a sly device Tomlinson employs to gain the advantage. He pretends to be patient, empathetic, and eager to understand—which is maddening. He used the finesse now. “I won’t bust you by mentioning ownership to Hannah . . . it was just a slip of the tongue, I’m sure. As good as forgotten, so, you know—like, float on, man!”
Float on, his new favorite phrase to wish people well or to avoid responsibility, often both. So I warned him, “You’re going to be floating faceup if I hear that again before this is settled.”
“Whoa,” he said, “you got to get off the violence train, ol’ buddy.” But then saw the look on my face, so conceded, “On the other hand, you do make a decent point about the shittyness of using another man’s bed—”
“Decent?”
Tomlinson put his hands up, palms out, and began to back away. “Hermano—have you forgotten what a putz I am? I can’t even keep track of my own schedule, let alone yours. Or Hannah’s! Besides, I’m too shaken up to think right now . . . Plus, that night’s all a little too foggy—”
“Don’t give me that ‘I was drunk’ crap,” I snapped. “I’ve warned you for the last time, pal. You ever try to seduce another woman I’m dating, a plane crash will be a blessing compared to—”
Which is when Dan Futch silenced us both by saying, “Knock it off, you two! I’ve got some news, if you’re interested: Someone’s trying to kill us.”
4
TOMLINSON ASKED DAN, “WHO’D WANT TO KILL A sweet guy like you, Danny boy?”
Futch was glaring at my hipster pal. “That’s exactly what I’m wondering. I’ve known Doc a long time, but all I know about you are stories. Lots and lots of stories, and most of them not exactly PG-rated. So maybe you already know the answer.”
I brushed past Tomlinson and was soon peering into the seaplane’s aft inspection port, seeing springs, a simple pulley system—the elevator bell crank—and several cables that branched toward the tail fin, trim tabs, and the elevator. The cables were secured to the main pulley, all except one. That cable lay curled on the deck, its crimped eye loop intact, but the line had pulled free for some reason.
“See how they did it?” Dan asked.
I wasn’t sure. “Why would someone sabotage your plane?”
“Murder,” Dan said. “A first-degree scalp hunter.” He reached across the tail and took the stub of free cable in his hand. “See this? This should be bolted to the bell crank—just like the others. And it was. How am I so sure? Because I bolted the goddamn thing myself. Sprayed it with LPS 3, then snubbed her tight. Some asshole backed the nut free, removed the bolt, then replaced it with this.”
Now in his wide fingers he held a twisted two-inch loop of wire fishing leader. The loop had snapped in the middle. “Whoever did this knew planes. The asshole knew the wire would hold long enough to get us into the air. Under any serious pressure, though, the first little bit of turbulence, and BANG! This breaks.”
Furious, Dan started to toss the wire away, but then reconsidered. Instead, he looked at it for a moment, then placed it in his billfold. “That’s what we heard just before we went into a dive. I thought at first a bullet hit the fuselage.”
“Jesus,” Tomlinson muttered. “Crazies have taken over the planet. It’s been coming for a while.”
Dan ignored him by addressing me. “I’m surprised the wire held as long as it did, truthfully. I can’t find the missing nut and bolt, either, so whoever did this was worried I might do a quick inspection. Military A-N cadmium steel hardware—thank god, I carry extras. So I can have this fixed in five, ten minutes, but I want to ask you something first.”
Futch motioned toward the tail and looked at us. “This was intentional. It could’ve happened night before last while my plane was docked at Boca. I had smooth air yesterday when I flew to Sanibel, and it’s only a quick hop. Or it was last night, someone snuck into Dinkin’s Bay and . . . hell, it would only take ten minutes.” The pilot paused, his attention inward, before he asked, “Either one of you have any serious personal problems? Somebody you owe money? Or a husband so mad he’d kill us all just to take you out?”
Giving Tomlinson a sharp look, I said, “That is a possibility, I suppose. What about it . . . Quirko?”
Instead