Free Fall. Rick Mofina

Marsha ran a private-investigation firm and had quicker and better access to more databases than Kate, like the one containing driver’s licenses. Kate sent her a text requesting help locating an address for Raymond Brian Matson. Then she sent a link to Matson’s bio and pic to help her find the right Matson. Kate calculated the time zone difference, confident that Marsha would be up by now.

      As she waited, she ran Raymond Matson’s name through several of Newslead’s archives and news information networks to see of he’d ever been the subject of a news story.

      Nothing. She left a message on Marsha’s voice mail.

      She checked his name with several popular social media sites.

      Nothing.

      As she downed her coffee her phone rang.

      “Hi, Kate, it’s Marsha.”

      “Hey, Marsha.”

      “How’re Vanessa and Grace doing?”

      “Vanessa’s doing great, and Grace—well, they grow up too fast, don’t they? How’s your son doing? Still posted overseas?”

      “He comes home from South Korea next month.”

      “Oh, that’s good. I’m happy for you.”

      “Now about your subject, Raymond Brian Matson. He’s close to you. According to his valid state driver’s license he resides in Westfield, New Jersey, Lamberts Mill Road.”

      “Thank you.”

      “I’ll send you the address. Oh, I also saw that he’s involved in divorce proceedings, so bear that in mind.”

      “I appreciate this, Marsha.”

      “Anytime.”

      Eleven

      Westfield, New Jersey

      Lamberts Mill Road ran through a quiet, tree-lined section of Westfield.

      The Matson house, a century-old two-story colonial with a screened side porch, sat back from the street. No vehicles were in the driveway when Kate pulled up.

      It looked like no one was home.

      She rang the bell but got no response.

      Kate had been afraid this would happen—that no one would be home. The for-sale sign and the divorce were likely factors, she thought as she drove off and parked several doors down.

      She adjusted the car’s mirror and settled in to watch the address. Showing up cold was always a risk whenever you were pursuing a sensitive interview. When you emailed, or called, people were quick to delete or hang up. When you appeared at their door and looked them in the eye, the odds sometimes worked in your favor.

      Not always but sometimes.

      The air was tranquil with sounds of birdsong, the wind through the trees and the distant laughter of children. Traffic had been good. It had taken her about forty-five minutes using one of Newslead’s leased cars to make the trip across the Hudson.

      Kate worked on her phone, building a story based on the few updates she had from the people she’d reached earlier. Between sentences, she monitored her mirrors, noting that the for-sale sign could also mean that Matson no longer lived here.

      She wasn’t happy with the story; she didn’t have much. The strongest stuff was the FAA records showing the incident history of the Richlon-TitanRT-86. She’d just finished folding the various reports into her piece when something blurred in her side mirror.

      An SUV had rolled into the Matson driveway.

      Kate gave it a moment. Then she collected her things, approached the house and rang the bell. A long moment passed before the door was opened by a man wearing a polo shirt and khaki pants. He was in his late forties with deep-set eyes that gave him a rugged look.

      “Yes?”

      “Raymond Matson?”

      “Yes.”

      “Captain Raymond Matson with EastCloud Airlines?”

      “Yes, who’re you?”

      “I’m Kate Page, a reporter with Newslead, the wire service.”

      The air tensed.

      “Sir, I need to talk to you about what happened on Flight Forty-nine Ninety.”

      His jaw tightened then he moved to shut the door.

      “I have no comment.”

      “Wait, Captain Matson, please. Is the New York Times accurate? Was it pilot error?”

      “I haven’t seen the New York Times.”

      “Hold on, I have it right here.”

      Kate displayed the story on her phone and passed it to him. As he read something flashed behind his eyes.

      “No. That’s wrong.” He passed the phone back. “I don’t have anything to say to the press.”

      “Are you going to let the Times story stand? Do you want to leave the impression that the crew overreacted and caused the plane to roll?”

      “I’m bound to a process.”

      “The NTSB can take a year to issue its official report. If you talk to me you can correct the record now, put the facts and the truth of what happened out there. Otherwise, this stands as human error for a year or longer. I understand that there may have been a malfunction?”

      Matson arched an eyebrow as he absorbed Kate’s argument. She gave him another point to consider.

      “Who better than you to explain what really happened.”

      Matson considered for several moments. Worry clouded his eyes, and he adjusted his grip on the door. She sensed he was walking a mental tightrope before he came to a decision and pushed it open.

      “Come in.”

      He indicated the living room.

      “Have a seat. Want a soda? I think I also have orange juice.”

      “Water would be fine.”

      He left and returned, handing her a bottled water.

      “Let me make a few calls and I’ll be back,” he said.

      The house was fragrant and beautiful, suggesting it had been professionally staged for showings. Fresh flowers bloomed from vases on the mantel and end tables. The hardwood floors gleamed under gorgeous area rugs. Kate looked for telltale signs of family life but nothing was out of place. Still, she’d discerned an air of sadness, of finality.

      While waiting, she checked for any breaking news, then reviewed her messages, wincing at one from Sloane.

      The FAA and legal records show next to nothing on the plane and the model. I’ll write it up for you.

      What? Either Sloane never looked, or he’s lying again.

      She was about to respond but thought maybe she should inform Chuck instead. Matson returned.

      “I called my lawyer and my union. If I talk to you I’m putting my head on the chopping block.”

      “But I think—”

      “My head’s already on the chopping block.”

      “I’m sorry?”

      “You can’t use that. I’ll talk to you but this part you cannot use. You got that? This isn’t for any story. It’s completely off the record, okay?”

      “Okay.”

      “I’ve met with the NTSB, my union, EastCloud and all the others who’re investigating and I get the feeling they’re going to put this on me. I can feel a noose tightening. What happens is the airline will try to blame the manufacturer,