"Want backup?" Izzy asked.
"No. I need you to secure those records. Get them copied, photographed, everything. Before anyone can make them disappear."
Rodriguez cleared his throat. "I can probably stretch another twenty minutes before I have to call this in. But that's it, Cory. After that, it becomes official and the feds descend."
Twenty minutes to question Tom Morrison before the FBI locked everything down again.
"I hear you," Cory said, already heading for his vehicle.
Behind him, smoke continued to seep from the wounded hangar—not the dramatic destruction someone had planned, but maybe something even more revealing.
A failed crime often told more truth than a successful one.
39
Izzy pacedthe Knight Tactical operations room like a caged wolf, checking her phone every thirty seconds. Cory had left for the Morrison house twenty minutes ago, and the waiting was killing her. The FBI's threats still echoed in her mind—one more step out of line—but what choice did they have?
She'd already photographed every page of the salvaged maintenance logs, uploaded them to three different secure cloud servers, and made digital copies on a flash drive she now wore on a chain around her neck. Martha had stopped by five minutes ago to take the logs back to the hangar. No one was taking this evidence away again.
Her phone rang. Cory.
"Talk to me," she answered.
"Tom claims he was sleeping during the fire." Cory's frustration bled through the connection. "No GPS data because his phone was turned off. Again."
"Convenient."
"He's defensive, confused. Keeps asking why anyone would think he'd burn down Mountain Angel. He could be lying, but my gut says his confusion is real."
She could hear voices in the background—Tom's agitation, and Janet's soothing tones.
"I'm putting you on speaker," Cory said quietly. Through the phone, she heard him address the Morrisons. "Tom, I need to ask about your blue jacket. The one with the aerospace conference patch."
"What about it?" Tom's voice, defensive and shaky.
"Where is it?"
"How should I know? Janet, where's my jacket?"
A pause. Then Janet's voice, meek and apologetic: "It's... it's in the wash. I put it in last night."
Cory’s silence over the line spoke volumes.
"It was dirty. I always do laundry on Sundays..." Janet sounded near tears. "Why is that a problem?”
“Someone wearing that jacket, or one almost identical, bought supplies at the hardware store yesterday that may have been used in a crime.”
“What?” Janet’s voice rose an octave. “Tom was here with me all afternoon. You’re mistaken.”
Through the phone, Izzy could hear Tom's confusion. "What does my jacket have to do with anything? Janet, why are you crying?"
The genuine bewilderment in his voice made Izzy's investigative instincts ping. Either Tom was an excellent actor, or he really didn't remember.
Her phone buzzed with another call. Graceline.
"Cory, I've got Graceline on the other line," she said quickly.
"Take it. I'll call you back."
