Page 85 of Identity Unknown
We near the Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport, the first drops of rain spitting as Lucy lands on the ramp we took off from yesterday. I retrieve my rain slicker from my jump-outbag, putting it on as she cuts the throttles to flight idle. Tron and I climb out, the blades thudding, the rotor wash whipping.
We hurry across asphalt speckled by raindrops, and I hear the pitch of the engines winding up as Lucy rolls open the throttles all the way. I wave as she lifts into a hover, making a pedal turn. For an instant we’re eye to eye, and she nods. At the hold line she waits for the tower to clear her. I watch as she noses forward, taking off, sharply turning away from the airport, the helicopter’s lights strobing.
“It’s a bit chaotic inside.” Tron presses an intercom button next to the door leading into the terminal. “As you’re about to see, we’ve got agents searching Briley Flight Services. And I’m going to need you to tag team with me.”
Employees are being questioned about any manner of things pertaining to Ryder and Piper Briley, she says. That includes Dana Diletti’s ill-fated flight this morning. The expectation is that her pilot’s incapacitation and fatal crash weren’t accidental.
“The goal is to interview employees before they completely clam up,” Tron explains as we wait for someone to open the door. “And to continue talking to them until they can’t keep their lies straight.” Peering through the glass, she knocks on it, ringing the bell again.
“Fear,” I reply. “That’s why they’re loyal.”
“I guess they’ll get to pick what scares them most,” she says. “Their disgraced employers who are chilling in the city jail right now? Or us?”
CHAPTER 31
We’re buzzed inside by the same older woman who was sitting behind the desk yesterday when we were here. Her laptop is gone, her face resentful as Secret Service agents search the lobby and offices. I can feel her anger while investigators pack up computers and bottles of vitamin water.
“How are you doing?” Tron asks her as if this day is like any other.
“What do you expect?” She looks us up and down, taking in our windblown hair, our bike shorts and boots. “It’s not fun being invaded.” She stares at the investigators working.
“I’m sure not,” Tron says pleasantly, a strap of her backpack slung over a shoulder. “Were you working early this morning when Dana Diletti flew out of here?”
“I’ve already talked to them.” The woman continues staring at the investigators as if they’re the enemy.
“And now you get to talk to us.” Tron smiles patiently, treating me like her partner.
“It would appear I have no choice.” She picks up a scrunchie and begins tying back her long dyed blond hair.
Every time I’ve seen her working the desk at Briley FlightServices, she has on a skirt suit, this one navy blue with brass buttons, her figure matronly, her fingernails painted the same pink as bougainvillea.
“I’ve seen you in here before but we haven’t been introduced,” Tron is saying to her. “I’m with the Secret Service. Special Agent Sierra Patron, but everyone calls me Tron. This is Doctor Scarpetta who works with us. And what’s your name?”
“I already gave them all my information,” the woman replies icily.
“As you’ve mentioned, and it’s much appreciated. What’s your name?” she tries again, still smiling.
“Wilma Gaither.”
“Wilma, where do you live?”
“Pentagon City and they already know all this.” She stares at the investigators, a glint of hatred in her smoky made-up eyes.
“Were you here when Dana Diletti and her crew took off in their helicopter for Berkeley Plantation?” Tron asks.
“I work eight to five Monday through Friday,” Wilma recites. “Sometimes I work additional hours if we’re shorthanded. Whatever my employers need, that’s what I do.”
“Then you were working the desk when Dana Diletti and three of her crew were here this morning with their pilot Bret Jones,” Tron says.
“I wasn’t watching them every minute.” Wilma is getting flustered. “It was busy, and I had other aircraft to deal with. I do my best not to bother so-called celebrities. Especially ones who obviously want everyone to notice them.”
“I would imagine you talked to Bret Jones,” Tron continues.
“Of course.” Wilma sits stiffly at her desk, her hands clasped in her lap. “But for the most part he was in the pilots’ lounge, on his phone and checking the weather. Then when Dana Diletti arrived, they left.”
“Did anything strike you as unusual about her pilot’s demeanor early this morning?” I ask.
“He wasn’t happy about getting called at the last minute.” Wilma eyes me suspiciously. “Other than that, there was nothing noteworthy.”