she asked, focusing on the conversation at hand. “No signs of uncontrolled anger, detachment, loss of interest—”
“I’m more than aware of the symptoms of PTSD, Ms. Montgomery,” Neiman said. “And I can tell you unequivocally that Nicky didn’t suffer from it.”
“I agree,” Gideon said. “We were close. I’d have noticed if something was wrong.”
“What about the day of the crash? Anything happen that was out of the ordinary?”
“No.” Gideon shook his head, his gaze cutting to his father’s. “But I told you, I’ve already been over all of this.”
“So humor us,” Simon said. “We wouldn’t be bothering you if we didn’t think it was important.”
“It was a routine day.” Gideon sat back, blowing out a breath. “I came in around nine. Nicky was already here.”
“And it’s just the two of you?”
“Usually. Although I have an assistant that comes in three days a week. But she wasn’t there that day.”
“What about mechanics?” Simon asked.
“We share them with the others who use the heliport. They’re actually employees of the city. It’s regulation.” The elder Neiman shrugged. “I’ve got my own mechanics, of course, but they don’t handle routine maintenance. And there was no one here the day the helicopter crashed. Just my son and Nicky.”
“And everything seemed normal?”
“Yeah,” Gideon said. “Nicky took a couple of Wall Street bigwigs for a run in the morning, and then he had the tour in the afternoon.”
“With Eric Wilderman.”
“Right.” Gideon nodded. “I checked him in myself. And if you ask me, he’s the one you should be looking at.”
“Is there something specific that makes you say that?” Simon asked.
“No. Just that the little guy seemed off somehow. I don’t know. It’s not something you can put into words.”
“But there wasn’t anything about that in the originalreport,” Simon prompted, his brows drawn together in a frown.
“No one asked. I didn’t even think about it, really. I mean, they were so sure it was an accident.”
“You said Wilderman was little. What exactly did you mean by that?” Jillian asked, pulling Eric Wilderman’s photo up on her iPad.
“Just what I said. The guy was real small. Five-five max.”
“And just to be clear, you’re referring to Eric Wilderman, right?”
“Yes,” Gideon said, confusion playing across his face. “Eric Wilderman, the man who signed up for the tour.” Simon leaned forward, clearly at a loss as well.
“Can you give me a description?” Jillian said, looking down at Mr. Wilderman’s photo, his balding pate glistening in the sunlight.
“Um, he was short. Like I said. And kind of wiry.” Gideon looked over to his father, who shrugged. Gideon sighed and then scrunched up his face as he tried to remember. “He had dark hair. Cropped short. But not like a buzz cut. And more than a few days’ growth on his face, but it wasn’t a full beard. More like he just hadn’t shaved in a while.”
“What about ethnicity? White, Asian, Latino?”
“I don’t know. Nothing really. I mean, I guess, white. He was definitely American, complete with a midwestern nasal drawl.”
“How about his clothes?” she prompted, Simon showing signs of comprehension now.
“Expensive. The suit had to have cost a couple thousand. And the shoes. Oh, and there was a watch. A Rolexor something like it. It was big and definitely expensive. I remember being surprised. I mean he was an insurance salesman, right?” He shot an apologetic look at his dad, and J.J. lifted the iPad so that they could all see it.
“Is this the guy?” she asked.
“No. He didn’t look anything at all like that. Who is that?”
“Eric Wilderman,” Jillian said, alarm bells ringing. “No one showed you this photograph, I take it?”
“Like I said”—this from the elder Neiman—“everyone thought it was an accident. They were far more interested in our maintenance records.”
“Did you
“I’m more than aware of the symptoms of PTSD, Ms. Montgomery,” Neiman said. “And I can tell you unequivocally that Nicky didn’t suffer from it.”
“I agree,” Gideon said. “We were close. I’d have noticed if something was wrong.”
“What about the day of the crash? Anything happen that was out of the ordinary?”
“No.” Gideon shook his head, his gaze cutting to his father’s. “But I told you, I’ve already been over all of this.”
“So humor us,” Simon said. “We wouldn’t be bothering you if we didn’t think it was important.”
“It was a routine day.” Gideon sat back, blowing out a breath. “I came in around nine. Nicky was already here.”
“And it’s just the two of you?”
“Usually. Although I have an assistant that comes in three days a week. But she wasn’t there that day.”
“What about mechanics?” Simon asked.
“We share them with the others who use the heliport. They’re actually employees of the city. It’s regulation.” The elder Neiman shrugged. “I’ve got my own mechanics, of course, but they don’t handle routine maintenance. And there was no one here the day the helicopter crashed. Just my son and Nicky.”
“And everything seemed normal?”
“Yeah,” Gideon said. “Nicky took a couple of Wall Street bigwigs for a run in the morning, and then he had the tour in the afternoon.”
“With Eric Wilderman.”
“Right.” Gideon nodded. “I checked him in myself. And if you ask me, he’s the one you should be looking at.”
“Is there something specific that makes you say that?” Simon asked.
“No. Just that the little guy seemed off somehow. I don’t know. It’s not something you can put into words.”
“But there wasn’t anything about that in the originalreport,” Simon prompted, his brows drawn together in a frown.
“No one asked. I didn’t even think about it, really. I mean, they were so sure it was an accident.”
“You said Wilderman was little. What exactly did you mean by that?” Jillian asked, pulling Eric Wilderman’s photo up on her iPad.
“Just what I said. The guy was real small. Five-five max.”
“And just to be clear, you’re referring to Eric Wilderman, right?”
“Yes,” Gideon said, confusion playing across his face. “Eric Wilderman, the man who signed up for the tour.” Simon leaned forward, clearly at a loss as well.
“Can you give me a description?” Jillian said, looking down at Mr. Wilderman’s photo, his balding pate glistening in the sunlight.
“Um, he was short. Like I said. And kind of wiry.” Gideon looked over to his father, who shrugged. Gideon sighed and then scrunched up his face as he tried to remember. “He had dark hair. Cropped short. But not like a buzz cut. And more than a few days’ growth on his face, but it wasn’t a full beard. More like he just hadn’t shaved in a while.”
“What about ethnicity? White, Asian, Latino?”
“I don’t know. Nothing really. I mean, I guess, white. He was definitely American, complete with a midwestern nasal drawl.”
“How about his clothes?” she prompted, Simon showing signs of comprehension now.
“Expensive. The suit had to have cost a couple thousand. And the shoes. Oh, and there was a watch. A Rolexor something like it. It was big and definitely expensive. I remember being surprised. I mean he was an insurance salesman, right?” He shot an apologetic look at his dad, and J.J. lifted the iPad so that they could all see it.
“Is this the guy?” she asked.
“No. He didn’t look anything at all like that. Who is that?”
“Eric Wilderman,” Jillian said, alarm bells ringing. “No one showed you this photograph, I take it?”
“Like I said”—this from the elder Neiman—“everyone thought it was an accident. They were far more interested in our maintenance records.”
“Did you
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