Free Murder in Foggy Bottom by Margaret Truman Page A

way.”
    “Sorry if we misled you, but you should know that the information you’ve given us has been valuable,” said Mullin. “We do have one request, however.”
    “Not to talk to anybody,” Lester said.
    “That’s right,” Lazzara said. “The press are all over the airport, Mr. Lester, and you know what they’re like. They’ll take anything you say and twist it, blow it up to suit their own purposes. If it was a missile you saw—”
    “That’s what I saw,” said Lester. “No doubt about it.”
    “And we don’t doubt you,” Mullin said. “But it’s important that we not get people panicked until we have all the facts, until we really know why the plane crashed.”
    Lester stood and stretched; his back ached, so did his knee. “I’ve been hearing what’s going on around here,” he said. “This wasn’t the only plane that went down, right?”
    Neither Mullin nor Lazzara responded.
    “You don’t have to worry about me and the reporters,” Lester said. “I don’t have any use for them. Buncha lyin’ buzzards.”
    Lazzara laughed, stood, and put his arm around Lester’s shoulder. “That’s right, Mr. Lester. A bunch of lying buzzards. Keep that in mind when they start asking you questions. I’ll have someone drive you home.”
    “No need. Nancy’s somewhere out there waiting for me.”
    “Well, I’ll walk you out and help you find her,” Lazzara said, his hand still slung over Lester’s shoulder, as if he were a buddy. “Thanks for all your cooperation. Hope you have better luck fishing tomorrow.”
    Nancy Lester stood by their car a hundred feet from the hangar, behind a barrier of stanchions and orange ropes that had been established to keep bystanders away from the command center. When she saw her husband approaching, accompanied by another man, she came to the rope and waved. A uniformed patrolman stepped in front of her.
    “It’s okay,” Lazzara said, flashing his Bureau badge at the cop, who lifted the rope for them to duck under.
    Nancy Lester hugged her husband. “Are you all right, Al? What’s happened? Why are you—?”
    “I’m fine, Nancy. Oh, this is Agent Lazzara from the FBI.”
    “FBI? What have you done?”
    “I didn’t do anything, Nancy. I had to give them a statement, tell them what happened to that plane this morning. I think I probably solved everything for them.”
    Lazzara smiled. “Your husband’s been very helpful, Mrs. Lester. Well, you two get on home and enjoy some dinner. Nice meeting you, ma’am. Good night, Al. Pleasure meeting you.”
    Lazzara watched them walk hip-to-hip to the car, Al Lester’s arm about his wife. The agent smiled. Nice guy, nice couple. They reminded him of his own mother and father.
    His pleasant reverie was short-lived. He returned to the hangar, where things distinctly not as pleasant were taking place, including the arrival of the dismembered bodies of the passengers and crew of the Dash 8.

9
    Late Afternoon That Same Day
Washington, DC
     
    Jessica kicked off her shoes as she came through the door of her apartment and dropped her heavy briefcase on her way to the bedroom. She quickly got out of her pale yellow linen suit, mauve blouse, slip, and panty hose, pulled on a crinkled purple-and-pink lightweight jogging suit, and went to the second bedroom, which functioned as a home office. The digital readout on her answering machine indicated two messages. She listened to the first: “Jess, it’s Cindy. I’m in shock over what’s happened to those planes. You must be, too. Give me a call when you get in. Dying to talk about this weekend. Weather’s supposed to be magnificent.”
    Jessica returned the call.
    “You’re back,” her friend said. “Your teaching day?”
    “Yup, although I didn’t get much teaching done. All they wanted to talk about were the aviation accidents.”
    “Accidents?” Cindy said. “Try murder.”
    “I’m not sure—”
    “Some sick fiends shot them down with