“Which is exactly what I’d expect from our killer,” said Verraday. “He won’t leave a trace of himself any place that he’s not able to control.”
A strand of Maclean’s long hair had come loose, and as they passed the fountain into the open area of the rotunda, a gust of wind caught it, carried it up for a moment, then draped it across the lapel of her short Burberry trench coat. He wondered if he should tell her. Then he decided against it. It wasn’t like having a low-flying zipper or spinach stuck between your teeth. He liked the way it looked. Seeing her now, with the wind playing through her hair, looking so natural, he imagined she would be in her element in the woods, taking her inner city kids on wilderness treks. She turned to him.
“What are you smiling at?”
“Oh, nothing,” said Verraday. “I hadn’t even realized I was smiling.”
Maclean followed as Verraday now turned down a walkway toward an attractive brick building with a Gothic arched window in the center.
“Here we are,” he said. “This is the Kirsten Wind Tunnel.”
“This isn’t how I pictured a wind tunnel,” said Maclean.
“That’s because it was built in the 1930s, when there was Guggenheim money and no one had yet come up with the bright idea of making campus buildings look like Soviet mental hospitals. After you.”
He held the door open for her.
Entering, they heard a low hum. They followed the sound a short distance down the hall until they spotted a white-haired man in his midsixties wearing a Hawaiian shirt and gazing intently through a heavy blast window. On the other side of the shatterproof glass, in the wind tunnel, two helmeted men on locked-down racing bikes were pedaling furiously.
“Professor Lowenstein?” called Verraday.
“That’s me,” replied the man, turning and smiling. He had long, thinning white hair, prominent features, and light-blue eyes that gazed out thoughtfully from behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, giving him the demeanor of an overgrown Hobbit.
“We spoke yesterday on the phone. I’m Professor Verraday, and this is Detective Maclean.”
“Right. Let me just have a quick word with these gentlemen.”
Professor Lowenstein pushed a large red button, and the whine and roar from within the tunnel subsided. He switched on a talk-back microphone.
“Take five, fellas,” he told the men riding the bicycles.
“I wasn’t expecting to see bicycles in a wind tunnel,” said Maclean.
“Well, we gotta pay our way here. They’re determining how to reduce drag on racing bike helmets. That’s our specialty here—figuring out how to get through life with the least amount of resistance. But I know you’re not here to talk about that.”
Verraday was already wishing he did have all afternoon to listen to Lowenstein. It would no doubt have been more pleasant than tracking a killer.
“As I said on the phone, Professor,” began Verraday, “I understand your hobby is local commercial aviation history. Detective Maclean is working on a criminal case that might have a related angle to it. Could be nothing, but you never know.”
“The case is ongoing and none of the details can be public yet,” added Maclean.
Lowenstein smiled. “For the last four decades, both the Russians and the Chinese have been trying to play footsie with me, hoping to persuade me to reveal the knowledge we’ve unlocked here. And in all that time, the only information they’ve gotten out of me is that it’s a bad idea to urinate into high-velocity air masses. So my lips are sealed. Now how can I help?”
Maclean took out the photo and handed it to him. “We’re trying to find out what airline the plane and the flight attendant uniform are from. Might be a clue.”
Professor Lowenstein studied the photograph for a moment. “I’ve seen this uniform before. But not in ages. I would guess it’s twenty-five or thirty years old. But the cockpit is from a much more recent plane. The instrument panel is from a Cessna Citation M2 executive jet. They didn’t go into production until 2013.”
“So the uniform and the plane don’t go together?”
Lowenstein shook his head. “Not a chance. But that logo on the flight attendant’s lapel pin rings a bell. Just a sec.”
Professor Lowenstein reached into an equipment cabinet and pulled out a magnifying glass. He held it over the photo and studied it closely. Then his eyes lit up and he smiled.
“Yep, now I remember where I know this from.” He put his finger on the photo. “See that ‘G’ in the center of those wings on the young lady’s pin? That was the crest of Griffinair.”