“I’m looking for Jason Griffin,” said Maclean.
“Well, you’re looking at him,” replied the young man confidently.
A loud servo whine now joined the clatter of the impact wrench, drowning out every other sound in the hangar.
Jason grimaced in mock agony. “Why don’t you come into my office so we don’t have to shout,” he shouted, gesturing toward the open door.
Maclean and Verraday followed him toward the office at the back of the hangar.
“Watch your step, folks. I’ve got the lights off because we’re only doing inside work on that one plane right now. This place sucks up electricity like Las Vegas when the overheads are on.”
Verraday and Maclean traded a look as they passed a machine shop area where a six-by-eight-foot industrial bath stood. He noticed them looking.
“That’s where we repair and manufacture replacement parts. We’ve got lathes and drill presses to make any mechanical part we could need.”
It was evidently a well-practiced sales pitch, and despite having to almost bellow over the racket coming from the commuter plane, the young man was clearly proud of his operation.
“That tank you see is for flushing out and testing radiators. Most of the smaller cargo and commuter operations still run prop planes. Overheating is the number one cause of engine failure. And without an engine, you’re not going to stay up there for very long,” he said, jerking his thumb skyward. “So you’ve got to take good care of the cooling systems.”
When they reached the office, he stood aside and with a courtly gesture, motioned for them to enter. He followed them in and closed the heavy door behind them. Instantly, the machinery noise became virtually inaudible. He saw the look of surprise on their faces.
“That’s better, eh?” he said, smiling. “I spend sixty or seventy hours a week running this place, and believe me, it gets tiring listening to all that racket. That’s why the office is professionally soundproofed, so I don’t lose my hearing and my marbles by the end of the week.”
In contrast to the cavernous maintenance area, the office was well-lit, stylish, and comfortable. Several expensively framed aviation photos hung on the walls. Verraday noticed that in two of them, which were black and white and seemed to date from the 1940s, the same man was looking out the cockpit window of two different airplanes.
“Great pictures,” said Verraday. “World War II?”
“Yes,” replied Jason. “That’s my grandfather, Dick Griffin. He founded this company. He flew a B-17 Flying Fortress with the Eighth Air Force, based in England. That’s it in the picture on the left. He did his tour of duty—twenty-five bombing missions over Germany—flying through flak and fighters and anything else the Nazis could throw at him. Then instead of going home, he transferred to Air Transport Command and flew the plane in that other picture.”
“Looks like a C-47,” said Verraday.
“That’s exactly what it is,” said Jason. “So you know about planes as well as cars.”
“Just a little bit,” said Verraday. “My dad was a machinist at Boeing up until he retired.”
Verraday noticed another framed image, this one of Jason Griffin, fairly recently, standing on the pontoon of a small floatplane with a Griffinair logo on it. In another frame was a section front from the Seattle Times, showing a chubby adolescent boy behind the controls of a plane and a woman in her thirties sitting in the seat beside him.
“Who’s that?” asked Verraday.
“That’s me when I was twelve,” replied Jason. “And my mom.”
Verraday leaned in to read the text under the photo. “You set the world’s record for youngest solo flight in a twin-engine plane?”
“That’s correct,” said Jason, smiling. “It was a Beechcraft Super 18.”
He motioned them toward a couple of leather and stainless steel Wassily chairs. “Please, have a seat.” He took his own place in a black leather captain’s chair behind a large desk made from a single slab of mahogany. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m Detective Constance Maclean from the Seattle Police Department. This is James Verraday. He’s a forensic psychologist working with me on a case.”
“Cool. If I can make a shameless plug for myself, my grandfather taught me some of his combat flying techniques for evading Zeros and Messerschmitts. I know how to stay out of sight, so moving ground targets like speeders or drug boats wouldn’t even know I was there. Then when you’re ready to pounce, boom! I’d be right on ’em. So if it’s aerial surveillance you need, I’m your man, okay? I’ll beat anybody else’s price, and I’ll outfly ’em too. Guaranteed.”
“Thank you,” said Maclean, fighting to suppress a laugh and hide her befuddlement over this man-child, who obviously had a lot of technical skill but seemed arrested in early adolescence. “I’ll keep it in mind, but today we’re actually here to discuss something else.”
“Not sure how I can help, but I’ll try,” said Jason affably.