Drone Games (21 page)

“Neela, what is it?”

She took a deep breath. “My father was trying to rescue a young child in a burning apartment building that night. The roof collapsed. I never saw him again.”

Ross placed his arm around her and drew her close. She laid her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes to the sounds of family members in the room sobbing uncontrollably.

“I hate covering tragedies,” she said softly.

“It’s all right,” he whispered, not wanting to let go.

Griffin was naturally attractive, but it wasn’t that quality that drew Ross in. It was her sense of caring. This was a woman who felt for others. It was a quality he had always admired. He gently held her hand. She responded with an appreciative sigh.

“I’m supposed to eat,” Griffin finally spoke. “Are you hungry?”

“I am, but I don’t have a clue about the area. If you can drive, I’ll follow you. It’s got to be simple and quick and I could use something hot. Anything but fast food.”

—

TWO MILES away and open 24/7, George Webb’s was a traditional stool-and-counter restaurant and a Milwaukee landmark specializing in homemade soups and signature décor—two wall clocks synchronized down to the sweep of the second hand.

They ordered.

Griffin’s eyelids drooped slightly, and she gave out a long yawn. “You know what’s really frustrating as a local reporter? You wait for hours before anybody gives out any information. Everything’s so secretive. Then the national network teams arrive and immediately get preferential access. I heard someone already asking family members how they felt. That really bugs me.”

“That’s bad,” Ross agreed. “I’m not proud of this, but one time I got in a fight at a press conference. Some arrogant reporter from the Associated Press was badgering a woman who’d lost her son. The guy was actually demanding that she answer his questions. I grabbed the collar on his fur coat and yanked him outside.” Ross sighed. “He was a real idiot, and it was ugly. I was a lot younger then and guess I took things a little too personal.”

“He had a fur coat?”

“Yeah. Full-length rabbit or something. It really set me off.”

The waitress arrived with two steaming bowls of chicken noodle soup.

Ross reached into his jacket and tore open a small red bag.

Griffin wrinkled her nose. “Never saw anyone do that before. But I did hear that pumpkin seeds are a great source of protein.”

Ross wasn’t certain if she was being sincere or simply patronizing him and his quirky habit. He offered to share. She politely declined.

“How do you like working for Fox?”

“It’s okay, I guess. I’m sort of on probation. They think I’m a problem child. I try and make an impact, but then I also try and do what’s right. Sometimes the whole local news business drives me crazy, especially the corny coverage. Every time I suggest something, they tell me that it’s either too politically sensitive or doesn’t fit the station’s image. I hate fluff. I can’t seem to find a happy medium.”

“How long have you worked there?”

“Funny you should ask. Tomorrow’s my six-year anniversary and the official end of my three-year contract. I’m not looking forward to renegotiating. What about you? I suppose you were right in the middle of 9/11—
shoot
, I completely forgot. Excuse me.” She dialed her phone.

“Newsroom,” a youthful voice answered.

“Robby, this is Neela. Did Susan add any extra time for me tomorrow?”

“Hmmm, I didn’t see her today. I don’t think so, but let me check . . . nope, sorry. Hey, Neela? Nice job on the exclusive today.”

She thanked him and clicked off.

The elderly white-haired man standing at the cash register couldn’t stop his hand from shaking and dropped several coins. Griffin scurried after them. On her knees, she stretched under an empty booth. She returned the coins and then straightened one of the man’s suspenders. He smiled warmly.

Ross mused to himself. He contrasted the scene with Marcia cursing angrily at a disabled man with a walker who couldn’t move fast enough in a grocery aisle.

“What are you smiling at?” she asked.

“That was a very nice thing to do,” Ross replied.

“He reminded me of my grandfather. I’ve always believed that we owe the elderly. They built what we have today. Sometimes I think that we treat them like a forgotten class of citizens. When’s the last time you saw them marching for their rights?”

Ross was staring at her face again, mesmerized by the symmetry. Her eyes, nose, and mouth were perfectly balanced on her face, outlined by shimmering black hair. But his probing went beyond the physical.
Neela Griffin
. He didn’t know a thing about her, but he still felt at ease. She was genuine. She was different.
But why?
he wondered. It was crazy. He’d known her for a total of two hours. Both Marcia and Neela were interesting, intelligent, and attractive women.
Why the difference
?
One has a caring heart, and the other doesn’t
.
Could it be that simple
?

She waved her hand. “Hellooo, anybody listening?”

“Huh? Oh, I’m really sorry,” Ross apologized. “It’s been a long day. Um, the elderly. I guess I never thought about that before, but I tend to agree.”

“Are you that tired, or am I boring you?”

Ross straightened himself. “You, my friendly reporter, are definitely not boring. I’m just . . . I was . . . I’m a little nervous.”

“I make you nervous?”

Ross felt his pulse quicken and reached for his water. Three voices were screaming: one daring, one cautious, and one logical.
Go on, say it. Tell her how you feel. Tell her you like being with her.

No. She’ll think you’re weird. Weird or desperate.

You just met. Wait for a better time.

No—you don’t have any time. Just say it
.

“I wanted to tell you that I—” His cell phone started to vibrate. He glanced at the number and turned it off.

Griffin noticed the time and opened her purse. “I’m really tired too. This is compliments of Fox, agreed?”

“Are you married?” Ross blurted.

“Not anymore,” Griffin replied matter-of-factly.

“But you were?”

She pondered that. “Sort of.”

“What does that mean?”

“Who’s interviewing whom? This is my ten minutes. What about you?”

“Your time has expired. No comment.”

“No way, mister,” she said playfully. “You don’t get away that easily.”

“I don’t want to get away. What’s your cell?” Ross asked. They exchanged numbers. “Let’s continue this another time. Please?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

“Because you owe me.”

“For what?”

“A new shirt. I prefer dark-blue, collared polos with short sleeves and one pocket. How about tomorrow? We could celebrate your contract renewal?”

“I can’t. I’m just swamped,” she said. “And I’m sorry about your shirt. I think it got tossed.”

“No big deal.” Ross downplayed the obvious rejection. “Good grief, what am I thinking? I’ll be lucky to see anyone for the foreseeable future.”

Griffin produced a business card and patted his hand gently. “Thanks again. I need to go. You should too.”

Ross escorted her to the parking lot and watched her speed away. His cell phone buzzed once. It was Neela. The text message said,
Shirt size?

He smiled and turned for his van; then he stopped. The south wind carried an unmistakable smell. It was burnt jet fuel.

—

GRIFFIN DROVE west on College Avenue, north on I-94, and then merged onto westbound I-894, a bypass freeway that skirted downtown Milwaukee. At 3:00 a.m., the only other vehicle she saw was a lone county sheriff’s cruiser tucked underneath an overpass bridge at 27th Street. The deputy was pointing a radar gun. She checked her speed and then lowered the windows. Awake for twenty-one hours, she needed fresh air. She opened her cell phone and dialed the station’s tip line. She hadn’t checked it all day. There was one message—Monday, May 18, at 5:59 a.m. The caller’s voice was young, male, and distinctly foreign.

“Behold, America, Delta Flight 771. Allah has sent a devastating wind.”

GRIFFIN SLAMMED on the brakes. The Volkswagen skidded sideways for fifty feet and came to rest facing the wrong way. She floored the accelerator and sped toward the freeway entrance ramp she’d passed a few moments earlier.

The sheriff’s lights flashed on immediately.

She drove up the ramp, turned south on 27th Street, and headed east on Layton Avenue at seventy miles per hour. She ran two red lights.

A Milwaukee police squad joined the pursuit and quickly closed to within a few feet of her bumper.

The Volkswagen squealed onto South 5th Street and into the Marriott’s parking lot, screeching to a stop at the main entrance.

Griffin lost her cap as she flew through the lobby toward a man in a suit talking on a cell phone next to the restricted room blocks. He had a badge ID clipped to his belt.

“Please help me. I’m with local Fox News.”

One officer literally swept Griffin into the air and pinned her against the elevator doors. Another quickly snapped on handcuffs.

Bystanders watched with mild amusement as this obviously intoxicated female with a bandage on her head was escorted outside. They probably thought she was involved in some domestic dispute.

Griffin yelled over her shoulder. “I need Tom Ross.”

“Wait, bring her back here,” Jack Riley ordered from across the lobby, abruptly ending his phone call. The officers complied. “What did you say?”

“Please, do you know Tom Ross? It’s an emergency.”

“About what?” Riley asked suspiciously.

“Material evidence related to that plane crash. I’ll only speak to him.”

Riley conferred with the officers.

The handcuffs came off.

Riley escorted Griffin down the first-floor corridor and through a set of closed doors. The sign on a hallway stanchion said:
FBI Command Center
.

“What is this?” Walter Ford growled from across a huge table.

“She says she’s a reporter,” Riley answered.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“What time did that plane take off?” Griffin blurted.

“Get her out of here,” Ford ordered angrily. “This isn’t a press conference.”

“The
exact
time.”

Surprised by the woman’s boldness, Riley held up his hand at Ford.

“Yes, ma’am. Anything you say. The wheels left the ground at
exactly
six-oh-one. Now, what else would you like to know?”

Ross entered the room. Griffin embraced him tightly.

“Tom, what’s going on?” Riley demanded. “Do you know this woman?”

“Neela, what are you doing?” Ross whispered. “If this is about a story for your station, you can’t—”

She placed a finger to her lips and leaned across the table for the speakerphone. She dialed the tip line’s access number and turned up the volume.

The message played out.

Maintaining his demeanor, Riley put his arm on Ford’s shoulder and walked him to the far end of the room. He bent next to his ear. “Walter, I don’t want to tell you your job, but we need to contact Fox’s communication carrier right away. I’ve got a hunch. Once that’s started, I’ll give you a few minutes to inform your chain of command before I call the Secretary. This is going to boil over
very
quickly. We need to stay calm and do the right things.”

“What about her?” Ford peered at Griffin.

“She doesn’t leave this room for the foreseeable future. Agreed?”

Ford nodded once and promptly lifted a phone.

Riley approached Griffin. “Ma’am, do you know which telephone carrier operates that tip line?”

“Sprint . . . er, wait. We just switched. I think it’s AT&T now.”

After several conversations and a flurry of orders, Ford returned to his seat and positioned two telephones in the center of the table. He dialed the residence number for Rand Harrington, the acting Deputy Secretary of National Cyber Security.

After a private conversation, Ford placed Harrington on speaker.

“Rand, we’re all here. The reporter’s name is Neela Griffin. She’s with Milwaukee’s Fox news station.”

“Good morning, ma’am,” Harrington’s voice said. “This is an official investigation under the authority of the Department of Homeland Security. I need to inform you that you are not here as a suspect or person of interest but as a holder of potential significant evidentiary material related to a terror threat against the United States of America. You will not need an attorney present during this discussion because, again, you’re not a suspect. However, we do need to ask you some questions. You may, at our discretion, be detained in order to provide us with that information so determined by Homeland Security. If you do not voluntarily cooperate, you may be held under abeyance detention in accordance with the authority granted to the DHS under the Patriot Act of 2001, as amended. We may or may not record this conversation. Do you understand?”

Griffin turned to Ross. He squeezed her arm and nodded reassuringly.

“I understand.”

“Ma’am, you claim to have a voice communication message about an airline incident currently under investigation. Is that correct?”