Munro got up and stomped round the desk to the door. Tom ignored his going but, once the door had shut behind him, he sat down in the bad chair. ‘Maybe now we can talk.’
‘Tom. This bullshit’s got to stop. Your career’s in the crapper and Munro’s flush-happy. I’d be justified in kicking you out of this office without a job, and he knows that. It’s what he wants.’
‘Is it what you want?’
‘There’s a point where what I want becomes pretty much irrelevant. We’re this close to that point.’ Pete held up his thumb and forefinger: from Tom’s angle, they looked like they were touching.
‘Pete …’ Tom started, then sat back in the chair and briefly considered how much he should tell his boss. Fuck it, he thought. He really had nothing left to lose. ‘Pete, Munro’s report is wrong. I’m not saying it’s all his fault – even though he is a fucking asshole. I think the Pride of Maine’s compressor was ripped apart by a flaw in the fan disc or the flange bolts.’ He put the bolt on Pete’s desk. ‘That’s a flange bolt from the engine of a 737 that went down in South Africa. I know I’m not on planes right now, but I need NTSB resources to have it tested to see if it’s bad.’
Pete said nothing, just stared at the bolt, so Tom licked his lips and pressed on. ‘Something shifted. Something gave way before the engine let go. There was play on the disc, Pete.’
Pete looked surprised, then wary. ‘How do you know?’
Tom blinked slowly. This was the hard part. ‘The South African 737 had fretting between the disc and shaft flanges. Something sent it off-centre. Whether the bolt failed, or the disc failed, it was enough to throw the whole thing out.’
‘You think.’
Tom said nothing. He felt in his guts that he was right. Fuck qualification and caution.
Pete picked up the bolt and turned it over slowly in his fingers, his eyes learning the story that the scoring and the crank-shafting told – as Tom knew they must.
‘Have they had the disc tested?’
‘It was stolen.’
‘Stolen?’ Pete’s expression was surprise and disbelief rolled neatly into one.
‘Yeah, stolen. I was run off the road on my way to look at it, and their investigators were killed in a fire the same night.’
Now Pete sat back in his chair and cocked an eyebrow.
Tom unfolded the paperwork for the Pride of Maine disc. ‘The fan disc from the two jets came from the same batch at WAE – 501.’
Pete raised his eyes to look at Tom sharply. ‘Can you prove it?’
‘I saw the South African paperwork.’
‘Where is it?’
‘It was stolen too. By the same people who stole the fan disc and set the fire.’
‘Says?’
‘Says me, Pete! Says me! Fuck!’
Pete sighed so loudly it was almost comical. ‘Jesus, Tom, you have no say! You have no paperwork, you have no witnesses, you have no official investigation statements. You have one miserable flange bolt out of a possible twenty. How the hell am I supposed to cover your ass based on that kind of non-evidence? How the hell? Lenny Munro’s investigation’s papered up to the eyeballs.’
‘Well, I’m sorry that a fucking mass murderer screwed up my ability to produce paperwork!’
‘That’s not what I’m saying and you know it! Listen, Tom – this pipeline thing won’t last for ever. Just keep a low profile, don’t piss people off and I’ll recommend your reinstatement. We need you, and the board knows it. But this Pride of Maine mess—’
‘Pete. I know it’s a mess. I know it! But just cos it’s a mess doesn’t mean there’s no truth in it! I mean, maybe it’s a mess because it’s the truth – maybe the mess is just someone trying to cover that up.’ He realized he was pleading and didn’t give a shit. ‘Pete, please. When did I ever let you down?’
‘Only all the fucking time!’
‘That’s personal shit. That’s my big mouth. On probable cause, I mean – when did I ever let you down on probable cause?’
Pete didn’t answer because Tom was right. He’d never let him down on probable cause.
‘I’ll do it on my time, Pete. I’ll do it between pipeline jobs. All I need is you not to hassle me for it, a few resources, and to know that Munro’s off my back.’
Pete LaBello wished for the thousandth time that he’d retired before the Tom Patrick shit had hit the fan – as he’d always known it would some day. He’d as good as promised Lenny Munro that he’d fire Tom today. And when he’d said it to Munro he’d meant it. He couldn’t see any way back for Tom. Not then, anyway …
‘It can’t be official. Munro would go over my head.’
‘I understand.’
‘He might go over my head anyway. He hates you like haemorrhoids.’
‘I get it.’
‘You have to be discreet. A goddamned sight more discreet than you’ve been so far.’
‘Okay.’
‘And you’ve got to apologize to Munro.’
Tom’s face protested. Pete cut him off: ‘Right now. In front of witnesses. It’s the only way he’ll lie down for this – and you know you owe it to him.’
‘Shit.’ Tom glowered at his sneakers and snaked an angry hand round the back of his neck, scraping at the prickles of hair. ‘Okay. Fuck it. Okay.’ He stood up. ‘As long as you know I don’t mean it.’
Pete couldn’t help smirking at that.
‘What about the CalSuperior complaint?’
Pete thought about it. ‘I guess I can make that go away. Their pride’s hurt, that’s all. The guy who called me up sounded like he was going to cry.’
Tom smiled tightly. ‘Lowell Dexter?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Prick.’
‘Yeah.’
Tom nodded, looking around the office, the fingers of his left hand splayed and resting lightly on the desk. His eyes finally travelled back to Pete’s. He took a deep breath and went for broke. ‘What about this bolt? If I put in an Eddy current test request Munro will be all over me again.’
Pete looked at him in amazement for a moment, then shook his head. ‘Unbelievable.’ He sighed for the final time that day. ‘I’ll get it done.’ He put the bolt into a Ziploc bag, then saw that Tom had something else to say. Something he was obviously having enormous difficulty with. The man’s face was a textbook example of inner turmoil. He was actually sweating, for Chrissake!
