Rick Mofina - Free Fall

This is relatively standard.

Kate checked Newslead’s legal database for civil action against the airline, scouring the summaries from the list of lawsuits. They concerned lost luggage, job action, overbooked flights, missed flights, claims alleging civil rights abuses and racism. Again, all of it was relatively standard for an airline of EastCloud’s size.

After rereading the Times story, Kate felt stirrings of self-doubt.

Am I wrong about hearing the crew insist there was no turbulence?

She paged through her notes. But it was there. She’d jotted it down the moment it had crackled over the scanner. Sure, there was static, but she’d clearly heard the crew say the problem was “not turbulence” but rather some sort of malfunction.

Kate called the news library and requested they look into possibly purchasing transcripts from one of the professional scanner listening services, even though they were not subscribed.

It was odd. If other news outlets, like the Times or the Associated Press, had possibly consulted transcripts of Flight 4990’s transmissions before landing, wouldn’t they have reported malfunction as the issue? But there had been so much static, maybe they’d missed it.

Kate tapped her pen.

The only way to know what the crew said is to talk to the crew.

But there was no way that was going to happen, she thought. Pilots rarely, if ever, talk to press about an incident while it’s under investigation-way too many policies and too much at stake for them.

Did anyone reach out to the crew?

Kate tapped her pen faster.

She’d met a high-ranking official with the pilots’ union a couple of months back at a security conference at the Grand Hyatt. What was his name? Kate searched her contacts until it came up.

Nick Benko.

He was middle-aged, silver-haired, smart and kind of flirty, but at his core, all business and union tough. They’d had a quick coffee and he’d said to call him if ever she needed help on a story.

Kate sent him a text, reminding him of their meeting and his offer. She asked him to call her. Six minutes later, her cell phone rang.

“Thanks for calling, Nick.”

“No problem. Just stepped out of a meeting. What’s up?”

“You know that EastCloud flight from Buffalo to LaGuardia?”

“Yes, it’s in the news. I saw your name on one of the stories.”

“What can you tell me about the investigation?”

“I’m not involved in that. Besides, I couldn’t tell you, even if I was.”

“I figured. Nick, I need help reaching the captain.”

“No can do, Kate. There’re policies, security, privacy, all that stuff.”

“I understand, Nick, but if you were me, where would you look?”

Benko hesitated.

“You know I can’t give you that name, Kate.”

“Of course, but if you were looking, say for public sources, where would you look?”

Benko gave it some thought.

“Some airlines post milestone pages online,” he said. “It’s possible that if you looked deep into EastCloud’s site on the ten-year page, you might find something there.”

“Where?”

“Under the M ’s.”

Kate jotted it down.

“What if there are other M ’s?”

“I don’t think you’ll have a problem.”

Kate’s keyboard clicked and she’d found the site, went to the M ’s and landed on a page with a photo and bio of Raymond Brian Matson. His was the only listing under M for ten years with EastCloud. The listing was about three years old.

“Nick, you know you have a friend here who owes you a favor.”

“No favor, Kate.” He chuckled. “Because I didn’t give you any information that wasn’t already public.”

“Understood. Thanks.”

Kate read the brief bio describing Matson’s experience and time with EastCloud. Of course it didn’t list his address or the city where he resided.

He could live anywhere in the country.

She tapped her pen again.

She had another source, Marsha Flood, a retired FBI agent she’d known since she’d been a reporter in California. Marsha ran a private-investigation firm and had quicker and better access to more databases than Kate, like the one containing driver’s licenses. Kate sent her a text requesting help locating an address for Raymond Brian Matson. Then she sent a link to Matson’s bio and pic to help her find the right Matson. Kate calculated the time zone difference, confident that Marsha would be up by now.

As she waited, she ran Raymond Matson’s name through several of Newslead’s archives and news information networks to see of he’d ever been the subject of a news story.

Nothing. She left a message on Marsha’s voice mail.

She checked his name with several popular social media sites.

Nothing.

As she downed her coffee her phone rang.

“Hi, Kate, it’s Marsha.”

“Hey, Marsha.”

“How’re Vanessa and Grace doing?”

“Vanessa’s doing great, and Grace-well, they grow up too fast, don’t they? How’s your son doing? Still posted overseas?”

“He comes home from South Korea next month.”

“Oh, that’s good. I’m happy for you.”

“Now about your subject, Raymond Brian Matson. He’s close to you. According to his valid state driver’s license he resides in Westfield, New Jersey, Lamberts Mill Road.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll send you the address. Oh, I also saw that he’s involved in divorce proceedings, so bear that in mind.”

“I appreciate this, Marsha.”

“Anytime.”

Westfield, New Jersey

Lamberts Mill Road ran through a quiet, tree-lined section of Westfield.

The Matson house, a century-old two-story colonial with a screened side porch, sat back from the street. No vehicles were in the driveway when Kate pulled up.

It looked like no one was home.

She rang the bell but got no response.

Kate had been afraid this would happen-that no one would be home. The for-sale sign and the divorce were likely factors, she thought as she drove off and parked several doors down.

She adjusted the car’s mirror and settled in to watch the address. Showing up cold was always a risk whenever you were pursuing a sensitive interview. When you emailed, or called, people were quick to delete or hang up. When you appeared at their door and looked them in the eye, the odds sometimes worked in your favor.

Not always but sometimes.

The air was tranquil with sounds of birdsong, the wind through the trees and the distant laughter of children. Traffic had been good. It had taken her about forty-five minutes using one of Newslead’s leased cars to make the trip across the Hudson.

Kate worked on her phone, building a story based on the few updates she had from the people she’d reached earlier. Between sentences, she monitored her mirrors, noting that the for-sale sign could also mean that Matson no longer lived here.

She wasn’t happy with the story; she didn’t have much. The strongest stuff was the FAA records showing the incident history of the Richlon-TitanRT-86. She’d just finished folding the various reports into her piece when something blurred in her side mirror.

An SUV had rolled into the Matson driveway.

Kate gave it a moment. Then she collected her things, approached the house and rang the bell. A long moment passed before the door was opened by a man wearing a polo shirt and khaki pants. He was in his late forties with deep-set eyes that gave him a rugged look.

“Yes?”

“Raymond Matson?”

“Yes.”

“Captain Raymond Matson with EastCloud Airlines?”

“Yes, who’re you?”