Stuart was drinking light beer that he had poured into a frosted glass. Beer was the one thing I didn't miss. Blech. Give me wine any day.
"How you holding up?" I asked.
"Couldn't be worse," he said, and actually smiled.
I sipped my water and leaned slightly to the right to get a better view of the tiny sliver of ocean.
"If you look hard enough, you'll find it," said Stuart. "Believe it or not, I paid for that tiny speck of ocean you can see. Probably cost me another fifty grand."
"It's a nice speck," I said.
He chuckled and drank his beer. He seemed to be enjoying it. Go figure.
"I have it on good word," I said without looking at him, "that, unofficially, your wife's plane was sabotaged."
He stopped drinking.
I went on, "And if it was sabotaged, which appears likely, then that means your wife, along with everyone else on board, was murdered."
He sat back, stared down into his frosted mug. He didn't have much of a reaction. Then again, I wasn't telling him anything he didn't already know or suspect.
I continued, "We all know who stood to benefit from that plane going down. Jerry Blum has not only escaped prosecution, he is now a free man. With no witnesses and no case, all charges have been dropped against him."
Stuart nodded; his jawline rippled slightly.
"The plane crash investigation is still ongoing," I said after a few minutes. "The investigation could take years. Even if the authorities do find out who took it down, or sabotaged it, I suspect there will be very little evidence linking the attack to Jerry Blum."
He set his frosted glass down on the dusty, round glass table that sat between us, and turned and looked at me.
Stuart said, "And even if evidence is found indicating Jerry Blum was responsible for my wife's crash, who's to say that the next batch of witnesses won't be killed as well."
"It's a sick Catch-22," I said.
"This could go on forever."
I nodded.
"I may never see justice," he added. "Ever."
"There is still a chance they could find damning evidence linking Jerry Blum to the downed aircraft," I said.
"Or not," said Stuart.
I nodded. "Or not."
"More than likely he's going to get off, again, and meanwhile my wife...." Stuart's voice trailed off and he suddenly broke down, sobbing hard into his hands. I reached over and patted his shoulder and made sympathetic noises. He continued crying, and I continued patting.
When he finally got control of himself, he said, "I have something I want you to listen to."
Chapter Sixteen
Stuart got up and went through the sliding glass door. He came back a moment later holding a Blackberry phone. He sat next to me again and pushed a few buttons on the phone. A moment later, the phone was ringing loudly on speaker mode. An electronic voice answered and asked Stuart if he wanted to listen to his voice mail. Stuart pressed a button. I assumed his answer was yes. The voice then asked if Stuart wanted to listen to his archive. He pressed another button, and he held the phone out between us, face up, above the round table and above his beer.
"Stu!" came a woman's frantic voice. "Stu, listen to me. Something very, very bad is happening. Oh, God! Stu, the plane is having problems. Serious problems. I heard an explosion. It happened right outside my window. On the wing. It blew up. I can see it now. Flapping, burning, on fire. This isn't happening, this isn't happening. Oh, God, Stu!" The voice stopped. From somewhere nearby, I heard a woman screaming in the background. A horrible, gut-wrenching scream. "Stu, sweet Jesus, the plane is going to crash. Everyone knows it. The pilot can't get...can't get control of it." Another pause. A voice crackled loudly over a speaker. It was the pilot. He was telling everyone to sit in their seats, to buckle up, to remain calm. And then he told them to prepare for a crash landing. "Jesus, Stu. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. Oh, good Christ. I wish I was talking to you, baby. I need you so bad. I need your voice. Baby, I'm so scared. So scared. This isn't happening." Someone screamed bloody murder in the background. "I heard your voice, Stu. I heard it when I got your voice mail. At least I heard it one last - one more time. I love your voice, baby. I love you, baby. I love you so much. I'm going to die now." Someone spoke to her rapidly, hysterically, but the woman on the phone didn't respond. "Everyone's losing it, Stu. Everyone's freaking. Stu, the explosion. Something blew this plane up. Something blew the wing up. It's Jerry Blum, Stu. I know it. He did this, baby. Somehow. Somehow he got to us all. The motherfucker. Oh, God...." and now she broke down in sobs, briefly regained her composure, and into the phone, "I love you, baby. Forever."
And the line went dead.
* * *
Stuart didn't bother wiping the tears that ran down his cheeks. He stared silently down at his cell phone, which still rested in his open hand. His hand was shaking. Finally, reluctantly, he used his thumb and pressed another button, and pocketed the Blackberry carefully in his light jacket.
He said, "I forwarded my wife's message to another voice mail account I have, and then forwarded the call to the FBI. They asked me to delete the original, which I did. I never told them that I still have a copy of it. Hell, I have a few copies of it, saved in various formats. How dare they ask me to delete my wife's last message to me. The motherfuckers."
We sat quietly for a long time, and I heard his wife's panicked voice over and over again. My heart broke for her. My heart broke for him. My heart, quite frankly, broke to pieces.
"I'm so sorry," I finally said.
He nodded absently and stared off toward the beach and the muted sounds of crashing waves. I doubted Stuart's mortal ears could hear the waves. Probably a good thing, since hearing the sounds of crashing waves would have doubled the value of the condo. Just over the tiled rooftop of the condo across the street, two seagulls swooped down, their alabaster bodies clear as day to my eyes. As they flashed through the night sky, an ectoplasmic trail of crackling energy followed them like the burning tails of comets. The night was alive to my eyes. The night was alive to my ears, too.
Stuart said, "And even if the FBI eventually found the evidence to convict Jerry Blum, he still may never face punishment."
I nodded.
He shook his head. "It's...the worst feeling in the world, knowing that this motherfucker killed her, knowing that he let her burn to death." Stuart took deep breaths. "He's a fucking animal and I hate him. You know, fuck the trial. Fuck the evidence. Fuck everything. All I want is ten minutes alone with the motherfucker. Just me and him. Ten minutes."