Murder in Foggy Bottom Read Free Page A

pleasure, just him in his canoe, and the birds, and the fish that would rise to his lures—or at least flirt with them. He watched the plane disappear into puffy clouds to the west, tossed out his line, secured the rod between his knees, lit his pipe, and settled back.
    “Been living in the DC area for thirty years,” the corn-pone businessman said to Hope Syms as she and her daughters settled in their seats for the trip to Washington. The Canadian-made, high-wing, twin-turboprop Dash 8 was fully booked, the thirty-six passengers seated in two rows, two seats to a row. Hope and the youngest child, Janet, sat together. Directly across the narrow aisle were Jill and the businessman, who’d introduced himself as Wally Watson—“Plastic extrusions, household gadgets,” as if they were all part of his name. He was a jolly type who made the kids laugh; his grandchildren were older, four of them, three boys and a girl. He’d been in New York on a selling trip: “Hardware stores, not many in Manhattan, department stores. The buyers all know Wally Watson.” Eight-year-old Jill had been assigned to the aisle seat but wanted to be next to the window, and Watson had happily switched with her.
    The sole flight attendant came down the aisle checking that seat belts were fastened. She stopped and smiled at the kids. “Welcome aboard,” she said. “First flight?”
    “No,” Hope said in response to what was the standard question. “They’re both old-timers.”
    “Glad to hear it,” the flight attendant said. “I’ll be back once we’re up with Cokes and pretzels.”
    “Mommy, this plane is so
s-m-a-l-l
,” Jill said.
    “Big enough to get us there,” Hope said, thinking that their children had become spoiled traveling on large jet aircraft. This would be a different experience for them.
    The captain spoke over the PA system: “Welcome aboard, ladies and gentlemen. Nice to have you with us today. We’ll be taxiing out in a few minutes. Shouldn’t be any delays in getting off. Flight time to Reagan National Airport is an hour and twenty minutes, get us there right on time. Weather looks good all the way so we should have smooth sailing. Washington’s hot, though, forecast to get up into the nineties.”
    Jill Syms made a face and said, “Ugh!”
    “Grandma’s house is air-conditioned,” Hope said, “and the car. We’ll stay cool.”
    The aircraft’s Pratt & Whitney engines came to life and the Dash 8 slowly left the boarding area and headed for the runway, an east-to-west takeoff into the wind, blowing in at eleven knots. In the cramped cockpit was Captain Robert “Red” Sutherland and First Officer Wendy Johnson, one of a growing number of female commercial pilots advancing their airline flying careers by piloting smaller, commuter aircraft. They reached the active runway and turned onto it. The tower controller’s voice crackled in their headsets: “Dash three-three-seven, you’re cleared to roll.”
    “Roger. Three-three-seven rolling.”
    Johnson advanced the throttles. The engines responded, the four-bladed props cut into the air, and the craft moved forward, gaining speed as she kept it glued to the runway’s white center stripe while monitoring the air speed indicator. The plane reached the predetermined speed for liftoff.
    “Rotate,” Captain Sutherland said.
    Johnson pulled smoothly back on the yoke and the ground fell away. In the passenger cabin, Jill Syms gave out an exuberant yelp. Wally Watson laughed. Hope took her daughter’s hand and squeezed. As often as she’d flown, she was never completely comfortable in a plane despite her mother’s good-luck necklace, and would be glad when they touched down safely at Reagan National.
    Harry Syms sat in his company’s conference room with colleagues, as well as lawyers from the firm about to be willingly gobbled up.
    “How’s the family?” he was asked.
    “Great. Hope and the kids are in the air right now on their way to Washington. Her