Jesse nodded. The tape was wrapped repeatedly around itself, yet cut cleanly through all layers. Looking carefully, she could see short, curly hairs still attached to the sticky side of the remnants. “Somebody rescued him. With all that hair, the victim certainly wasn’t a girl.”
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
Jesse made a sweeping gesture toward the corpses on the floor. “So one of these is the good guy and one is the bad guy? They shot it out between them, and neither made it out alive?”
Gail shook her head. “I don’t think so. The angles are wrong. Look here.” She shifted and pointed to the bodies. “They’ve both got weapons, but all the bullet strikes are over there.” She pointed to the star-shaped divots in the stone near the shattered door. “I don’t think they were shooting at each other. I think they were defending themselves from somebody else.”
“Somebody else?”
She waited for him to connect the dots.
Jesse’s eyes grew wide. “You think it was a third party?”
Gail smiled and nodded. “You, she supposed, but it had been her experience that killers-like everyone else in life-followed the simplest path, not the most difficult one. “But I don’t think so. I think this is the work of someone hired to do a job, and maybe the job went the wrong way and got messy. By leaving the tape and the bodies and the casings, I think maybe he’s trying to show us that at least he killed for the right reasons.”
“Hoping that we’ll back off, maybe.”
“Or at least not press as hard.”
Jesse regarded Gail. “He bet wrong, didn’t he?”
She smiled. “Oh, yeah. This isn’t the Old West. You want justice done, you call the police. Or, if you pull something like this, with these results, then you still call the police and own up to it. Let a jury decide who’s the good guy and who’s the bad.”
Chapter Four
Jonathan dropped the Explorer off at a self-storage place on the outskirts of Muncie and locked the door. Within a few hours, the owner of a body shop that specialized in under-the-table repairs would enter the storage bay and examine the vehicle for any bullet holes or other damage that might need repairing. Finding none, he would return it to the rental car lot at the Indianapolis Airport. No one would know anything of the events in which the vehicle had participated.
Leaving the storage yard, Jonathan walked down the street to a no-tell motel and took a cab to Indianapolis Airport. Of the day’s long ordeal, Jonathan’s fifteen minutes on airport property were his most nerve-racking. The pundits on the news who complained that American airports remained soft targets for terrorists needed to get their heads out of their asses. The place swarmed with police and dogs and electronic surveillance gimmickry, and there he was, walking around like a living training toy. Step a little too close to the wrong dog and he’d have some major explaining to do. Even though he never entered the main terminal, the proximity of this much security made him nervous as hell.
He headed straight for the cabstand. The hack who picked him up was an Arab, Jonathan’s first lucky break of the day. Ever since 9-11, most Middle Eastern ex-pats went out of their way to avoid contact with anybody, and many of them were particularly uninterested in cooperating with police. If some lucky flatfoot was able to connect the dots as far as the airport, the trail would likely stop dead, because no one would step forward to tell anybody anything.
God granted good fortune to those who were perpetually careful.
He paid cash for his ride to a Sheraton in Indianapolis, and cash again for a second cab ride to the bus station. From there, it was a long bus trip to Evanston, where he caught yet another cab to O’Hare International Airport. He told that driver to drop him at the long-term parking area on Bessie Coleman Drive. When the cab was out of sight, it was then time to walk across the street to begin the final leg of the journey.
The executive air terminal at O’Hare was a lot like executive air terminals everywhere, much more sparsely appointed than the uninitiated would expect. There were no concessions to speak of, unless you counted the self- service coffee station, which at present was serving a product more suitable to a fountain pen than a coffee cup. People with their own planes don’t need a concession stand.
Besides, Boxers was already wait’s kid gets picked up, the family’s gonna dig deep to come up with money they didn’t even know they had.”
Jonathan conceded the point with a nod. “And what do you make of the girl in the woods with the gun?”
“I think she should’ve dropped it instead of shooting it.”
Jonathan smiled. Leave it to Boxers to get straight to the heart of an issue. After a minute or two of silence, Jonathan lifted himself out of the copilot’s seat and headed for the back of the plane. “It’s time for me to catch a little shut-eye, if that’s okay with you.”
Boxers smiled. “Computer says you got an hour and forty-two minutes.”
Chapter Five
It was nearly five in the afternoon when Jonathan finally stepped through the double doors into the Signature Aviation Terminal at Washington Dulles International Airport. Boxers had work to do to close out the Gulfstream, and would drive himself home in his Nissan pickup. Jonathan had a ride waiting for him.
Venice stood in the lobby, arms folded and wound up tighter than a watch spring. When they finally made eye contact, it looked as if she’d just taken her first breath of the day. He saw tears in her eyes. Venice was a famous crier.
“Welcome home,” she said. “I was worried.”
Jonathan allowed himself to be hugged. “Like I always say, do what you do best.”
Venice understood that he’d just said thank you. “Want me to help with a bag?”
“Nah, I got them. Did you bring the monstrosity?”
“Her name is Glow Bird,” Venice said, fishing through her purse for her keys, “And I got a terrific parking place.”
By any man’s yardstick, Venice Alexander was hot. Her skin was the color of milk chocolate, and there were days when her smile could put the sun out of business. Jonathan could tell from her clothing that she was proud of her recent weight loss. They both knew that the pounds would come back-the same twenty came and went on a three-year cycle-but for now, it was nice to see her strutting a little.
“Tell me what you found out about Christine Baker,” Jonathan prodded as they approached the door that would take them to the parking lot.
“Who is she?”
He hated it when people answered questions with questions. “She’s my big surprise for the night. We knew about the Patrone brothers and a third party. She was the third party.”
The door opened onto a beautiful spring day. The perfect blue sky made even the parking lot look vibrant. “Well, it’s not exactly a unique name,” Venice cautioned, “and the picture you sent was not of the best quality.”
“You’re hedging.”
“I’m explaining that there aren’t definitive data. But from what I could pull together, she was a committed cause-worker. Lots of symbolic arrests at various protests-mostly antiwar and antibusiness. Always anti, by the way.”
Jonathan chuckled. “Protesting others’ decisions is always easier than making one of your own.” Up ahead, the Monstrosity awaited them: the world’s only blaze-orange Mazda Miata. tfit. Lots of tree-hugging, but no confirmed violence.”
The curious phrasing caught Jonathan’s attention. “ Confirmed violence?”
