Counterplay

the ground that even the laymen among them knew was the top of a skull. Gentlemen, she said quietly, I believe we’ve found what we came here to find. I’d like to ask for a moment of silence to reflect on the fact that these are not just inanimate objects but the remains of someone who was once just like you and me…someone who loved and laughed and didn’t deserve to be forgotten in an unmarked grave.

Gates and Lorien worked steadily as centimeter by centimeter the earth gave up a skeleton, which was lying on its back, the head slightly tilted down with the chin on the chest. At a break in the work, Gates told those who were watching, This is not absolute, mind you, but judging by what I can see now, these are the remains of a female, probably Caucasian and, looking at the teeth, between the ages of, oh, late twenties and forty.

You can tell that just by looking at her? Guma asked. Teresa was thirty-five.

Gates nodded. I can be more exact after I’ve got her back to the lab, but I can make reasonable guesses based on certain visible criteria. For instance, the muscles in the jaw are much larger and stronger on a male and thus cause more scarring on the bone where they attach. The area on the jaw of this person is not very pronounced and thus probably belongs to a female. Although we’re not as far down in that area, I can see enough of the hip structure to also identify the remains as female. Later, I’ll be able to tell you if she’s borne children. The shape of the skull tells me that she was at least part Caucasian. And maybe you’ve seen a Western TV show where the cowboy looks into the horse’s mouth to tell its age; the same thing, basically, can be done with humans.

Guma looked at the skull and tried to picture the woman in the photograph hanging above his desk. Teresa, he said aloud.

Probably, Swanburg agreed but warned him, Nothing’s set in stone yet. This could be someone else…we’ve seen it before…or, more importantly, we’re going to have to prove it’s her to a jury and that isn’t always easy.

Guma nodded, but he also got out his cell phone and punched in a number. Clarke, you still got an eye on our errand boy? he asked.

Oh yeah, Detective Fairbrother responded. Apparently, these errands required heading out of town on Interstate 87-in violation of his bond, I believe-and making good progress for…oh, I don’t know…maybe Canada? Should I take him down now?

No, not yet…not unless you have to in order to prevent him from crossing the border, Guma said. Canada won’t extradite him if he faces the death penalty. And I might just want that to be the case. But I’d also like the judge to see that he is a flight risk, so let him run a little longer.

Not a problem, Fairbrother said. We’ve got a “bird dog” GPS locator planted behind his bumper. We couldn’t lose him if we tried, and the state patrol guys are following a few miles back. See you later, alligator.

See you later, alligator? Aren’t we supposed to say ten-four out or something like that? Guma retorted whimsically.

Oh, almost forgot, TV cop shows, and you overdosed on Broderick Crawford. Ten-four. Feel better now, Ray? Fairbrother said.

The team from 221B Baker Street continued to work meticulously and now every bucket seemed to contain items for the log-book. Buttons. Metal pieces from a bra. A spent shell casing from a.22-caliber gun.

It got dark, but the 221B Baker Street team had already prepared for that eventuality and set up the floodlights they’d asked Guma to arrange for, courtesy of NYPD special services. About that time, Karp had showed up with Murrow, who’d been disappointed when his boss told him absolutely no press. Then Murrow’s cell phone went off, and Karp left in a rush.

A few minutes later, Guma was standing near the grave as Gates whisked away the dirt near the base of the skull. She pulled a flashlight from her pocket and peered closer.

“Whaddya got?” Guma asked.

Gates sat up. “An entry wound,” she said. “Looks like she was shot behind her left ear.”

“One wound or two?” Guma asked, recalling that Zachary heard two pops.

“I can only see one,” she replied.

It wasn’t entirely what he wanted to hear, but there was no need to wait any longer. Guma called Fairbrother again. “It’s me. Collar the bastard.”

Well north of Albany and darn close to the Canadian border, Fairbrother hung up the telephone and flipped the car’s police radio to the state patrol frequency. “Okay, boys, time to bring this chicken back to the roost,” he said.

“All right, finally,” his young driver yelled. He pulled the red bubble light off the dash and, reaching out the window, set it on the roof of the car, and stomped on the gas pedal.

The readout on the bird dog locator, which appeared as a map on the laptop sitting between the two cops, let them know how far they were from the target. A mile, then a half mile…now they could see the red taillights of the limousine and didn’t need the equipment. “There they are,” Fairbrother said. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw the flashing red and blue lights of the state patrol cars approaching fast.

When the occupants of the limousine realized that they were being pursued, the car started to speed up. But one of the state patrol cars dashed past Fairbrother’s car and jumped in front of the limo while the other state patrol car hemmed it in from the side with Fairbrother’s car bringing up the rear. Then in unison, they slowed down, forcing the limousine to pull over to the shoulder of the road.

The state patrol officers and the two NYPD detectives were out of the car with their guns drawn and spotlights on the limousine.

The chauffeur got out. “What? You guys got nothin’ better to do than harass Mr. Stavros,” the chauffeur said.

“Shut your piehole and get your hands up,” Fairbrother yelled. “You thinking about trying to run?”

“No, hell no, you just surprised me. I was just speeding up because I thought you needed me to get out of the way.”

“Yeah, sure,” Fairbrother said. “And I’m Derek Jeter. Now, tell your passengers to put their hands out of the car where we can see them.”

The driver leaned back toward the car and said something. He nodded and stood back up. “Mr. Stavros says he’s not getting out of the car until his lawyer gets here.”

The young cop walked up to the limousine and flung open the door, then stepped back with his gun pointed at the interior. “Get the hell out of the car, now!”

A woman screamed and a man bellowed with rage. Emil Stavros climbed out of the limo with his hands up in the air and his face a textbook example of apoplexy. “This is outrageous,” he sputtered. “I’ll see that you never work in law enforcement again.”

“On the ground,” Fairbrother ordered.

“What? That’s preposterous-”

The younger detective walked up to Stavros and still pointing the gun at him, spun him around and shoved him up against the car. He patted the man down and then pulled him away from the car. “On the ground.”

Stavros sprawled in the gravel on the shoulder of the road. “I’ll get you for this,” he hissed.

“Yeah, yeah, tell it to the judge,” Fairbrother said, pulling Stavros’s arms behind and cuffing him. “Now listen close…you have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in court, and you have the right to have an attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided. Are you with me so far?”

“Yes, yes, you son of a bitch,” Stavros whimpered. “These handcuffs are killing me. What’s the charge? I’m out on bond.”

“You’re under arrest for flight to avoid prosecution and for violating the terms of your bond. Now, do you want to stay quiet until we get back to the city and you can lawyer up? Or maybe you have something to say about the body in your backyard and save the taxpayers of New York City a lot of dough.”

Stavros didn’t answer.