“Chill, man. I’m here a lot, but we’re pretty relaxed about the hangar. When people are around, it’s open. When I go home for the day, I lock it up.”
“So who got in here to contaminate the fuel?”
“That I don’t know. But I’ve already ordered security cameras.”
“Better late than never,” Alden said dryly. “Hey, do you know Blake Burbage?”
“Are you asking as a friend or as a reporter?”
“Just answer the question. I’ll owe you a beer.”
“To think I’m so easily bought.” Chuck smiled. “Off the record? Of course I know him. I work on his plane.”
“Does he know Sebastian?”
“Yes. Casually, at least. Most of the pilots meet at some time or another. You don’t think?—”
“I don’t know what to think,” Alden said. “I’m just looking for connections, that’s all.”
“This have to do with that guy who died at the bookstore on Saturday?”
“Why, Chuck, maybe you should be the investigative reporter.”
“Ha,” Chuck huffed. “No, thanks. But I’ve seen that guy at the airport. He was hanging out with Blake one day.”
“Was he really? That’s very interesting.”
“Can you keep my name out of your story?”
“No problem.” Alden shook his hand. “But I might come back if I have more questions.”
“Don’t forget my beer.” Chuck gave him the stink eye, but his tone was light.
Alden nodded with a smile. “Done. Thanks, man.”
He didn’t mind buying Chuck a beer or three. He already owed one to Porter Cobb, if the filmmaker ever made it to Comet Cove. Fine. He was going to want a lot of beer when this story was over. Especially when he relived that bounce when the plane hit the lagoon.
He checked his phone when he got back to the car. There was a text from Roz:
I’ve got to talk to you. You’re not going to believe this contract.
And you’re not going to believe what I just found out.
I want to know now! But I need to talk to Sheryl. She just walked in. Bean Me Up in 45 minutes?
How about Taco Titan? We didn’t have time for breakfast.
Whose fault was that? See you there.
Chapter Eighteen
“Hey, Sheryl. I thought you were taking the week off.” Roz wandered over to the one free desk they left for freelancers who wanted to drop by, though most of them filed remotely. Sheryl seemed to like the companionship of the office, not that any other reporters were there at the moment. Bruce had left, and John was in his fishbowl, on the phone.
Sheryl, in loose tan linen pants and a pink T-shirt patterned with green leaves, looked up from her laptop. “Hi, Roz. I just had to get out of the house, you know? Otherwise I just pace or go outside and start gardening, and if I trim anything more off the plants I have, I’m going to have to plant all new ones.” She laughed, a little nervously.
Roz leaned against the desk next to Sheryl’s chair. Besides the freelancer’s laptop, the surface was empty except for a couple of reference books and the scanner they kept to listen to police calls. There’d been radio chatter when she walked in this morning, but it had stopped almost immediately. She’d been so busy, she forgot to look into what she might’ve missed. And now Sheryl was here.
“How are you doing?” Roz asked. “Are the police bothering you?”
