“Never heard of it,” said Maclean.
“It was a legendary regional airline. Before your time. They started up when I was a kid and pterodactyls ruled the skies. At their peak, in the 1970s, Griffinair had about half a dozen war surplus cargo aircraft and three small commuter planes that flew out of Seattle to Spokane, Portland, and Walla Walla. They also had a floatplane charter service. It was founded by a guy named Dick Griffin, a real character. He was a World War II combat veteran who ran the company until he died at ninety-five. Stubborn as hell. He was a trailblazer in the beginning. But as the years went by, he fell out of touch with the industry. He passed away about ten years ago, and by then he’d just about run the company into the ground, from what I hear. But that uniform is Griffinair, for sure. That any use to you, Detective?”
“Thanks, Professor,” replied Maclean. “You’ve been extremely helpful.”
CHAPTER 23
“Got time to come pay a visit to Griffinair with me?” asked Maclean as they left the Kirsten building.
“Love to. I’ve got a class to teach at two o’clock. Can you get me back here by then?”
“I might have to embarrass you by putting the siren and flashers on, but sure, I think that can be arranged,” said Maclean. “Now I’d like to do a web search on the company before we talk to them.”
“Want to use the computer in my office?”
“We can check it out on my iPad on the way there, if you don’t mind doing the honors. It’ll save us some time, help make sure I get you back here on schedule.”
Within ten minutes, they were headed down Interstate 5, and Verraday had read Maclean a Wikipedia entry on the history of Griffinair as well as several articles about the company in aviation magazines. All of them conveyed the same story that Professor Lowenstein had told them. One community paper contained a paid obituary notice for Fred Griffin, son of the founder. It was written by Fred’s son, Jason. It did not reveal the cause of death, but suggested that donations could be directed toward a local mental health organization.
By the time they had exhausted the Google entries for Griffinair, they were cruising along Perimeter Road at King County International Airport, still referred to by the locals as Boeing Field. Built in the 1920s, it had since been eclipsed by the larger and newer Sea-Tac Airport and nowadays was used mainly for cargo operations, maintenance, and flight-testing.
Maclean spotted a hangar with a Griffinair logo on it, which had been updated from the midcentury crest on the uniform pin to a sleek, stylized emblem. Maclean pulled the Interceptor up beside it. The hangar door was open just enough for Maclean and Verraday to step through into the cavernous interior. As their eyes adjusted to the murky light, they saw a twin-engine commuter plane and a small executive jet parked inside. The door of the commuter plane was open, and an access panel under the crew compartment had been removed. From somewhere inside the plane, they heard the whine of an impact wrench.
At the back of the hangar, a door was ajar, allowing a single shaft of light to escape into the gloom. It appeared to be an office area. Verraday now noticed that there was a vintage car parked at the back of the hangar. As he got closer, he recognized the lines as belonging to a 1968 Dodge Charger, highly coveted by collectors. The hood was open, revealing a hulking engine that Verraday could identify because of the unusual way that the spark plug wires came up through the valve covers.
Verraday whistled low under his breath. “Wow, a vintage Dodge Charger with a Hemi. That’s one expensive piece of machinery,” he commented to Maclean.
She smiled to see him genuinely awestruck. Just then a man stuck his head out of the office. He was partially silhouetted by the office light and was difficult to make out, but they could see that he was muscular and appeared to be in his late twenties.
“Can I help you?” he asked, his tone solicitous.
“Let me take this for a sec,” Verraday whispered to Maclean.
“Just admiring your Charger,” said Verraday. “I’m guessing by the grille it’s a ’68?”
“Sure is,” said the young man proudly as he approached them. “First year of production for that body type.”
“Looks like a 426 Hemi,” said Verraday.
The man seemed surprised but pleased that a stranger recognized it. “That’s exactly what it is. Four hundred and twenty-five horsepower, straight out of the factory. Zero to sixty in four-point-seven seconds. Fifty years old, and it’ll still blow the doors off a Ferrari.”
“That’s true,” agreed Verraday. “A Charger with a 426 Hemi can take just about anything, even off the showroom floor.”
“You seem to know your Mopars,” said the man.
“My dad had a 1967 Belvedere. Same platform. Except his had a 318. He couldn’t afford the Hemi.”
“There aren’t many of them around, that’s for sure. So what can I do for you folks?”