"You’re staring at a dead man’s flight path like it’s going to resurrect him," Vivienne said, her shadow stretching across the mahogany desk as she set a cold espresso next to my elbow.
I didn't look up from the terminal. The blue light from the dual monitors burned into my retinas, reflecting rows of tail numbers, transponder logs, and offshore wire transfers I had spent the last four hours cross-referencing. "Arthur didn't just buy the black box data to hide the crash, Vivienne. He bought the silence of three men who knew the plane was cleared to fly."
"The swing voters," she said, her voice dropping, sharp and analytical. "Which ones?"
"Harrison, Vance, and Sterling." I zoomed in on the flight logs recovered from the crash, overlaying them with Lockhart International’s private airstr
