Page 13 of Concerted Chaos

While Powell is taken elsewhere by Agent Scraggly, I let the hot one, who introduces himself as Ethan, lead me into the kitchen for my interview. I think it’s odd that they’re separating us, but I suppose that’s standard practice in most investigations.

My investigator sits down next to me at the kitchen table and looks deep into my eyes. “Before we start, I want to say that I’m sorry for your loss. I understand you and Mr. Monroe were close friends.” There’s real sympathy shining from his face, which I appreciate. I would have expected someone more ... I don’t know, detached? Someone who regularly investigates aviation disasters should be more cynical and dispassionate. More like ... well, more like me.

“I’ve known him ... I knew him for sixteen years,” I say, grateful for the kindness in his approach to the questioning. “He was a good man.”

“That’s what everyone keeps telling me.” Ethan’s face transforms into a more serious expression. Oh no. This is going to be the part where we have to talk about the explosion. His lips start to form a question, and I hold up a hand to stop him.

“Wait. Before we get into this, I want to make it clear that although I’m willing to answer your questions, I’d rather not learn any specific details.”

He nods in understanding. “Of course. We don’t need to get into that anyway. I want to start with the morning before the crash. Can you talk me through why your brother didn’t go?”

“He was hungover,” I admit, and now I’m worried that my statement might make him sound like an alcoholic. That kind of speculation can ruin his image. Powell is a clean cut, usually sober guy. He just doesn’t deal with getting cheated on very well. Nobody does.

“Can you give more information than that?”

“What are you going to use this for?” I’d love to be honest, but privacy matters.

“It’s for my report,” he says, which does not enlighten me.

“But is it confidential?” I’m sure it isn’t, he already asked for permission to record. I just want to know when it will be made public. And how much of it. I hate when only edited versions of things are released. The media can twist our words so easily.

“The report will be released when the investigation is completed,” Ethan tells me, again not giving me the information I seek. He leans forward intently. “You look like you have something you want to say.”

“It’s nothing important, just somewhat personal.” The fact is, Powell and Zahna still haven’t made their breakup public, because other things took precedence. Their conscious uncoupling is going to be obvious when she doesn’t fly back from Europe for the funeral, but they haven’t formally announced it yet.

“It usually takes at least six months, and I doubt many people who aren’t aviation enthusiasts read these things. They’re very technical.”

The gossip mongers won’t care that it’s a technical write-up. They can all use ctrl+F to search Powell’s name. But six months from now, the breakup will be old and valueless news anyway. “Okay. I’ll tell you in confidence, but don’t sell this to any of the gossip magazines yet.”

He looks insulted by that, so I continue, though still circumspectly. “Powell had an argument with his girlfriend Zahna the night before. He responded by drinking way too much, and the next morning he was sick. He’s not a big drinker; he doesn’t do that sort of thing. So he was hungover and didn’t want to fly out to LA and get on a helicopter. We called Jace and asked him to go instead.” Still not quite the full story, but enough of it that it should match whatever Powell is telling the other guy.

“What time?”

I unlock my phone to check the log and give him the particulars of that last call.

“And did anyone else know about this? Why wasn’t his name changed on the passenger manifest?”

“That’s beyond me. I have nothing to do with those arrangements. Although ... neither of us thought to call the charter company to update them that Powell wasn’t coming. Pretty much as soon as Jace agreed to go, Powell went to take a shower and I went out to buy him breakfast. We sat out by the pool for hours, without our phones, so he could take the day off.”

“So you didn’t tell anyone at all that Jace was going in his place?” Ethan is watching my face carefully. He appears really vested in my answer.

“Who would I tell? Why does this even matter?” Sure, he needs as much info as possible, but this seems a bit excessive. I would expect the investigator to be far more interested in the helicopter equipment than the passenger list.

“You said you didn’t want details, but I’ll tell you this much: we believe the crash wasn’t an accident.”

“You think Jace was targeted?” I ask, but even as the words come out of my mouth, I know how wrong they are.

“Not Jace,” he says, and I stare wordlessly in shock as the meaning washes over me. Someone tried to kill my brother?

I snag Powell as soon as he’s done being questioned and drag him into the nearest bathroom for privacy. His naturally golden tanned skin has gone pale and he’s shaky.

“Did they tell you about the bomb?” he asks.

“Bomb?” Maybe I should have been more open to hearing specifics.

“They’re still combing through the wreckage, but that’s what they expect to find.”

“Ethan said you may have been the target.” My stomach is tying itself into a knot.

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