Emily Locke 01 - Final Approach

back in a wispy French braid. She was the pilot Karen Lyons had recognized.
    Billy noticed me first and nodded. “Heard you had a mal.”
    “Not me.” I shifted my gaze to Craig. “My gear.”
    I watched for something revealing in his expression but his face was bland as ever.
    “Emily Locke,” I said, extending my hand to the new guy.
    He took it warmly and introduced himself as David Meyer. His lovely, potentially criminal girlfriend was Trish Dalton. She shook my hand with a limp, disinterested grip. A diamond tennis bracelet shimmered on her wrist, partially obscuring a dainty tattoo. The tattoo seemed out of place on a preppy woman like her. She wore a crisp polo-style shirt with a Green Bay Packers emblem. The shirt was tucked neatly around her slender waist into carefully pressed khaki shorts.
    “You from Wisconsin?” I asked.
    Trish forced the type of condescending smile I associate with rich snobs. “Not originally.”
    I imagined from her accent she might be an oil-snooty, southern belle type.
    “She worked at the Wisconsin Jump Center outside of Green Bay for a while,” David said.
    “How’d you like that DZ?” I asked. “I’ve never made it up that way.”
    She shook her head dismissively, and waved off the question with a swat. “Jerks.”
    I wondered what Trish had against her earlier employer. Before I could probe, she whispered something to David, kissed him on the cheek, and said she’d catch us later. Just like that, she was gone.
    I glanced at the drawer where I’d seen the flight logs, and wondered how to get them. With both riggers in the room, and a full complement of gear to assemble for David, it seemed unlikely the room would be vacant any time soon. I told Billy I’d check in with him later about my repack, and left.
    ***
    Richard got busy right away running the names Trish Dalton, Trisha Dalton, and Patricia Dalton through his databases. He turned up several matches for women who’d been employed in Texas and Wisconsin and were near my estimate of thirty to thirty-five years old. Converging on the right one would take a while longer. It was the news he’d received from Don Schaffer, the owner of Wisconsin Jump Center, that he most wanted to share. Trish Dalton had been let go. And it wasn’t because she was incompetent, insubordinate, or chronically late. Trish had been let go because of unauthorized use of the planes.
    I walked alone outside the hangar and mulled it over. Trish flew for Eric Lyons’ company. Karen recognized her from company travel. It was likely Trish had crossed paths with Casey on one or more of Eric’s trips. Casey was missing. Trish used planes without asking. Had she snatched him and flown him off somewhere?
    ***
    A dog barked in the parking lot and I was happy to see Cindy. She thumped her tail at me from her post in the back of Vince’s truck. Her tongue lolled in a drooling pant and made her look like she was smiling. Vince’s guitar case rested, abandoned, in the back with her again.
    I gave Cindy her requisite strokes and lifted the guitar case out of the truck. I tried to think of something witty to say when I found Vince.
    It turned out he found me first.
    “Tryin’ to steal it?”
    He walked up from the direction of the hangar, sporting a day of stubble and the same black cowboy hat pulled low over his forehead. Evidently, his wardrobe was limited to jeans and solid colored tees. This one was hunter green and brought out his eyes. When he got closer, I smelled aftershave. I was pretty sure that was new.
    “I’m not stealing it,” I said. “I’m moving it inside. You don’t deserve this guitar.”
    He took the case from me, letting his palm brush the back of my hand. Then he headed for the hangar. I followed.
    “Actually,” he said, “I was coming out to get it. Good thing too, because here you are, thieving it again.”
    We walked to the same corner where I’d found his guitar on my first day. He set it down, crossed his arms, and looked at me.
    Trish emerged from around the corner and crossed the packing area on her way to a cooler. I thought she and Vince exchanged a cold look, but it passed so quickly I doubted what I’d seen.
    He turned back to me. “Get your gear,” he said, simply. “It’s time to jump.”
    “Can’t.”
    I explained about Donna and my disassembled gear.
    Vince shook his head. “I came all the way here on my day off to jump with you, and you don’t even have a rig. Pitiful.”
    He picked up