A Knife Edge (18 page)

I ducked under the tape. I had no idea what I was looking for. Maybe the missing knife. Or maybe it was just to let Ruben's ghost know that I was on the case. This was not a Road Runner cartoon and so there was no depression in the ground where my former squadron buddy had come to rest, although there was a white spray-painted outline on the grass around a small bush that had been flattened, its thin green trunk snapped off at
ground level. Presumably it had done its best to break Wrong Way's fall. Its best hadn't been near good enough.

Two hours later, I'd found nothing inside the tape, but I did firm on my theory that if the knife
had
come down here, it wouldn't have been just lying around waiting to be picked up. The earth was soft and loamy. The knife would certainly have kept going, burying itself well over the hilt and pulling the dirt in behind it. The sun was out, but the air was cool and still smelled of rain. I had no pressing engagements so I began to walk the area outside the tape. I needed the exercise. I hadn't been able to do my usual morning run for over a week. And also, the walk gave me time to think. Colonel Selwyn was right, there really was only one possible theory that fit the facts we had: Wright had been cut out of his chute. It couldn't have happened in the plane on the climb to the drop zone. It would have happened on the way down. Special Forces, especially SAS and CCTs, do a lot of aerial work—they are highly adept parachutists. The sort of maneuver required in midair of the assailant would have been difficult, but not impossible. The unanswered question was whether it was murder or an unfortunate accident. Perhaps there'd been a collision. It had been a night jump. Maybe Wrong Way had just been plain unlucky. But if that's what had happened, why would the men who jumped with him hide the truth?

More than a hundred and fifty feet from the taped area, I scuffed my shoe over a tuft of grass and something caught my attention. It caught my attention on account of it was red where everything else around it was green. I pulled an evidence bag from my pocket and used it as a glove to remove the object. It was a sliver of plastic. If this was a supermarket parking lot, I'd have said it was possibly part of the remains of some housewife's brake light. Maybe it was nothing, but, this close to a crime scene, maybe it was something. A tearing sound, far overhead, distracted me. I knew that sound.

I stood and used my hand as a glare visor, squinting upward. The source of the noise took a moment or two to locate. And
then I saw them. They were dropping fast, small black fleas against the blue. I counted five. At a height of perhaps fifteen hundred feet, black parachutes opened. A second or two followed before I heard the distant, familiar cracks, like the sound of a baseball bat smacking into a heavy punching bag. I watched the parachutes fly in a descending corkscrew pattern. The way they came down reminded me of the double helix. That prompted me to wonder how Bradley Chalmers was getting along with the
Natusima's
cook in Guam. I sure hoped he was getting absolutely nothing from the trip besides a tan. Actually, I hoped it was overcast.

The fleas landed on the far side of the open, marshy ground that separated us. Watching them flare their chutes and touch down safely, gently, made me wonder how Wrong Way had come down. Had he panicked or had he resigned himself to his fate? What thoughts had gone through his mind just before his boots did? A Humvee pickup appeared from the scrub between the parachutists and the crime scene. It splashed across the marsh, heading toward the soldiers as they gathered their chutes under their arms.

After making the collection, the vehicle headed back to the point where it had appeared. But then it did a sudden ninety-degree detour in my direction. I stood my ground and it stopped. Its rear door swung open. Two guys hopped out as three others jumped down from the rear. They were all wearing Disruptive Pattern, Material camouflage—different from our “woodland pattern” battle-dress uniforms, or BDUs. In other words, they were visitors. I gave them a quick once-over. They appeared to be fully kitted up with ammunition pouches and various stores attached to webbing points. They were minus their chute bags, Kevlar helmets, and weapons, all of which were piled in the back of the Humvee. The driver stayed behind the wheel, keeping the motor running.

The men facing me had their faces painted with camouflage. I was wondering what they wanted, when the guy in front said, “Well, if it isn't Mr. Plod…”

And then I saw the blond tips and it clicked. “What did you say?” I asked.

He shrugged, hands on hips. “You're a copper. Back home, Mr. Plod is what we call coppers. Term of endearment, an' all.”

“You're a long way from home, Mack. And here you can call me Special Agent Cooper.” Once I'd established that he wasn't endearing himself to me, I said, “And you are… ?” I already knew, of course, but I didn't want the guy knowing that I'd already attached his name and face to the death of Sergeant Wright.

“Staff Sergeant Chris Butler, Her Britannic Majesty's Special Air Service Regiment. I heard a rumor there was going to be a new investigator appointed. If that's you, then you'd know I was with Sergeant Wright when he bought the farm. And please accept my humble apology,
Special Agent.
No disrespect intended.”

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“So,
are
you? Taking over the investigation?”

Asking questions was my job, not his. “What are you doing here, Staff?” I repeated.

“That's our drop zone,” he said, indicating back over his shoulder. “We were in the vicinity, so the lads and I thought we'd come over and pay our respects to the late sergeant's ghost.”

I didn't buy that. Most probably on his way down Butler had seen the beacon that was my Hawaiian shirt loitering around the taped-off area and was just being nosy.

“Are you and your men around later today?” I inquired.

“I've got nothing planned. Lads?” He turned to get a consensus from his men. They gave a collective shrug.

I gathered they'd be around, too.

“You know where we're staying?” Butler asked.

“I'll find you. Expect me at sixteen hundred hours.”

“We'll put on a brew,” he said.

Something irregular caught my attention. “You've lost your flashlight, Staff.” A flashlight was part of a para's inventory, just
like a knife, and, as Clare Selwyn had said, Special Forces soldiers were fanatical about their gear. It was usually attached to the webbing on the chest.

“Oh, hadn't noticed. Must have left it back at the hacienda,” he said, padding down the front of his webbing.

In my pocket was, I believed, a fragment from a low-light red lens, the type commonly found on a typical military flashlight. Maybe the fragment had come from Butler's. If so, what was it doing here? How had it come to be smashed? And if it had come from his flashlight, why lie about it? Maybe I'd found a genuine clue here. Or maybe the fragment belonged to one of those squirrels.

“Anything else we can help you with?” Butler asked.

“Not just at the moment,” I replied.

“Well, we'll catch you later, then, eh?” Butler climbed back into the Humvee, all smiles. The others climbed up after him, all except one. Unlike the rest, this guy wasn't smiling. He also had an anxious look on his face like he'd just passed a monkey wrench. I wanted to know why.

I
t was just after 1400 hours by the time I made it back to my quarters. I fixed myself a sandwich with supplies bought from the Hurlburt Field BX, and stoked up the coffee machine. I phoned Agent Lyne and obtained an address for Butler and his team. According to Lyne's information, the men were all renting an apartment in Destin together, which made sense. It was quite near The Funkster, where I'd come across the Brits the previous evening. Lyne was interested in knowing how it was all going. I assured him that it was going quite well, although, unbeknown to him, I was referring to the pastrami and cheese on rye I was halfway through.

I bumped my laptop, which woke it from its slumber, and I saw the e-mail icon jumping. I put the sandwich down and checked my Hotmail mailbox. I had a long list of unread messages—bonus deals on bulk purchases of Viagra and e-mails dripping with virus. I trashed all but one, an electronic notice from the
San Francisco Chronicle.

The subject of the e-mail caused a double take. It read,
“CEO leaves Moreton Genetics.”
I clicked through and skimmed the article that originated in the newspaper's business pages. Basically, in a move that had surprised the market, Dr. Frederique Spears had resigned after less than two years in MG's top job. Her stated reasons for doing so were personal. The article said Spears
had thrown in the towel late on the day after Christmas. The stock market had since reacted negatively to the news and MG's stocks were trading sharply down. Yadda yadda. Spears had resigned barely a day and a half after my interview with her. Had the interview been the cause of her resignation? The timing sure was fascinating. I recalled the look on her face when I'd told her that I believed Boyle had murdered Tanaka.

I finished off the sandwich while I contemplated this. Down here in Florida, working a new case, I'd been living in a bit of a news vacuum the past couple of days. I went to the
Chronicle's
home page to check on the latest events there. Security-camera footage taken in the area of the Transamerica building showed the van packed with explosives several seconds before it blew. It turned out the van had been rented by two Americans “who looked like a couple of Arabs,” according to a woman at the rental company. The story said the ethnic heritage of these “Arabs” was unknown. I was skeptical about that. More than likely, the police knew everything there was to know about the perpetrators by now, only the information was being selectively released to the media. The bombers apparently had no prior record or known contact with terrorists. Hadn't even collected so much as a parking ticket between them. As far as their friends and neighbors were concerned, they were Americans. Had to be—they wore Nike sweatshirts and baseball caps.

To reduce suspicion, the “Arabs” had not used ammonium nitrate, the oxidizing agent of choice in most truck bombs. Instead, they'd purchased potassium nitrate for use in glass-making—glass making being their stated business and occupation. Basically, the bomb makers knew exactly what they were doing. Potassium nitrate is every bit as potent as ammonium nitrate, especially when combined with diesel oil, rubber, and sand in what the FBI's forensics team determined to have been “ideal proportions.” Meanwhile, over at the Four Winds, the gas had burned so fiercely that no items of forensic interest had been recovered from that scene.

The body count at the scene had risen since I was there. Far
too many of the critically injured had failed to respond to treatment. I noted that the numbers of people missing as a result of the bombing had shrunk to twelve.

I put in a call to Arlen on his cell. “Hey,” I said when he picked up.

“Vin. How's it going down there.” He was instantly suspicious. “You
are
still down in Florida, aren't you?”

“Of course.”

He relaxed a little. “So how's the tan coming along?”

“Coming along great. Haven't left the hotel pool since I got here.”

“Really? I looked at the weather channel this morning and I saw it'd been raining.”

“Raining sunshine, buddy.”

“Well, whatever, you're lucky you're down there and not in D.C. Round here, sleep is a dirty word at the moment.”

“It's pretty frantic here, too, you know. You have to remember to flip over on the hour to avoid sunburn.”

“Yeah, yeah. Something I can do for you, Vin?”

“As a matter of fact, no.”

“That's a nice change.”

“Just rang to say hello and ask if the tests on Boyle's wallet have come through, and whether he's still on the missing list.”

“I class that as something—and you're not in the loop on that one anymore, Vin,” Arlen said, after a pause.

“C'mon, Arlen.”

“I'm not in it, either.”

“I know, but you're like the girl in reception. You know everything going on.”

“You really know how to stroke my ego, Vin.”

“I read Freddie Spears resigned shortly after I spoke to her.”

“Really? What did you say to her?”

“To make her resign? I told her I believed Boyle got Tanaka drunk and then threw him to that shark. She liked Tanaka and, from what I could tell, didn't think much of Boyle. Anything on that DVD, by the way?”

“Vin, c'mon. You promised to let this one go, to concentrate on the case you're working down there …”

“I know, and I haven't broken that promise. I just got an automated e-mail from the
Chronicle
about Spears's resignation. Got me thinking, is all.”

Arlen let this sink in before answering. “I know you're not going to believe me, but I don't know anything. I've heard nothing further about either the DVD or the wallet recovered there, or the case in general. And I'm not asking questions, either.”

He was right; I didn't believe him. “Can you just find out one small thing for me?”

“No.”

“I just want to know whether Boyle's body has been positively identified.”

“No.”

“It hasn't been IDed?”

I heard Arlen sigh. “So how
is
it going down there?” he asked again.

“You know what Florida's like?”

“Actually, I've never been there.”

“Lots of women in bikinis,” I said.

“Lucky you.”

“Who're mostly pushing seventy.”

“Thanks for that image,” he said. “So, you going to answer my question?”

“You going to answer mine?”

“Vin, Jesus…”

“OK, OK,” I said. “So far, from what I can see, it looks like a homicide.”

“Seems there's a lot of that going around at the moment. I gotta go, Vin. Got a world to save here. Keep fighting the good fight, buddy.”

“Talk later,” I said.

“Yeah, later…”

I heard dial tone. He was right about one thing. The
Boyle/Tanaka case was no longer mine, and I was completely out of the loop, but I had my own theory about Boyle and I had my doubts about Chalmers being able to successfully muddle his way to the truth.