Up Close and Dangerous (29 page)

Her hand flailed limply for a moment before she managed to pat his shoulder.

With an effort he pulled himself off her and collapsed by her side, plucking at some of the garments that had been tossed aside until he was able to drag one or two of them over their bodies.

“Don’t go to sleep,” he warned, though he sounded as if he was halfway there, himself. “We have to get this straightened…get you dressed…I have to check the fire…” His voice trailed off.

After a minute he swore, and heaved himself to a sitting position. “And if I don’t do it right now, I’ll be asleep myself.” He peeled off the condom and cleaned himself, then spent a few seconds tucking, straightening, and zipping before crawling out to see to the fire.

That was the great thing about condoms, Bailey thought drowsily: no cleanup for her. All she had to do was sleep.

A wave of frigid air washed over her and she groaned. So much for never feeling cold again. Sitting up, she managed to get her sweatpants untangled from around her leg, got them back on and pulled up, and began restoring order to the complete disarray of their covers. Cam slid back into the shelter, his broad shoulders momentarily blocking the light from the fire. He helped her get positioned, then he lay down beside her and arranged the last layer over them before collapsing on his back and pulling her close to his side.

She nestled her head on his shoulder, the fit as natural as if they’d been sleeping together for years. She felt a little dazed—no, a
lot
dazed. And relaxed. And sated. Maybe even a little sore. But most of all, she felt as if they fit together in a way that was terrifying because it was so perfect.

31

L
OGAN
T
ILLMAN,
B
AILEY’S BROTHER, SHOWED UP AT THE
J&L offices the morning of the fifth day. Bret knew who he was immediately, before he even introduced himself. It wasn’t that he and Bailey resembled each other all that much—Logan was taller, his hair darker, his eyes bluer. But there was a similarity of expression that marked them as relatives, a certain reserve. Other than that, his face was haggard with grief, as was that of the tall, freckle-faced woman beside him.

“I’m Bailey’s brother, Logan Tillman,” he said, introducing himself to Karen. “This is my wife, Peaches. I—We couldn’t stay in Denver any longer, with no contact, no news. We’d rather be here. Is there
anything
?”

Bret came out of his office to shake their hands. “No, nothing. I’m sorry.” He was as haggard as they; he’d slept only fitfully since Cam’s plane went down. Despite that, he’d begun taking flights again, because the business had to go on.

Financially he was in a tailspin, something he’d never counted on when he and Cam formed their partnership. They’d done the smart thing, insured their aircraft and themselves so the business would continue if anything happened to either of them, but they hadn’t reckoned on the insurance company’s natural inclination to hang on to money.

Even though Cam’s plane had disappeared from radar over extremely rough terrain—meaning it had crashed—because the wreckage hadn’t been found and Cam’s body recovered, as far as the insurance company was concerned he was still alive until either his remains were found or a court declared him dead. The cold reality was that Bret was short a plane and short a pilot, therefore less money was coming in. He was walking the floor at night, worrying himself sick about the debts that were coming due. He couldn’t believe they—he—had been so shortsighted. He’d have to hire another pilot, of course, but finding someone who matched his qualifications would take time.

He realized that Karen was giving him one of her narrow-eyed looks that promised retribution if he didn’t do what she wanted. He drew a weary breath. She was waiting for him to tell Bailey’s brother about the fuel discrepancy.

She was right; Logan had to know. Bret didn’t want to be the one to tell him, but he had no choice.

“Let’s go into my office,” he said heavily. “Would you like some coffee?”

Peaches shot an assessing look at her husband, as if weighing whether or not he needed a shot of caffeine. “Yes, please,” she said, taking Logan’s hand. He squeezed her hand in return and managed a ghost of a smile.

Bret led them into his office, got them seated in the two visitor’s chairs. “How do you like your coffee?”

“Cream in one, the other black,” Peaches answered. Her voice was like Tinker Bell’s, light and quick. Bret had talked a lot with Bailey when he’d piloted her, and he remembered how much she’d liked her sister-in-law. Logan seemed to be the only family she kept in touch with; he was the only one she’d ever mentioned.

Their grief was so acute it lay on them like a veil of suffering. He had to get out of there. “I’ll get the coffee,” he said quickly, and walked out to find Karen already preparing it because of course she’d been listening. She gave him a quick, piercing look, reading his expression.

“Suck it up, boss,” she said, and he gave her a wry look. So much for sympathy, but then, anyone looking for sympathy from Karen Kaminski was out of luck. He noticed that she’d been in the hair dye again; before, there had been a few striking black streaks in her red hair, but now her hair was more black than red. He wondered if this was her way of wearing mourning.

She had unearthed a small tray from somewhere and set three cups on it, some individual packs of creamer, stirrers, then poured the coffee. Silently Bret lifted the tray and carried it into his office where he placed it on his desk.

Logan leaned forward, took a cup of black coffee, and gave it to his wife. Bret watched as he added the creamer to his own coffee, and remembered that was also how Bailey had taken hers. The memory was unexpectedly sharp, unexpectedly painful. A hundred times a day he had an impulse to tell Cam something, but that wasn’t surprising considering how long they’d been friends and then partners. Though his meetings with Bailey had been casual and sporadic, he’d liked her. When she unbent, she’d been funny and sarcastic and hadn’t taken herself seriously.

Cam hadn’t liked her at all, and the feeling had been mutual. It was ironic that they’d died together, considering.

Bret grabbed his own cup and stood with his back to them, looking out the window, as he fought to bring his expression under control.

“There’s a discrepancy in the fuel records,” he finally said, his tone low and flat.

There was a pause behind him, a complete absence of sound.

“What’re you saying?” Logan asked carefully. “What kind of discrepancy?”

“The plane didn’t have enough fuel. It took on less than half what was needed to get to Salt Lake City, where they were scheduled to refuel.”

“What kind of pilot would take off without enough fuel? And why wouldn’t he just land somewhere and take on more?” Logan sounded angry, and Bret knew how he felt. He turned around and faced Bailey’s brother.

“To answer your first question,” he said slowly, “a pilot who thought he had enough because the fuel load indicator said he did. That’s also the answer to your second question.”

“Why wouldn’t he know? Are you saying the fuel gauge in your plane was wrong? How could you know that, when the wreckage hasn’t been found?”

Logan was sharp, Bret would give him that. He grasped immediately what Bret was talking about, asked all the right questions.

“The plane’s fuel tanks were almost empty when it landed the day before. But when it was refueled that morning, it took on only thirty-nine gallons, which is less than half what just one of the wing tanks would hold.”

“Then the guy doing the refueling made a mistake, but that doesn’t answer why you think the fuel gauge was defective.” Logan was getting angry; it was plain in the growing impatience in his tone.

“I haven’t said anything about the gauge being defective,” Bret said just as carefully as Logan had spoken a moment before. “I don’t think it was.”

“Then—”

“There are ways,” he continued, still cautiously picking his words, “to make a fuel tank gauge register as full when it really isn’t.”

Silence fell again. Logan and Peaches looked at each other, then his brows snapped together and he said, “When we spoke on the phone, I told you what Tamzin had said and you blew it off. Are you saying now that sabotage
is
likely?”

“I don’t know. Until the crash site is found, everything’s conjecture.” Tiredly he rubbed his forehead. “But nothing else makes sense. Cam was the most careful pilot I’ve ever met. He checked and he double-checked; he didn’t take anything for granted when it came to flying. There’s no way he
wouldn’t
have noticed a fuel gauge that showed the tanks were almost empty.”

“How hard would that be, to tamper with a gauge?”

“It isn’t hard at all,” Bret admitted. “And it isn’t the gauge that’s tampered with, it’s the fuel tanks themselves. They’re made to look full when they aren’t.”

“You’ve told the authorities about this?” Logan barked. “And about what Tamzin said?”

Bret nodded. “Without evidence, without finding the wreckage, there’s nothing that can be done.”

“Surely to God there are security tapes. This is an airport, for crying out loud!”

“A very small airport, with no commercial flights. But yes, there are security tapes.”

“And?”

“And the security firm won’t release them without a court order. The NTSB investigator, MaGuire, is pressing for one, but it hasn’t come through yet.”

“Why in hell won’t they cooperate?” Pale and agitated, Logan shoved himself to his feet and paced around the room.

“Fear of a lawsuit, probably. Could just be their policy, and some people cling to policy like they can’t operate without it.”

“But the cops haven’t picked up Seth Wingate for questioning? After what Tamzin said?”

“Did anyone else hear Tamzin say that to you?” Bret asked pointedly. “Seriously, she’s not known for her stability. And Seth
is
a Wingate; he hasn’t done anything with his life, but he’s still a Wingate, and that name carries a lot of weight.”

“Bailey had the name, too,” Logan said thickly, and turned his back to hide his emotion. Tears glittering in her eyes, Peaches got up and went to him, resting her head against his back. Just that, but he calmed, turning to put his arm around her.

Bret didn’t say anything, didn’t explain that Bailey hadn’t been the most popular person around. The social circles in which the Wingates moved had pretty much shunned her after her husband died. They’d seen her as having taken advantage of a sick, middle-aged man who had lost his wife and, fairly close on the heels of that, discovered he was himself dying. After he was gone, Bailey had remained, living in the house that by rights should have belonged to his children and controlling the vast Wingate fortune. But he wasn’t going to say any of that to her grieving brother.

“So there’s nothing to be done.”

“Not right now. When the wreckage is found, if there’s evidence of sabotage, then it’s a different situation.”

“
If
the wreckage is found.”

“It will be,” Bret said with confidence. “Eventually.”

Eventually. That was the bitch. “Eventually” could mean in two days, or two years, or in the next century. Until then, it was possible someone was getting away with murder.

“I
CAN’T STAND
it,” Logan said that night as he paced around their hotel room. He’d been doing a lot of pacing since getting the news that the plane Bailey was on had disappeared. “The fuel record itself should be enough to convince some judge that something was going on.”

Peaches lay curled on the bed, her skin pale beneath her freckles. Neither of them had slept or eaten very much in the past few days. Not knowing was the worst. And yet they did know, at least, that Bailey was dead. It seemed particularly cruel to accept that, and not be able to find her body. She should have a burial, she should have the ceremony that marked the end of her life. Peaches resolutely didn’t allow herself to think of what happened to bodies in the wilderness, but she knew Logan had, and it was eating at him.

The knock on their hotel door startled both of them, because they hadn’t ordered room service, preferring to find somewhere cheaper to eat. After spending so much on their canceled vacation, of which they would get only a partial refund, then having to stay in a hotel or motel for the past several days, they were becoming a little worried about their money.

“It’s probably Larsen,” Logan said, which was logical, since Bret knew where they were staying. It was anyone’s guess why he’d come up to the room instead of calling if he wanted to talk to them again.

He opened the door, and froze. Picking up on his body language, Peaches got off the bed and went to stand beside him, staring in puzzlement at the tall, dark-haired man who stood there. She didn’t recognize him, but a prickle of unease let her take an educated guess.

“What the hell do you want?” Logan asked with so much hostility that she started. “How did you know where to find us?”

“To talk. And finding you was easy. I asked. You called home and told people where they could find you. All I had to do was say I’d lost your cell phone number, and that I had news about the crash.”

“I don’t have anything to talk to you about.” He started to close the door but Seth Wingate put out his hand and blocked it. He was a powerfully built man, with a face that could have been good-looking if there had been anything in his expression other than a complete weariness of soul.

“Then just listen,” he said coldly. “I didn’t have anything to do with that plane crash.”

“Somebody did,” Logan said, his jaw setting and his eyes going flinty. “Your own sister was crowing about how dangerous it is to cross you, that Bailey got what she deserved.”

“My sister,” said Seth very deliberately, “is a cold-blooded bitch who may well be setting me up to take the fall.”

Logan wanted to punch him in the face, but held back. Peaches was there beside him, and though he didn’t mind a fight he would never willingly risk that she might get hurt. “Your sibling loyalty is really touching,” he sneered.