"You investigated Andrew?" Now she was definitely offended. "What gives you the right?—"
"He showed up in my town threatening one of my residents." The protective edge in his voice sent an unexpected warmth through her. "That gives me the right. And what I found is interesting. He's a pilot. Barely. Failed multiple check rides, can barely hold a job, but he knows enough about aircraft to be dangerous."
Accurate, for sure. But Cory couldn’t believe--- "You think Andrew sabotaged the helicopter?"
"I think someone's paying him to stir up trouble. The lawyer from Florida? The custody filing? Someone's bankrolling him, and it's not because they care about father's rights. His current employer in Florida is a flight school that's a subsidiary of MedFlight."
"MedFlight?" The name hit her like ice water. "You’re sure?"
“A hundred percent. The connection’s not something MedFlight advertises, but it didn’t take much digging.”
Her mind raced, connecting dots she didn't want to see. "They're paying him to come here and keep me distracted while..." She couldn't finish the thought.
"While someone sabotages aircraft to make Mountain Angel look unsafe. Force a sale." Cory leaned back, studying her. "The question is whether Andrew's just here for harassment, or if he's actively involved in the sabotage.”
He paced the floor, rubbing the back of his neck. “I already checked Mountain Angel for it. Not there. I want to swab it for DNA evidence. Not yours," he added quickly. "Whoever wore it might have left traces. Hair, saliva, skin cells."
"You really don't think I did this?" She had to ask again, had to hear it once more.
His eyes met hers, steady and sure. "I know you didn't do it. But someone wants people to think you did." He paused. "This is personal, Izzy. Whoever did this wanted to make absolutely sure the investigators would think it was you in that footage."
For the first time since this nightmare started, Izzy felt like she wasn't alone. "So what do we do?"
"We work together. Figure out who's behind this before?—"
His radio crackled to life, shattering the moment. "Chief, we've got another aircraft declaring an in-flight emergency. Five minutes out, Mountain Angel Cessna 182 reporting control problems. Pilot's requesting immediate landing."
They locked eyes, both thinking the same thing:Not again.
Cory was already standing, hand extended to help her up. "Let’s hit it. If this is another sabotage, I want your expertise on scene."
"But you said procedure?—"
"Don’t care. I know investigative technique, but you know aircraft. I need someone I can trust."
The word 'trust' from Chief By-The-Book Fraser made her heart do something complicated in her chest.
Thoughts for another time.
13
Pulse racing,Cory sped through Hope Landing's empty streets, emergency lights painting the December night in alternating red and blue. Izzy followed in her own vehicle. The speedometer crept past sixty on Main Street, something he'd normally never allow, but aircraft emergencies didn't wait for traffic laws.
"Mountain Angel Cessna is down safely, repeat, aircraft is down safely on runway two-seven." The dispatcher's voice crackled through the radio again, unnecessarily. They all knew where they were going. "Crew just exited the aircraft under their own power. No serious injuries reported."
Thank You, Lord.
The prayer came automatically, a brief moment of gratitude that this wouldn't be a recovery operation. Two aircraft incidents in one week had his nerves wound tight. In fifteen years of law enforcement, he'd learned to distrust coincidences.
Behind him, Izzy's black SUV kept perfect pace, never crowding his bumper, never falling behind. He noticed she drove like she maintained aircraft: controlled, with no wasted motion.
The airport appeared ahead, lit up like a disaster movie set. Fire trucks already positioned, foam cannons at ready.Ambulance doors open, paramedics preparing equipment they hopefully wouldn't need. The standard response for any aircraft emergency, but seeing it never got easier.
Cory pulled into the emergency staging area, Izzy's SUV sliding into the space beside him. They exited simultaneously, and he found himself matching her stride as they approached the scene.
The Cessna sat cockeyed on runway two-seven like a broken bird. Even from fifty yards, the damage was obvious. Landing gear completely sheared off, belly scraped raw against asphalt. Propeller blades bent backward like wilted flower petals. Scorch marks streaked the white fuselage where friction had heated the metal to dangerous temperatures.
"Could've been worse," Izzy muttered beside him.
