Chapter 11
Detective Rook called at 8:12 the next morning. He had the voice of someone who hadn't slept, flat and careful.
"We found the pilot," he said. "Name's Ellis Tran. He flies for Coastal Air Charter out of Monterey Bay. He didn't want to talk at first."
Heller put the call on speaker in Mara's kitchen. I held my tea with both hands so it wouldn't shake.
"Did he admit the route change?" Heller asked.
"He admitted Richardson chartered the helicopter cash, two weeks ago, requested ocean route, doors off for photos. Then day before flight, Richardson called and asked to extend out over the cliffs, said his wife wanted dramatic shots. Ellis says he didn't think much of it. But on the flight, he says Richardson was nervous. Kept looking at his wife."
I closed my eyes and saw it again — the doorway, Richard leaning, the wind.
Rook went on. "We asked why he didn't report the fall as a push. Ellis says Richardson told him you jumped. That you were upset about the pregnancy. Ellis believed him until he saw you under canopy. That's when he knew you had a chute."
"He saw the harness?" I asked.
"He says he saw black straps after you stabilized. He radioed Mayday but Richardson told him to keep flying, that you had a boat below. Ellis turned back to shore instead and called Coast Guard off-channel. That's why the fishing boat found you so fast."
Mara reached over and squeezed my forearm.
Rook said, "We need you to confirm the charter receipt. We have a cash receipt for $4,800 with Richardson's signature and a flight plan amendment. We also have the hangar camera. It shows Richardson checking a black duffel the morning of the flight. Same harness bag you described from the REI purchase."
"Can I hear his statement?" I asked.
"Not yet. But we want you to do a controlled identification. Two photos. You tell us if it's the same pilot who was in the cockpit."
At the sheriff's substation that afternoon, they put two driver's license photos on the table. The second one was him — younger than I remembered, short hair, sunglasses clipped to his shirt. I tapped it.
"That's him. That's Ellis."
Rook nodded and logged my identification. He slid a printed flight log toward me. Handwritten time stamps, a circled note: PAX R. Richardson x2 — amend offshore — per client 08/14 — cash.
"Did he say Richard pushed me?" I asked.
"He said he didn't see hands. He was flying. But he heard Richardson say 'I'm sorry, Amelia' right before you went out. Then he heard you scream. Then Richardson said nothing for ten seconds, then told him to fly on."
Heller made a note. "That's corroboration of the audio. The 'sorry' and the 'Richard, our baby' line up with your recorder and his memory."
Rook looked at me. "One more thing. Ellis is willing to testify if we bring attempted homicide charges. He doesn't want Coastal Air tied to a murder. But we need the financial motive documented to get the DA to move this week."
I felt cold and steady at once. "The share plan."
May you like
"Yes. He tried to insure the outcome. We need to show the jury why he needed you gone before Monday."
When we left the substation, the helicopter noise was everywhere — a Coast Guard Jayhawk passing low toward the water. I watched it until it was gone. For once the sound didn't make my chest lock.
