The lead officer looked at the stamp, then leaned close enough to read the thermal line. "Who is Stevens?"
"My operations director," I said, rising unhurriedly to my feet so neither officer would take it as a threat. I stood in the aisle, my head nearly touching the overhead bins, a full head taller than Miller. "And the man who told the federal board that Sam was working alone without safety harnesses because he was careless. But Stevens couldn't clear Tail 814 for tonight’s storm on his own signature, because the FAA suspended his personal maintenance license six months ago after an audit in Detroit. He needed an active master stamp on the sheet to clear the automated dispatch lock at the gate. So he broke the seal on Sam's estate locker, pulled my dead brother’s brass die out of the evidence box, and stamped this release himself."
"That is an unsubstantiated accusation," Miller snapped, his knuckles whitening on the board's metal clip. "You have no proof of where this paperwork originated."
I reached into the inner breast pocket of my work coat. The second officer’s hand dropped toward his holster, but I pulled out only a heavy, clear plastic evidence pouch containing a single brass key tagged with yellow terminal maintenance tape.
"This is the master key to the Hangar 4 tool crib," I said, holding it out where both the officers and the passengers in the front rows could see the stamped serial numbers. "Sam had the only duplicate. When I went down to the line shack at five o'clock to inspect the cracked bleed valve on engine two, the lock on Sam's locker wasn't cut. It had been opened with the director’s electronic passkey at four-fourteen this afternoon. The log on the card reader records every badge swipe. Stevens forgot that the line shack card readers were upgraded to digital cache last month."
Miller took half a step backward, his back hitting the cockpit doorframe. The confidence that had carried him out into the cabin had vanished, replaced by the hollow, trapped look of a man who realized he had taken an illegal shortcut for an executive who wouldn't be sitting in the hot seat when the federal marshals arrived.
"Miller," the lead officer said, stepping between the captain and the cockpit controls. "Step out into the jetway. Both of you."
"I have an operating schedule—" Miller began.
"You have a forged federal dispatch release on an active commercial aircraft," the officer said, his voice hard enough to settle every conversation in the first four rows. "Nobody is pushing back from this gate. Partner, notify airport dispatch to roll Port Authority supervisors and the on-call FAA duty officer to Gate B12 immediately. Tail 814 is held on the blocks."
Miller looked at me once more, his teeth clenched so tight the tendons stood out along his jaw like wire rope. He turned and walked down the short carpeted aisle toward the jet bridge, his shoulders hunched beneath his winter coat.
I didn't smile, and I didn't sit back down. I reached out, took my canvas coat from the hook beside Seat 2A, and stepped into the aisle behind the officers. The passengers were silent now, their phones down, watching the flight crew file out into the cold yellow light of the terminal tunnel. The bird wasn't flying tonight. But as my boots hit the ridged steel floor of the jet bridge, I knew this wasn't the end of the fight. Stevens was still upstairs in the executive suite, holding the master computer logs, and he had thirty minutes before the federal inspectors reached the airfield to wipe the local server clean.
CHAPTER 2 CONTINUED
Miller exhaled, a quick, ragged breath that sounded almost like relief.
"They’re pulling the plane," I said, stepping past Miller until I was level with the lead officer. His brass nameplate read Kowalski. "Stevens isn't trying to save a departure window anymore. He’s moving the crime scene."
Kowalski frowned, his thumb hovering over his mic clip. "Dispatcher says Hangar Two is the certified repair bay. If there’s an investigation, the bird has to clear the active taxiway."
"Hangar Two is where Stevens keeps his overnight crew," I said. "If that bird crosses the ramp line, his mechanics drop the cowl, unbolt the cracked bleed valve, and swap it with salvage scrap before the FAA duty officer finishes his coffee. By morning, the company log will say I staged a false alarm to avenge an administrative suspension."
Miller turned, his collar crooked where his tie had loosened. "That is unverified slander, Kowalski. The man is suspended. He has no authority on the ramp. The tug driver carries a signed order from the director of maintenance. You cannot obstruct an airframe repositioning."