“How about a list of what they took from her?” Bree asked.

  The clerk brightened. “That I can do. Here it is: ‘White blouse, bra, panties, denim jeans, hotel key card, large diamond engagement ring.’”

  “That’s it?” Bree asked.

  “All she wrote.”

  Elena clapped her hands, threw back her head, and laughed. “It’s not her.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Leigh Anne, Maggie—whatever you want to call her—hated jeans because they made her butt look big. Rolf never gave her an engagement ring, and my bestie was most definitely not engaged.”

  Chapter

  33

  Although Bree thought it was possible that Elena Martin was right, that the woman who’d been in seat 2A on the downed jet was not Leigh Anne Asher, she wasn’t completely convinced.

  Martin had work to do at the office, and Bree wanted to learn the unknown woman’s identity so she could put the Maggie Fontaine inquiry behind her and start looking for Leigh Anne Asher somewhere else. The two women parted ways, and Bree went to a coffee shop and made a list of questions on a notepad:

  -Does TSA have a digital image of Maggie Fontaine’s ID?

  -Where is the FBI keeping other logged evidence from the wreckage?

  -Was Fontaine’s ID among the luggage retrieved from forward fuselage?

  -Are there images of her body in situ?

  Bree was a civilian now; she no longer had the authority to get information about the investigation. But she knew Ned Mahoney and Alex could answer her questions.

  She checked her watch. Alex was probably still working on the Dead Hours investigation, and she did not want to interfere. She’d wait until he was back on the FBI side of things and ask him discreetly to see what he could find out.

  Bree got back in her car and was heading across the Fourteenth Street Bridge into DC when her cell phone rang. Jannie’s name came up on the dashboard caller ID.

  “Hi, Jannie.”

  “Hi, Bree. Is this an okay time?”

  Bree heard worry in her stepdaughter’s voice and said, “I’m all ears. What’s going on?”

  “Remember I went to that national development camp after I chose Howard?”

  “After tying the national high-school record in the four hundred—yes, I think I remember that.”

  Ordinarily, that would have provoked a laugh and an I still can’t believe it! from Jannie. But her voice was serious when she said, “I made some friends at that camp. Some good friends, Bree.”

  Bree frowned, trying to figure out where this was going. “I imagine you did.”

  “Okay, so I just got off the phone with one of them, and she says—” Jannie stopped.

  “Jannie?”

  “She’s going to call me back. Would you meet with her if she agrees? It’s bad, Bree. What’s happening to her.”

  “Of course I’ll meet her,” Bree said. “What’s going on?”

  “She’s calling.” Jannie hung up.

  Bree’s head spun. What had Jannie gotten herself involved in?

  She was almost to the house on Fifth Street when her phone buzzed. She pulled over and checked the text: She wants to talk but she’s afraid. She doesn’t know what to do.

  Bree texted back: Tell her bad things and bad people wither and die when you shine a light on them. Tell her I’ll help her if I can.

  She got back on the road, reached home a minute later, and found a parking spot at the far end of the block. She was starting to parallel-park when her phone buzzed a third time: She’ll meet us. Franklin Park, SE corner, Fourteenth and I, in three hours.

  Chapter

  34

  Largely on Sampson’s instincts, we’d made headway on the Dead Hours killings. He decided to run the names of the victims through the FBI’s criminal databases and came up with three cases that had been sealed and expunged because the perpetrators were juveniles.

  What are the odds of that? Five men have been killed so far and three of them had criminal histories lurking in their deep past?

  Bart Masters, the dead NASA engineer, had gotten into trouble in Las Vegas when he was in his early teens. Trey O’Dell, the high-school teacher, was roughly the same age when he’d had a brush with the law in Mississippi. Theo Leaver, the second to die, had been in the Kentucky juvenile criminal justice system.

  As an adult, Leaver had worked early hours for a regional baking company, driving a delivery van and stocking shelves in grocery and convenience stores in the greater DC area. He had been found in the back of his vehicle, covered with a sheet, gunshot wounds to both eyes.

  When we left the Charles School after talking to the captain, we called Eileen O’Dell, the teacher’s wife and the woman we had been interviewing when the jet was shot down. She sounded genuinely surprised to learn that her husband had been a juvenile offender.

  “No, he never mentioned that, Dr. Cross. Not once. Are you sure?”

  “The particulars have all been scrubbed, but we’re sure,” I said.

  “I have no idea what it was about,” she said. “I can ask his parents.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “You’ll let us know?”

  “Of course,” she said. “It might be later in the day before I find out. Is this important?”

  “It’s a long shot,” I said. “But let us know.”

  While John drove us to the FBI command center in Arlington, I called Detective Hanson with the Maryland State Police and told her what we’d learned about Bart Masters, the NASA engineer. She was shocked because she’d checked his NASA security-clearance records and he’d come back squeaky clean.

  “No mention of a juvenile record,” she told us on speaker. “I would have seen that. Know anyone in Las Vegas PD?”

  “I don’t,” I said.

  Sampson smiled. “I do. Detective I met at a conference a couple of years back. She’s solid. I’ll give her a call, see what she can find out.”

  John put in a call to the Las Vegas detective, got her voice mail, and left her a message, while I tried to talk to someone in the juvenile court in Louisville, Kentucky. I was told the office was swamped now but someone would get back to me as soon as possible.

  We arrived at the FBI command center in the big tent on the soccer field in Arlington and heard and saw a jet come in for a landing over the Fourteenth Street Bridge and Gravelly Point Park, following the same flight path as AA 839. Reagan National was open again, although under heavy guard. Gravelly Point Park remained closed. Virginia state troopers were blocking the vehicle entrance and stopping people on the bike paths.

  We found Agent Ned Mahoney wolfing down a sandwich at his makeshift desk amid a whirlwind of activity; there were more than fifty agents in the tent. He saw us, gave us a thumbs-up, swallowed hard, and said, “Just the guys I wanted to see.”

  Mahoney said that since the shootdown, he had been in close contact with the American Airlines chief of security at the company’s headquarters in Dallas; he’d gotten information on present and past employees, especially those who had been fired and might harbor animosity toward the airline.

  “We weren’t getting anywhere until he thought to look at the washouts,” Mahoney said. “People who didn’t make the cut during their probationary periods.”

  “What did you find?” Sampson asked.

  “Not what—who.”

  “Okay, who did you find among the washouts?”

  “Marion ‘Captain’ Davis. Turns out the coach has a few skeletons in his closet.”

  Chapter

  35

  Bree called Ned Mahoney as he was driving me and Sampson to Davis’s house in Falls Church. We were hoping Captain Davis would go straight home after he finished coaching.

  Ned put her on speaker.

  “I’m trying to confirm the identity of one of the victims on the downed jet,” she said. “Maggie Fontaine in seat two A. I’m looking for TSA records of the identification she used to board the plane, in situ photos, anything found in the forward fuselage that shows her picture. That can happen, right?”

  Mahoney said, “It can. Who is Maggie Fontaine?”

  “She seems to be two people, or someone who’s trying to be two people,” Bree said, and she explained about the disappearance of Leigh Anne Asher.

  “We’ll try to help you nail her down,” Mahoney said, and they hung up.

  Captain Davis had just pulled his Mercedes into his driveway in Falls Church when we got there. Ned parked our vehicle across the mouth of the drive.

  Davis got out of his car in his coaching gear, and he looked angry when he saw John and me. “What is this?” he demanded. “I thought I answered all your questions.”

  “You answered their questions,” Mahoney said, showing him his FBI badge. “I’ve got a few of my own.”

  The coach looked at his watch. “Can’t this wait?”

  “Would you rather do this here or at FBI headquarters?” I asked.

  Captain Davis sighed. “Here. But will you move your car so it’s not blocking my driveway? I’ve got a staff meeting in the field house in an hour.”

  “I’ll do it,” Sampson said, taking the keys from Ned.

  The coach rested his butt against the trunk of his car, crossed his arms, and looked at Mahoney like he wished they were playing full contact. “Ask.”

  Mahoney said, “Why didn’t you tell Dr. Cross and Detective Sampson that you were once an American Airlines employee?”

  He laughed caustically. “Because there’s nothing to tell. I lasted twelve days. It just wasn’t meant to be. My life as a pilot was done, and it was time to coach.”

  “American says you were a brilliant pilot with a troubled past who showed up to training with alcohol on your breath multiple times in those twelve days.”

  Captain Davis took a deep breath and let it out. “I have had a problem with booze and drugs. I’m not proud of it. I still struggle with it because of things I saw overseas.”

  “Cost you a lot,” said Sampson, who’d returned from moving the car.

  “More than you know.”

  I said, “Your girlfriend?”

  The anger rose up in him again. He glared at me. “That was an ex-girlfriend. A long-ago ex-girlfriend.”

  “Antonia Mays.”

  He nodded reluctantly.

  “And she had a daughter, Jenna,” Mahoney said.

  “You gonna drag them into this?” he said, shaking his head in disgust.

  “If we have to,” I said. “We can understand you wanting to keep it quiet.”

  “Look, I had nothing to do with that. Nothing. I started dating Antonia when I played for the Ravens. She hated that I quit the NFL. We had an on-again, off-again relationship for a while, and she was dating someone else when she got pregnant with Jenna. So Jenna wasn’t mine, but she was a great kid, and when me and Antonia were done for good, I kept taking care of Jenna. I sent Antonia money every month for her. But Antonia, man, she just had a darkness in her soul.”

  “Did she support you when you came back from overseas?” Sampson asked.

  “Ah, no. She told me I should have stayed in the NFL, made some real money. She hated me, blamed me for everything wrong in her life. Right to the end.”

  I said, “How long after you were dropped from the American Airlines pilot program did she…”

  “Four days. I’d gone down to Galveston to drink to the end of my pilot career with a couple of old buds.”

  “How’d you hear?”

  “Antonia’s sister, Lucille, called me,” he said. “Told me what she’d done.” Davis stared off into the middle distance and shook his head. “It was just shock and disbelief at first. Then it hit me that it was real.” He looked at us. “I went to my knees and bawled my eyes out for that poor little girl. I was just gutted.”

  “But eventually you got angry,” Mahoney said.

  “Oh, angry enough to tear heads off. And sad enough to blow my own head off. I mean, what kind of woman shoots her seven-year-old daughter in her sleep and then turns the gun on herself?”

  I said, “A disturbed one. Was she angry about you getting dumped by American?”

  “Of course. Antonia looked for reasons to be angry,” Davis said. “About everything. So, sure. It pissed her off. But you know what? The job wasn’t going to change my life or hers financially. I made quite a bit of money in the NFL, and I invested it all before I went overseas. I didn’t need the job to help take care of Jenna is what I’m saying.”

  His explanation felt real. The sorrow in his face seemed heartfelt. I think Sampson saw that too, but Mahoney wanted to be sure.

  “Mr. Davis,” he said. “Captain, I’m trying to believe you here, but do you understand the importance of this investigation?”

  “I may have had my bell rung a few times, but I’m not suffering from dementia.”

  “We want to eliminate you as a suspect once and for all. Will you let us search your house or do I need a warrant?”

  Davis thought about it, then said, “Go ahead. I got nothing to hide. I’ve got a coaching staff meeting to get to. You find something, you know where I’ll be.”

  Chapter

  36

  Bree Stone walked through Franklin Park toward the corner of Fourteenth Street and I. It was chilly, and a blustery wind shook the leaves that were turning color all around her.

  Jannie was already at the corner, sitting on a park bench wearing running shorts and a light jacket on which was printed HOWARD UNIVERSITY TRACK. She was sipping a mocha latte that had come from the Compass Coffee across the street. She had two more coffees in a cardboard tray, and she smiled when she saw Bree.

  “For you,” Jannie said, holding out one of the coffees. “Figured we could all use a warm-up. It’s just the way you like it.”

  Bree took the coffee, tasted it, and smacked her lips. “Perfecto.”

  “Good,” Jannie said.

  “How’s the life of a college freshman?”

  Her stepdaughter shrugged. “Not as much fun as it should be. But I am learning a lot, and I’ve made friends with kids on the team.”

  “And you get to sleep and do your laundry at home,” Bree said.

  “That too,” Jannie said, glancing at her watch.

  “Who’s the third coffee for?” Bree asked.

  Jannie hesitated. “I think she kind of wanted to talk to you anonymously at first. Get your advice on what she should do.”

  “Fair enough,” Bree said and sat next to her stepdaughter. “Picked a major yet?”

  “I like understanding how the body works at peak performance,” she said. “Physiology, you know? I could see myself coaching or becoming a physical therapist.”

  “I could see that too. Any guys in your world?”

  Jannie shrugged and smiled. “Maybe.”

  Bree smiled back. “Maybe?”

  “Maybe,” Jannie said and laughed. “I’ll let you know.”

  “I should hope so,” Bree said.

  They chatted about the AA 839 investigation and how it was likely to consume Alex’s life for some time to come. Bree told her she was trying to determine if one of the passengers on the flight was a woman who’d gone missing the week before.

  Another ten minutes passed.

  “Maybe I should text her,” Jannie said. “She’s usually right on time.”

  “Do that.”

  Jannie thumbed a text and hit Send. They waited.

  “Did she say she was driving straight in from school?” Bree asked.

  “No, she came down from Paxson yesterday and rented an Airbnb near George Mason. She said she was going for a light run in some park near where she’s staying, then she would take a shower and come straight over. She should be here by now.”

  “Call,” Bree said.

  Nodding, Jannie hit Call and put her phone to her ear. Bree could make out a woman’s muffled voice and then a beep.

  “Hey, it’s Jannie. My stepmom is with me and we’re waiting. Call me.”

  Jannie tried twice more in the following fifteen minutes and texted three times. None of the calls or texts were returned. Then she began reaching out to mutual friends. In the next twenty minutes, she spoke to seven different people, and they all said they had not seen or heard from Jannie’s friend, although they’d tried to reach her by text and phone.

  “This isn’t like her,” Jannie said. “I mean, really not like her. She’s—”

  “Give me her name,” Bree said impatiently. “And I think it’s time you tell me what’s happening to her and why she wants to talk to me.”

  Chapter

  37

  Captain Davis had unlocked the front door of his house and sped off in his Mercedes.

  “What’s his play?” Mahoney said. “Letting us go through the house because he’s got his toys and stuff stashed elsewhere?”

  “Or maybe he has nothing to hide,” I said. “Think about it. Where does he get the wherewithal to build a remote-controlled machine gun?”

  “Maybe he’s got an accomplice who built the gun,” Sampson said.

  “And the bomb,” Mahoney said.

  “Still, it’s a bold move if he invites us to search his house,” I said.

  We put on disposable booties, gloves, and caps, entered the grand foyer, and took in the sweeping spiral staircase with a tiger maple banister and dark green granite floor. The high-end finishes carried on throughout the house, with restaurant-grade appliances in the kitchen and tile and stone in every bathroom.

  There were four bedrooms, three up and one down that Davis used as an office. That one was organized with military precision and featured little that spoke to the coach’s past in the NFL or the air force. Indeed, most of the shelves were empty, and the files in the desk were all from recent months.