Hollywood Taxes: A Tycoon in TV Land

Chapter 33: Clues from the Crash

"Damn it! I just had that office renovated!"

Ron stared at the wreckage that had once been his stylish new workspace, rage flaring behind his eyes. He seriously considered putting a bullet from his .50-caliber revolver through the skull of whatever bastard was responsible for this mess.

Despite Jack claiming he knew nothing, Ron headed straight for the FBI. Incidents like this always fell under their jurisdiction first, and if there were any clues or intel, they'd have it before anyone else.

"Ron? What the hell, you again?" Jack's office door was flung open mid-rant, but when he saw who it was, he just sighed and shook his head in frustration. Thanks to their recent team-up against the CIA, he bit back the curse words he was about to hurl.

"I want to know who the hell just destroyed my freshly remodeled office!" Ron slammed his loaded handgun onto Jack's desk, exuding barely restrained fury. "And whoever it is—I'm sending that lunatic straight to meet their god!"

Jack winced but didn't flinch. "Look, I get it. I was just as pissed at first. But this time, it doesn't look like a terrorist attack." He grabbed a still-warm fax off the machine and dropped it on top of Ron's gun.

Ron snatched the document and started scanning. "'The FAA reports the plane changed course under direct instruction from the control tower, and no anomalies were detected.' Seriously? That's the lamest excuse for a crash I've ever heard! What, you're telling me no one hijacked the tower and forced them to reroute the planes?"

"I'm telling you—we're sure," Jack said firmly. "We've already secured the entire tower. Everything checks out. No signs of tampering. Nothing. Just looks like a basic human error. I know—it's absurd."

He leaned back in his chair and sighed heavily.

Ron was still skeptical. "You sure it's that simple? Did you at least dig into that air traffic controller's background? I want bank records, unusual cash transfers, property under his kids' names—hell, even whether the guy's been gambling in Vegas lately. You know how those casino sharks operate—always hiding stuff under layers of fake paper trails. Can't trust a word they say unless you've dissected every damn transaction."

Jack looked unsurprised. Clearly, he'd expected this.

As the fax machine behind him screeched out another document, Jack grabbed the fresh pages without even looking and tossed them onto the desk in front of Ron.

"Go ahead. That's everything we've got on the guy who was on duty during the crash. Background check, preliminary interview, the works. I figured you'd want it fast, so I had them send it over right away."

Ron immediately dove into the report, but the deeper he read, the more his brow furrowed.

The man in question couldn't have looked more ordinary if he tried. A model middle-aged white-collar worker. Clean record. High education. No vices. A brief stint in the military, then hired by the airport post-discharge. Lived a quiet, boring life in the chaos of Los Angeles.

His wife had passed away years ago, and he had a single daughter—who, according to the report, had a history of drug abuse.

Ron's eyes narrowed.

The daughter had overdosed just two days prior, choking to death on her own vomit. The father didn't take time off. He went back to work immediately.

A footnote at the bottom included the investigating agent's assessment: The controller may have been mentally distracted by his daughter's death, leading to a lapse in attention that caused the tragic accident.

But Ron's attention was locked on one word in the report:

Drugs.

He looked up sharply, voice cold and focused. "Jack, can I ask what kind of drugs the daughter OD'd on? Was it the same type I've been investigating?"

His eyes gleamed with intensity. The kind of look that said: This isn't just a crash. This is a thread—one that might lead straight into the heart of something far darker.

Jack casually pulled an ashtray from beneath his desk, lit a cigarette, and let the smoke curl lazily into the air. He made no effort to open a window or ask Ron if he minded.

"You can ask Hank from the DEA," Jack said indifferently, exhaling a thick plume of smoke that wrapped around him like a fog. "My guys said you've met him before. But even if it is the same drug you're investigating, so what?"

He shrugged as if the whole thing were a minor inconvenience.

"This crash has nothing to do with that. As far as I'm concerned, the case is closed. It's pretty damn obvious: a grieving father made a mistake, and some greedy corporation refused to give its employees proper leave even in the face of personal tragedy."

Ron shook his head slowly, clearly unconvinced.

"It might be over for you, Jack. But for me? This is just the beginning. And if I have to pin the blame for my freshly renovated office being reduced to rubble, I'm not looking at some poor bastard who lost his daughter—I'm going after the dealer who sold her the poison that killed her."

He leaned forward slightly, a gleam in his eye.

"And there's something… very interesting in all of this. Tell me, Jack—did you catch it?"

His tone was almost playful now. Jack raised a brow and flipped back through the report, especially the section on the daughter. He scanned it again, slower this time, but eventually frowned and looked up, confused.

"What are you talking about?"

Ron rolled his eyes discreetly. And this guy's the head of the FBI office? he thought. Still, for the sake of future cooperation, he kept his voice patient.

"Focus on the daughter's background. She used to be a junkie, right? Her father—who's now the center of this whole mess—forced her into rehab. She got clean. Sure, a relapse isn't shocking, especially for someone with a long history like hers."

"But?"

"But she was an experienced user. And experienced users know how not to die stupidly. You think she'd just nod off and choke on her own vomit like an amateur? She would've known to lie on her side, or have someone watch her—if it were the usual stuff."

Jack still looked skeptical. "So what? What's that got to do with your drug case?"

Ron's voice dropped, sharp and deliberate. "I think she got her hands on something new. Something far more potent. A drug strong enough to make a seasoned user forget every survival instinct. And her relapse? Look at the timeline. According to her father's statement, she fell off the wagon right when this new wave of high-purity product started hitting the streets."

Jack sat up a little straighter, no longer so dismissive.

"So her dealer had top-tier connections, got the newest product early. Still doesn't prove it's related to the crash. You're connecting dots with no evidence, Ron."

Ron smirked and pulled a page from the folder, slapping it onto Jack's desk.

"You want evidence? Here it is. The guy who rented her that apartment? I've met him. Name's Jesse, small-time punk. But if you kept tabs on the IRS reports, you'd know he was already flagged—by Hank—for dealing the exact same type of designer drug I've been tracking."

Jack went quiet.

Ron sat back, folding his arms. "Now tell me again this crash was just a tragic accident."