“That is pretty weird, considering how Neanderthal the FAA is.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

I let him finish.

“The FAA maintains a registry of every plane ever built in the United States. I inputted the tail number to see who owned it and find out when it was reported missing. All I got back was, ‘File access restricted.’ ”

Streeter said he promptly called the FAA’s twenty-four hour operations center in Washington, identified himself as a sworn member of law enforcement, and explained that he was actively investigating a homicide. Whoever he spoke to, he said, told him he’d have to write a formal letter of request for any information and send it by registered mail. The request would be reviewed by staff counsel. He could expect a response in six to eight weeks.

“I told her that was unacceptable. She couldn’t have cared less.”

“Consider yourself lucky. For the FAA to respond to anything in six to eight weeks, we’re talking world-record pace.”

“You’re a pilot,” Streeter said. “You tell me: why would they restrict any information on a plane that’s been missing that long, let alone an entire file? It’s like they’re hiding something.”

I shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

Ruby brought over a white china plate with five thick strips of hickory-cured bacon and set it down in front of Streeter.

“Matty always likes to eat his bacon first, before anything else,” she explained to me. “He’s an eccentric, this one.”

“I just don’t like getting maple syrup on my bacon, that’s all,” Streeter said.

She gave him an affectionate peck on the top of his head and shuffled outside for a quick smoke, lighting up a Virginia Slims before she was even out the door. Cold air rushed in.

“What about Chad?”

Streeter looked at me like he didn’t understand.

“Your victim. The dead kid. From the airport.”

“What about him?”

“What was he doing up there?”

Streeter chewed a strip of bacon. “Best guess? You landed, told Chad you’d seen a downed airplane. He calls my department. Deputy Woo buys the call. Woo shows up, you tell him what you saw, correct?”

“Affirmative.”

“Chad’s standing there. He’s listening in. He’s local, knows the area like the back of his hand. He gets off work, tells a buddy, and they decide, ‘Hey, we’ll just hike in there and steal whatever we can from the wreckage before search and rescue can get in.’ Happens all the time, people looting downed airplanes. So they get up there. They pry open the crate. Something inside that’s worth big money. Only Chad’s buddy decides he’s not interested in profit sharing. So, like you said yesterday, Chad gets capped and his buddy makes off with the merchandise.”

“Sounds like you got it dialed in.”

“It’s a workable premise. Let’s put it that way.”

“Why did you want to see me this morning?”

Streeter wiped his mouth with his napkin and picked a bacon bit from the gap between his front teeth. “I need to know why the FAA put a clamp on that file.”

“I’m not on real intimate terms with the FAA these days, Deputy. Let’s just say we’ve had our differences.”

“But you did work in the intelligence community. You have a security clearance, correct?”

“Hypothetically, if I ever did hold a clearance, it would’ve been revoked when I turned in my resignation papers. That’s assuming I ever worked for the government, which I’m not saying I did or didn’t.”

The deputy’s biscuits and gravy arrived, smelling like I imagine heaven smells — the yeasty musk finished off with an irresistible hint of lard. I could feel my arteries congealing just inhaling.

“Enjoy,” Ruby said, reeking of tobacco.

Again, Streeter waited until she was out of audio range.

“OK, fine, so you don’t have an active clearance. But, assuming you did work for the government, like the newspaper said, you’d still have contacts, friends who could do you a favor, correct?”

“That’s a whole lot of assuming, Deputy.”

Two young men with brown skin and stylishly coiffed black hair walked in and hovered near the door, waiting to be seated. Busy chowing down, Streeter didn’t notice them. I did. Some may have mistaken the two for Arabs. I knew them to be Iranians who, I observed in my adventures abroad, are inclined to be taller and slightly lighter in complexion than their Middle Eastern neighbors. Iranian men also tend to be more fashionably attired and more attentive to personal grooming. These guys were all that. Pricey jeans and black leather jackets. No shortage of cologne. Not a nose hair in sight.

The taller of the two caught me looking and tried staring me down. I held my gaze. Dominant males, I learned with Alpha, reflexively maintain eye contact when confronted with what they perceive instinctively as other, socially aggressive males. It goes back to the time when we all swung from the trees by our tails: to see its prey, the hunter must always expose its eyes. When the hunted breaks eye contact, it’s a sign of submission that signals, in essence, “Do with me what you will; I won’t fight back.”

After a few seconds, the taller Iranian looked away, leaned closer to his companion and muttered something in his ear. Pretending to peruse the plastic laminated menu, his friend, a powerfully built fireplug, turned and glared at me. I glared back.

Streeter turned and looked over his shoulder, chewing on a strip of bacon, curious to see what I was seeing. The taller Iranian noticed him and nodded in a not friendly way. Streeter nodded in response and turned back toward me.

“The tall guy’s name is Reza Jalali,” he said. “Owns a couple convenience stores in town. The other guy, I’ve never seen before.”

“Something hinky about that dude,” I said.

“Clearly, you don’t trust your fellow man, Mr. Logan.”

“I used to. Then I read Lawrence Ferlinghetti, who said that if you’re too open-minded, your brains fall out.”

Streeter smiled. I watched him dip a piece of bacon in the gravy, stuff the bacon in his mouth, and lick grease from his fingers. Back at the Tranquility House Bed-and-Breakfast, the Kavitches, Johnny and Gwen, would probably be serving up organic granola with reduced-fat yogurt and fresh fruit because that’s what B&B owners do — try to convince you that there’s something inherently healthier staying with them than at the Comfort Inn, where you cook your own waffles with premixed cups of “batter” that looks a lot like baby spit-up.

Streeter salted and peppered his biscuits and gravy. “So, what do you say? You think you could put a call in for me?”

I told him I’d think about it.

“Either way,” I said, “it’ll cost you a strip of bacon.”

“Knock yourself out.”

He slid his plate across the table.

Elevated triglycerides never tasted so good.

Snow was coming down as I walked out of the restaurant. Big soft fluffy flakes that fell slowly through the pines, muffling all sound and washing all color from the morning. I used my arm to brush off the driver’s door on the Yukon, got in, started the engine and fired up the heater.

I figured there’d be little harm, making a call or two on Deputy Streeter’s behalf. I’ll admit, part of my motivation in helping him out was ego driven. I’d seen and done a thousand things in defense of my country. I’d been trained to compartmentalize those things, to keep secret from any and all but my fellow go-to guys the tactics, techniques, and procedures we exercised to do those things. But Streeter had been correct: I did know people in government who enjoyed access to restricted information, including Paul Horvath, an investigator with the FAA’s Flight Standards District Office in San Diego.

Horvath had been assigned to determine the cause of my near-fatal accident a few months earlier at San Diego’s Montgomery Airport. He’d concluded that an intentional act of sabotage had forced me to crash land the Ruptured Duck, and that the incident had been in no way my fault. That, however, hadn’t stopped the FAA from tormenting me for months afterward, what with the dozens of reports and sworn declarations I was compelled to submit just to keep my flight school certified and my pilot’s certificate intact.