Part 26 (1/2)
”What happened?” she said.
Every now and then, Jo would experience a moment when she managed to stand outside herself and see a situation from an un.o.bstructed vantage point.
This was one of those moments. She saw herself, shocked and concerned and inherently nosy. She saw Gabe, hot and d.a.m.ned annoyed. The look in his eyes said, Not now, for G.o.d's sake.
She blinked. ”Sorry.”
She grabbed him by the waistband of his jeans and hauled him back down on top of her. He looked at her, half... what? Angry? For being interrupted? For being distracted? For being reminded?
Pain had risen in his eyes, a heat like a burning cigarette, red and concentrated. He wasn't kissing her. He was lying on top of her, breathing hard.
Waiting, perhaps, to see if she would keep picking at the wound. She shook her head. She put her fingers to her own lips, indicating that she was going to keep her mouth shut. Then she touched his lips in return, smoothed her thumb across his mouth, and said, ”Come here.”
He held back for half a beat.
It was long enough for the phone to ring.
Jo didn't break from his gaze, didn't look at the phone, didn't reach to answer it. It rang.
”They'll call back,” she said.
As though a warm breeze had crossed the room, his gaze cleared. He lowered himself against her again and kissed her. The phone kept ringing. She took the condom package from him and ripped the foil wide open.
The phone clicked to voice mail. Clear and loud from downstairs in the hallway, Amy Tang's voice cut through the sound of their breathing.
”Beckett, you're there. I know you are, so pick up.”
Jo ignored her.
”You called me fifteen minutes ago. I'm calling back at your request.” Loudly: ”Beckett.”
Gabe glanced out the bedroom door, as though Tang was in the house, about to come upon them in flagrante delicto. Jo turned his head back.
”She'll still be stewing in-”
”Three minutes?” he said.
She broke into a ridiculous smile. ”Race you to the finish?”
Finally he smiled back. ”Go.”
They grabbed at the remaining articles of each other's clothing, trying to pull them off.
”Beckett,” Tang said. ”Pick up. A flight made an emergency landing at SFO today. One of the flight attendants opened a door at ten thousand feet.”
Jo and Gabe stopped simultaneously, hands on hooks and b.u.t.tons. They looked in the direction of the answering machine.
”It was the young woman you spoke to when you boarded Ian Kanan's flight-Stef Nivesen. She was sucked straight out the door,” Tang said. ”Beckett, people who were on Kanan's flight are going crazy.”
Jo was already running to pick up the call.
The sporting goods store had a CLOSED sign on the door. From the Navigator Kanan could see Nico Diaz inside, shutting down for the night. Kanan drove up the street, found a parking spot in the next block, and walked back.
When he knocked on the door, Diaz looked up agreeably. He saw Kanan and stilled.
Nikita Diaz was a second-generation Venezuelan immigrant with a love for baseball, women, and the USA. He stood five foot seven and wore dreadlocks in a ponytail long enough to serve as a kite tail. Tie a string around him, Kanan thought, wait for a stiff wind, and watch him set sail for the sky. And every inch of the man was sinew and muscle. He was fast-twitch, dead quiet, perfect aim. His eyes locked on Kanan for two full seconds. He shut the cash register, pocketed the key, and strolled to the door.
When he opened it, his face was impa.s.sive but his gaze was bright. His gaze, Kanan thought, was eager.
”Sarge,” he said. ”What brings you here?”
”I need your help,” Kanan said.
The eagerness distilled. Diaz pulled the door open. ”Let's talk in the back.”
”Two fatalities,” Tang said. ”It could have been much worse. There were two hundred forty-seven people aboard.”
Jo stood in the front hall, phone to her ear, trying to zip her jeans with one hand. She had one arm in the sleeve of a blouse. A bra strap was hanging off her shoulder. Gabe jogged barefoot down the stairs. His belt clinked as he buckled it. Beyond him in the living room, the television was still on. The screen flashed bright. BREAKING NEWS.
On-screen Jo saw a 747 sitting on the runway at San Francisco airport, surrounded by fire trucks. The front and back cabin doors were open. So was a door along the middle of the fuselage. Emergency slides were deployed like huge yellow tongues. Gabe got the remote and turned up the sound.
Jo pulled up her bra strap. ”No chance it was an accident?”
”No. Another flight attendant watched Nivesen stand and open one of the main doors, almost two miles up. Then, whoosh-straight out into the sky without a parachute.”
The thought made Jo queasy. She tucked her hair behind her ear. ”Have the police talked to the pa.s.sengers and crew?”
”SFPD Airport Division is interviewing people. NTSB has a go team on the way.”
”Did Nivesen say anything before she opened the door?”
”Haven't heard.”
”What do you know about her? Drug or alcohol problems? History of psychiatric disorder?”
”You're doing a psychological autopsy on her in your own head. We don't know squat-except she did it deliberately.”
A thin drip of worry, like a chilled trickle of water, scored its way down Jo's back. ”After the pool electrocution, now-”
”First, French fried game designers. Now stewardesses turning themselves into sky-high confetti.”
”You need to contact everybody who was aboard Kanan's flight from London.”