aircraft accident investigations was a simple matter of reviewing records. Maintenance logbooks, flight plans, and air traffic control data were all documented, either electronically or on paper. But some of the most pertinent history was perishable -- the short-term personal background of crewmembers. A seventy-two-hour look-back was standard procedure.
"You know my situation, Rita. I can't--"
"I know that you are on the 'go team,' Davis! Now pack your bags and get in here. I'll brief you myself." She hung up.
The horn honked in the garage.
Davis seethed. He had an urge to crack the phone across the counter. That would feel good. But then he'd just have to go out and buy a new one. He hurried into his room and slammed some clothes into a suitcase. As a member of the "go team" he was supposed to have his bag already packed, available on a moment's notice. One minute was all he needed. Davis traveled light.
The drive to school was quiet. Davis tried to think of a good way to break it to Jen that he had to go out of town for a couple of days. She interrupted his mission planning.
"You know, Dad, for a big-shot investigator you're not very observant."
"How's that?"
"We need gas."
He looked down at the gauge. One eighth. Davis never filled up until he had to. "Don't worry, baby. I keep up with these things."
"Go to Mel's. It's always five cents cheaper than that other place you use."
He considered explaining that a six-pack of his preferred beer at "that other place" was a buck less, which made for a wash. Now probably wasn't the time.
She said, "I'll be driving soon, you know."
"Don't remind me."
But he was reminded -- a whole new set of worries, right around the pubescent corner. Jen was going to take driver's ed over the summer, learn to merge and parallel park, keep her hands at ten and two.
Right then, Davis decided he'd brake hard for any yellow traffic lights. Not step on the gas. Like she'd been watching him do for the last fifteen years.
"Your hair looks cool, Dad."
"Huh?"
"Your hair, it's getting longer. That tight military cut was getting pretty tired."
Davis looked in the rearview mirror. He needed a trim.
Jen said, "And we still have to work on your wardrobe."
He looked down. For twenty years it had been a uniform, something he'd never really minded. One less decision each day. Now that he was a civilian, Davis tried to keep things simple. He had on khaki pants and a brown polo shirt. He owned six polo shirts. Three were in a suitcase in the trunk. His leather shoes were old and comfortable, strung with the second pair of laces. A long time ago they'd been expensive. Davis didn't mind buying expensive stuff--not because he cared a whit about style, but because it usually wore well. Fewer shopping trips.
"Maybe some baggy gangsta pants and a Hawaiian-print shirt," she prodded.
He looked at her sourly, saw the grin. "You're yankin' my chain again."
"I'm the only one who can."
He nodded. "Yep."
Davis slowed as they came to the school drop-off loop. He still hadn't thought of an easy way to break it to Jen that he had to leave town. That being the case, he laced his voice in parental graveness and just said it. "Baby, I have to go away for a couple of days on business. You'll need to stay at Aunt Laura's. I'll set everything up."
Davis looked at his daughter, expecting concern or anxiety. She looked positively giddy. He tracked her gaze to the campus entrance.
"It's Bobby Taylor!" she gushed. "Red shirt."
A tall young boy leaned on a pole. The kid was rail thin and gawky, all elbows and knees and pointed shoulders. He was cutting up with his friends.
"Did you hear me?" he asked.
"What? Oh, yeah. You gotta go away." She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "Have a good time, Daddy."
"A good time? It's a crash investigation."
"Oh, right. Well, you'll figure it out, Daddy. You always do."
Davis watched his daughter get out of the car like she was arriving at the Academy Awards. "Aunt
"You know my situation, Rita. I can't--"
"I know that you are on the 'go team,' Davis! Now pack your bags and get in here. I'll brief you myself." She hung up.
The horn honked in the garage.
Davis seethed. He had an urge to crack the phone across the counter. That would feel good. But then he'd just have to go out and buy a new one. He hurried into his room and slammed some clothes into a suitcase. As a member of the "go team" he was supposed to have his bag already packed, available on a moment's notice. One minute was all he needed. Davis traveled light.
The drive to school was quiet. Davis tried to think of a good way to break it to Jen that he had to go out of town for a couple of days. She interrupted his mission planning.
"You know, Dad, for a big-shot investigator you're not very observant."
"How's that?"
"We need gas."
He looked down at the gauge. One eighth. Davis never filled up until he had to. "Don't worry, baby. I keep up with these things."
"Go to Mel's. It's always five cents cheaper than that other place you use."
He considered explaining that a six-pack of his preferred beer at "that other place" was a buck less, which made for a wash. Now probably wasn't the time.
She said, "I'll be driving soon, you know."
"Don't remind me."
But he was reminded -- a whole new set of worries, right around the pubescent corner. Jen was going to take driver's ed over the summer, learn to merge and parallel park, keep her hands at ten and two.
Right then, Davis decided he'd brake hard for any yellow traffic lights. Not step on the gas. Like she'd been watching him do for the last fifteen years.
"Your hair looks cool, Dad."
"Huh?"
"Your hair, it's getting longer. That tight military cut was getting pretty tired."
Davis looked in the rearview mirror. He needed a trim.
Jen said, "And we still have to work on your wardrobe."
He looked down. For twenty years it had been a uniform, something he'd never really minded. One less decision each day. Now that he was a civilian, Davis tried to keep things simple. He had on khaki pants and a brown polo shirt. He owned six polo shirts. Three were in a suitcase in the trunk. His leather shoes were old and comfortable, strung with the second pair of laces. A long time ago they'd been expensive. Davis didn't mind buying expensive stuff--not because he cared a whit about style, but because it usually wore well. Fewer shopping trips.
"Maybe some baggy gangsta pants and a Hawaiian-print shirt," she prodded.
He looked at her sourly, saw the grin. "You're yankin' my chain again."
"I'm the only one who can."
He nodded. "Yep."
Davis slowed as they came to the school drop-off loop. He still hadn't thought of an easy way to break it to Jen that he had to leave town. That being the case, he laced his voice in parental graveness and just said it. "Baby, I have to go away for a couple of days on business. You'll need to stay at Aunt Laura's. I'll set everything up."
Davis looked at his daughter, expecting concern or anxiety. She looked positively giddy. He tracked her gaze to the campus entrance.
"It's Bobby Taylor!" she gushed. "Red shirt."
A tall young boy leaned on a pole. The kid was rail thin and gawky, all elbows and knees and pointed shoulders. He was cutting up with his friends.
"Did you hear me?" he asked.
"What? Oh, yeah. You gotta go away." She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "Have a good time, Daddy."
"A good time? It's a crash investigation."
"Oh, right. Well, you'll figure it out, Daddy. You always do."
Davis watched his daughter get out of the car like she was arriving at the Academy Awards. "Aunt
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