She had unearthed a small tray from somewhere and set three cups on it, some individual packs of creamer, stirrers, then poured the coffee. Silently Bret lifted the tray and carried it into his office where he placed it on his desk.
Logan leaned forward, took a cup of black coffee, and gave it to his wife. Bret watched as he added the creamer to his own coffee, and remembered that was also how Bailey had taken hers. The memory was unexpectedly sharp, unexpectedly painful. A hundred times a day he had an impulse to tell Cam something, but that wasn’t surprising considering how long they’d been friends and then partners. Though his meetings with Bailey had been casual and sporadic, he’d liked her. When she unbent, she’d been funny and sarcastic and hadn’t taken herself seriously.
Cam hadn’t liked her at all, and the feeling had been mutual. It was ironic that they’d died together, considering.
Bret grabbed his own cup and stood with his back to them, looking out the window, as he fought to bring his expression under control.
“There’s a discrepancy in the fuel records,” he finally said, his tone low and flat.
There was a pause behind him, a complete absence of sound.
“What’re you saying?” Logan asked carefully. “What kind of discrepancy?”
“The plane didn’t have enough fuel. It took on less than half what was needed to get to Salt Lake City, where they were scheduled to refuel.”
“What kind of pilot would take off without enough fuel? And why wouldn’t he just land somewhere and take on more?” Logan sounded angry, and Bret knew how he felt. He turned around and faced Bailey’s brother.
“To answer your first question,” he said slowly, “a pilot who thought he had enough because the fuel load indicator said he did. That’s also the answer to your second question.”
“Why wouldn’t he know? Are you saying the fuel gauge in your plane was wrong? How could you know that, when the wreckage hasn’t been found?”
Logan was sharp, Bret would give him that. He grasped immediately what Bret was talking about, asked all the right questions.
“The plane’s fuel tanks were almost empty when it landed the day before. But when it was refueled that morning, it took on only thirty-nine gallons, which is less than half what just one of the wing tanks would hold.”
“Then the guy doing the refueling made a mistake, but that doesn’t answer why you think the fuel gauge was defective.” Logan was getting angry; it was plain in the growing impatience in his tone.
“I haven’t said anything about the gauge being defective,” Bret said just as carefully as Logan had spoken a moment before. “I don’t think it was.”
“Then—”
“There are ways,” he continued, still cautiously picking his words, “to make a fuel tank gauge register as full when it really isn’t.”
Silence fell again. Logan and Peaches looked at each other, then his brows snapped together and he said, “When we spoke on the phone, I told you what Tamzin had said and you blew it off. Are you saying now that sabotage is likely?”
“I don’t know. Until the crash site is found, everything’s conjecture.” Tiredly he rubbed his forehead. “But nothing else makes sense. Cam was the most careful pilot I’ve ever met. He checked and he double-checked; he didn’t take anything for granted when it came to flying. There’s no way he wouldn’t have noticed a fuel gauge that showed the tanks were almost empty.”
“How hard would that be, to tamper with a gauge?”
“It isn’t hard at all,” Bret admitted. “And it isn’t the gauge that’s tampered with, it’s the fuel tanks themselves. They’re made to look full when they aren’t.”
“You’ve told the authorities about this?” Logan barked. “And about what Tamzin said?”
Bret nodded. “Without evidence, without finding the wreckage, there’s nothing that can be done.”
“Surely to God there are security tapes. This is an airport, for crying out loud!”
“A very small airport, with no commercial flights. But yes, there are security tapes.”
“And?”
“And the security firm won’t release them without a court order. The NTSB investigator, MaGuire, is pressing for one, but it hasn’t come through yet.”
“Why in hell won’t they cooperate?” Pale and agitated, Logan shoved himself to his feet and paced around the room.
“Fear of a lawsuit, probably. Could just be their policy, and some people cling to policy like they can’t operate without it.”
“But the cops haven’t picked up Seth Wingate for questioning? After what Tamzin said?”
“Did anyone else hear Tamzin say that to you?” Bret asked pointedly. “Seriously, she’s not known for her stability. And Seth is a Wingate; he hasn’t done anything with his life, but he’s still a Wingate, and that name carries a lot of weight.”
“Bailey had the name, too,” Logan said thickly, and turned his back to hide his emotion. Tears glittering in her eyes, Peaches got up and went to him, resting her head against his back. Just that, but he calmed, turning to put his arm around her.
Bret didn’t say anything, didn’t explain that Bailey hadn’t been the most popular person around. The social circles in which the Wingates moved had pretty much shunned her after her husband died. They’d seen her as having taken advantage of a sick, middle-aged man who had lost his wife and, fairly close on the heels of that, discovered he was himself dying. After he was gone, Bailey had remained, living in the house that by rights should have belonged to his children and controlling the vast Wingate fortune. But he wasn’t going to say any of that to her grieving brother.