I braced my hands on my knees and leaned forward. 'What if it's not vengeance, but the start of a killing spree?'
'I'm not talking to listen to myself. Dismissed.'
'It doesn't fit a vengeance pattern. Here's what I'm '
'Did you hear me?'
'Let me finish, Captain. We don't yet have enough information to decide whether or not this is '
Squill spun back to the window. He said, 'Get him out of here, Nautilus, I've got work to do.'
I was shaking my head before we hit the hall. 'That didn't make sense.
Why pull us before we've done an overview? We don't have the info to decide either way if this is PSIT status. What's buzzing in his shorts?'
Harry said, 'I got some fresh milk this morning.'
'Spill it.'
'Remember the rumor Chief Hyrum is retiring next year?'
'Thumping and bumping, you said.'
Harry sighed. 'I'd never have said that, it doesn't fit. I said rolling and strolling. Only it's not next summer, it's this September.'
I said, 'Two months away. The hatchet jobs have to be done in double time?'
Harry nodded. 'Pop an umbrella; the blood's gonna fly.'
'That doesn't concern us, remember? You told me that.'
'The only constant is change, bro, you told me that. There's two deputy chiefs tussling for the job of Big Chief: Belvidere and Plackett. Squill's hitched his wagon to Plackett's star, been buttering his biscuits for years. If the commission recommends Plackett for chief, guess who he'll slip in as a deputy chief?'
My stomach churned. 'Squill?'
Harry slapped my back. 'Now you're seeing the big picture, Carson.
Like Squill, Plackett's more politico than cop. Guy couldn't find his ass with a mirror and tongs, but he knows how to work the newsies;
Squill gave him pointers about sound bites, eye contact, spinning a story. On the other hand, Belvidere's a cop. Knows his shit, but has a personality like instant potatoes. A lot of little things add up in the police commission's selection process, but remember who floated the idea of the PSIT…' 'Belvidere,' I said. 'Plackett opposed it.'
'Probably at Squill's advice,' Harry said. 'Push it.' 'If we do good, it makes Belvidere look good, which steals thunder from Plackett, which works to Squill's disfavor?' 'Hocused and pocused,' Harry said. 'Now try and focus.' I rolled my eyes. 'C'mon, Harry, try it in English.'
'Look hard. Take it one more step.' I focused. 'In the best of all possible worlds to Squill, the entire concept of PSIT would be floating facedown in the Mobile River?'
We passed Linette Bowling, Squill's charm less donkey-faced administrative assistant. Harry snatched a fistful of droopy flowers from a vase on her desk and handed them to me.
'You're beautiful when you finally get the picture, Carson.' 'Nautilus, you asshole,' Linette brayed from behind us, 'gimme back my fuckin' flowers.'
CHAPTER 7
It was eighty-eight degrees at 11:00 p.m. A wet haze smothered the stars and gauzed the moon. Two days had passed since Nelson's murder, and the team Squill had assigned to the case hadn't made any progress.
I stood at water's edge and cast the spinning rig, retrieved the lure slowly, cast again. I usually fish with a fly rod and know what I'm fishing for: specs, reds, pompano, Spanish mac. But now and then I use a spinning rig to dredge the night waters. Sometimes my line ties me to a shark. Or a big ray. Familiar species. But on rare occasions I've reeled in bizarre life-forms not mentioned in my books on Gulf fishing. I never know what trick of tide or current directs them to my line, but there they are, wriggling species from unknown depths, daring my touch. It's strange, but without them I doubt I'd enjoy fishing as much.
It's the soothing aspect of angling that often compels me to fish when troubled, and I had been upset since hearing Clair's buzz sawing of Dr.
Davanelle. I hadn't meant to overhear, nor spy on Dr. Davanelle's private horror, but it was acid-etched in my mind.
Of Dr. Davanelle's choice for the pathologist position, I knew only the edges of the story: she was the second choice for the job, hired only after the horror of Dr. Caulfield's injury. It took a tragedy for her to gain the position in Mobile, her first professional assignment. As Harry had reminded me during our session at Cake's bar, I, too, had stumbled into my position through the misfortunes of others. I knew such a thing could feel like a form of dishonesty. It didn't help that Dr. Davanelle worked with Clair brilliant, renowned, sought at forensics symposia worldwide a total perfectionist who demanded nothing less than the best from every staff member, every second.
I reeled in my line and set the rod in the spike. I sat in the sand with my arms wrapping my knees and stared across the rippling plain of water, liquid obsidian burnished by moonlight. After several minutes of reflection I scrabbled through the cooler bag where I'd tossed my cell phone at the last minute. Phone on ice; Freud would have enjoyed that.
Information provided Ava Davanelle's number and I dialed. Her recorded voice was as cold as the device in my hand. She provided her number, referred to the beep, and was gone. I heard the tone, listened to the emptiness, clicked the call dead. Only then did it hit me had she answered the phone, what would I have said?
'Hello, Dr. Davanelle, it's Detective Ryder. I'm sorry for being a pain in the ass at the Nelson autopsy, I didn't mean to add to your problems. What problems? I was, uh, skulking in Willet Lindy's office yesterday when you came down the hall and watched as you…'
I sighed and unzipped the cooler bag, preparing to refrost the phone, when it started chirping.
It was Harry. 'Got a call from the ME's man on the scene,' he said.
'We got us another headless horseman at Eight thirty-seven Caleria.
Saddle up and ride, Ichabod. I'll meet you in Sleepy Hollow.'
The scene was a large Italian ate-style home near the southern outskirts of downtown, a neighborhood of stately historic homes intermingled with apartments. Insects burred from the hovering pines and wide-spread oaks. Several patrol cars fronted the scene, as did the crime-scene van and an ambulance. A news van did a U and pulled to the curb. Neighbors with somber faces milled on the sidewalk. Traffic thickened, drivers drawn like moths to the flashing lights and activity. A patrolman in the street waved his arms and bawled, 'Move on, folks, move on.' I saw Harry and pulled up on the curb behind him.
'Weasels 'R' Us around?' I asked.
Harry shook his head. 'Squill's been at his brother's condo in Pensacola. On his way.'
Pensacola was at least ninety minutes away. Given time elapsed, we had maybe a half hour without him.
'Let's hit it while we can, bro,' I said. We walked onto a large front porch. Leaning against a white column was Detective Sergeant Warren Blasingame from District Three, who since we were in D-3 had initial jurisdiction. Blasingame was sucking a cigarette and staring at the treetops.
'What's happening inside, Warren?' Harry asked.
Blasingame drew a finger across his Adam's apple. 'That's all I know.'
'You haven't been inside?'
'Just ME folk, scene techs, and Hargreaves. She took the call,'
Blasingame drawled, spitting onto the lawn. 'My guys ain't supposed to go in till Squill gets here. Neither are you, probably, no matter what Piss-it rules say about you being in charge.'
'Didn't hear nothing about that,' Harry said as our footsteps thumped across the porch.
Words scripted around a logo on the door: Deschamps Design Services. A small sign below the doorbell advised, please ring to enter. A decal on the glass said protected by Jenkins security systems. While the place
