"No other cars," Izzy observed. "He's alone."
"Or they're hidden." Cory pulled behind a maintenance shed, positioning for quick exit if needed. "Stay alert."
They climbed out, the desert silence almost physical after hours of engine noise. The wind carried scents of creosote and dust, and somewhere a hawk screamed.
"How do you want to play this?" Izzy checked her weapon, movements automatic.
"Direct." Cory studied the office—single door, two windows, no obvious alternate exits. "He's trapped. Let's use it."
They moved together without discussion, Cory at the door, Izzy covering the window angle. A quick nod, then he pushed inside.
Reed Osgood looked up from a clipboard, his weathered face cycling through surprise, recognition, and something that might have been fear before settling on bureaucratic annoyance.
"Cory? What are you doing here?"
"Looking for you, Reed." Cory let the door close behind them with a definitive click. "We need to talk."
"About what? I'm in the middle of an investigation."
"So are we." Izzy moved to block the window, casual but unmistakably tactical. "One that involves you."
Reed's Adam’s apple bobbed. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Cory pulled out a chair, the metal legs scraping against concrete. "Then let's start with your offshore accounts. All twenty million worth."
The clipboard clattered from Reed's hands.
Game on.
28
Reed Osgood staredat the clipboard lying on the dusty floor like a dead thing, taking a long moment before raising his eyes to meet Izzy's. His face had gone the color of old paper. "Twenty million?" His voice cracked. "Where did you get that number?"
"Does it matter?" She kept her position by the window, watching both Reed and the empty airstrip beyond. The desert stretched endlessly, heat shimmers making the distant mountains dance. "The FBI will be very interested in how an FAA investigator accumulated that kind of wealth."
"It's not what you think." Reed sank into his chair, suddenly looking every one of his sixty-odd years. "It's not... I didn't..."
"Didn't what?" Cory sat facing Reed, close enough to invade personal space. "Didn't take bribes to rule sabotage as mechanical failure? Didn't help someone destroy Mountain Angel?"
"I never took a bribe." The words came out fierce, desperate. "Never. Not once in thirty years."
Izzy snorted. "Right. Twenty million just fell from the sky."
"It did." Reed's hands shook as he reached for his wallet. "In a way, it did."
He pulled out a photograph, edges worn from handling. A young woman smiled from the faded paper—maybe twenty-five, dark hair, Reed's nose and stubborn chin.
"Sarah. My daughter." His thumb traced her face. "Killed six years ago. Driving home from Vegas to Reno. Drunk driver."
The words hung in the stale office air. Somewhere outside, a dust devil swirled across the tarmac.
"Turned out, the idiot who killed her has one of those last names that comes with huge bank accounts attached. Family offered us a fortune. Literally. Our lawyer told us to take it. Said it would be the only justice we’d see. Twenty-two million." Reed's voice had gone hollow. "Blood money for my baby girl."
Izzy felt the ground shift under her assumptions. She caught Cory's eye—he looked as wrongfooted as she felt.
"The Mountain Angel incidents," Cory said carefully. "You ruled them mechanical failure."
"Because that's what they looked like." Reed slipped the photo back into his wallet with reverent care. "Servo actuator degradation. Hydraulic line wear. Things that happen to aircraft flying hard schedules in mountain conditions."
