"Women's intuition."
He studied me some more, then finally shrugged. He sat forward again and rested his small hands loosely on the table in front of him.
"My wife was killed about a month ago."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"So am I," he said.
He told me about it. She had died in a local plane crash. She, and nine others. The plane had flown into the side of the San Bernardino Mountains not too far from here. No survivors. I recalled reading about it on the internet, but the story had not been followed up on in the news, and I had no idea why the plane crashed or where the investigators were in their investigation. It had been a big story that turned quickly into a non-story. I smelled a cover-up.
I don't think I had ever known anyone who had lost someone in a plane crash. I recalled Stuart's words from a few minutes earlier: She was killed. Not: She was in an accident.
"I'm sorry," I said again when he was finished.
He nodded. Talking about his wife dying in a plane crash had sombered him. Had I known him a little better, I would have reached out and took his hand. As it was, all I could offer were some sympathetic noises and the occasional sorry. Both seemed inadequate.
We were silent for a few more seconds and when the time seemed appropriate, I said, "You don't think the crash was an accident."
"No."
"You think someone killed her."
"I know someone killed her. She was murdered. And so was everyone else on board."
* * *
An elderly couple sat next to us with their books of crossword and sudoku puzzles. Both sipped quietly from tall cups of coffee. In Starbucks speak, tall cups were, of course, small cups.