it was an accident. But I’m interested in anything out of the ordinary right now. And that sure as hell qualifies as out of the ordinary.”
“You know, it’s weird,” Justin said. “I don’t have a goddamn thing. Maybe you can help me out. Might be to your benefit, too. The pilot didn’t have a shred of ID on him. I managed to get a fingerprint but it doesn’t seem to be on record anywhere.” He thought about his next sentence, whether or not to toss it in, decided he’d go for it. “I even called a friend of mine in the FBI. The agent who runs the New England bureau. I know her from Providence, that’s where I’m from.”
“Chinkle or something like that, right?”
“Wanda Chinkle. Exactly.”
“She help you out?”
“Nope. Said she tried and got the same answer-nothing on record.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Schrader said. “We restricted access.”
“But you know the pilot’s identity?”
Schrader nodded.
“You gonna share it?” Justin asked.
“I don’t want to be difficult,” the agent said. “In fact, I’m under orders to try to be as cooperative as possible. But I’m also under orders not to reveal his name.”
“Why?”
“We’ve been looking into it,” Schrader said. “We don’t have any answers yet, but we’re investigating. Like I said, we’re looking at anything out of the ordinary. We got burned pretty bad on 9/11, didn’t connect a lot of the dots we should’ve connected. We can’t ignore anything that might relate to this bombing.”
“And does it?”
“It’s unlikely, but we don’t know for sure yet. That’s why we’re not releasing any information. I know it’s frustrating, but if local cops get involved, even someone as competent as you seem to be, it can only muddle things even further.”
“Thanks for the compliment,” Justin said. “That’s the first time anyone from your organization admitted I might even be competent.” He grinned easily. “So do you have a hunch? I mean, about the pilot’s connection to the bombing?”
The agent hesitated, furrowed his brow thoughtfully, then shook his head. “I think the plane crash is just a coincidence. Pilot error, accidental malfunction, something like that. Screwy. . but screwier things happen all the time.”
“That’s what I figured,” Justin said. And he did his best to furrow his own brow, before adding, “Except. . the pilot’s body disappeared.”
“Yes, we know.”
“Have a hunch about that?”
“More than a hunch,” Schrader said easily. “We’ve talked to Southampton Hospital and several other facilities within fifty miles of this place. They’ve had so many bodies, living and dead, after the explosion, they’re sure this one just got misplaced. Put in with all the others.” He shook his head at the tragedy of it all.