CHAPTER 4February 10
Saturday, 4:00 p.m.
Joe was leaning over a layout of aircraft accident photographs in his living room when he looked up to see Frank standing at the door smiling and holding a bottle of twenty-five-year-old single malt Scotch whiskey.
Joe got up and answered the door. “Come in, come in,” he said, relieved to be taken away from the pictures for a while.
“Homework?”
“You know the drill, Frank. This work is never done, and we’re always trying to play catch-up.”
“My case?” Frank asked as he sat down on the couch.
“No, this is something new. A lumberjack in Oregon was showing the boys what he could do with a Citabria.”
Frank looked through the pictures of the mangled remains of the Citabria. Very little was immediately identifiable. “He showed ’em all right,” he sai
