“Stal speed for a C-210 is around sixty-four miles per hour. That’s the minimum they could fly at drop time. It’s tough to push something out at that speed.

Think about holding open your car door while going down the highway at sixty-five.”

“Right.”

“Here’s the scenario I’m liking. The right front seat’s been removed for access to the modified door. The passenger is in back. The product is in the smal cargo compartment behind the passenger. Are you picturing this?”

“Yes.”

“Pearce—”

She flicked her eyes to Ryan. I nodded. She turned to him. “That’s the pilot.”

Ryan nodded.

“Pearce is using the rock face as his landmark. He spots the cliff, gives the signal, the passenger unbuckles, reaches back, and starts shoving product from the plane.”

“Coke?” Ryan asked.

“Probably. You couldn’t get enough weed into a C-210 to make the run worth your while. Though I’ve seen it done.”

“Wouldn’t a fal from that height cause the packets of coke to explode?” I asked.

“That’s why they’re using parachutes.”

“Parachutes?”

“Smal cargo chutes they could have purchased in a surplus store. The locals are checking that out. Anyway, the coke is bundled inside heavy plastic sheeting, padded with bubble wrap, and bound with enough duct tape to cover my aunt Lil y’s ass. Auntie was a big girl.”

“Sounds like my great-aunt Cornelia,” Ryan said. “Good eater.”

Jansen glanced at Ryan, turned back at me.

“Go on,” I said.

“Each bundle is attached to a chute with more duct tape and a cinch strap. The chute is wrapped around the bundle, and a twenty-foot polypropylene line is overwrapped around the chute to hold it tight around the bundle. You with me?”

“Yes.”

“Pearce gives the word. The pax secures the loose end of the line to something inside the aircraft, opens the doggy door, and shoves the bundle out. As the bundle tumbles, the rope unwraps, the chute is pul ed free and deploys, and the snort drifts to earth, sweet as a songbird.” Boyd nipped Ryan’s calf. Ryan clapped at him. The dog leaped backward and resumed looping.

“So what went wrong?” I asked.

“How’s this. They’re flying low over the drop area, close to stal speed, things are hunky-dory, then the last bundle streams back toward the tail. The chute or bundle gets tangled in the rudder or elevator, the pilot can’t steer, loses control. Hel o, rock face.”

“Explains why Pearce was belted and his passenger wasn’t.”

I pictured the two burned corpses, each coated with the crispy black residue.

“These chutes are made of lightweight nylon, right?”

“Yes.”

“How about this. The last chute deploys prematurely, inside the plane. It envelops the passenger. He struggles. Pearce reaches over, tries to disentangle him, loses control, flies into the rock face. Firebal .”

“Explains the black residue. Fried parachute.” Jansen was with me.