thumb and my fingernails to untie it. Once the knot is undone, it becomes easy to unwind the string from around the outside of the bundled tarp.
As I am doing this I am looking overhead to see if there are any surveillance cameras in or near the alley. It doesn’t look like it, but I can’t be sure. Using the inside of my sleeves, I pull the edge of the tarp and roll the body out.
The inside of the tarp is covered in blood, some of it clotted, some dried.
Joselyn looks away and covers her mouth with her hand. “Let’s get out of here. Why are we doing this?”
“Because I need to know what’s going on. Why don’t you go back to the car,” I tell her.
“No. I’m OK.”
The victim looks to be maybe forty years old with dark hair. The body is matted with blood. His flesh is the color of a bleached cotton sheet, pure white. There is a puncture wound in his throat, traces of blood still seeping from it.
He’s wearing a buttoned dress shirt and light-colored cotton jeans of some kind. I can see that there is nothing in the breast pocket of his shirt. I feel the pockets of his pants, front and back. They are empty.
“Who do you think he is?” says Joselyn.
“I don’t know. There’s no identification. No wallet, no watch, no rings. Whoever dumped him stripped the body.” I lean over and carefully turn down the collar on the back of his shirt. I don’t like touching the body any more than I have to. But it is the only chance I have to find out who he is. There is not a doubt in my mind that Liquida killed him. His shirt collar is covered with blood and there is a hole just under the label, but it is readable: “Kenneth Cole.”
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Can’t be sure, but I’m guessing his clothes were bought in the States.”
“You think he’s American?”
“I don’t know.” Then something catches my eye. “Do you have a handkerchief?”
Joselyn feels around the pockets of her pants and her jacket. “No, but I have some Kleenex.”
“That’ll do.”
She takes out a small pocket pack of tissues and hands it to me. I take five or six and create a thick pad. “Don’t look,” I tell her.
I lift his shoulder with my left hand and reach down under the body toward the bottom of the plastic tarp underneath him.
“What is it?” Joselyn has her back to me.
“Looks like a pair of glasses. They must have missed them.” As soon as I pick them up I realize why. The neck strap has been pulled free from one of the temple tips, the part of the frame that hooks over the ear. If I had to guess, I would say that whoever murdered him dropped him onto the tarp as he was dying. This would account for all the blood inside the tarp. His heart was still pumping. “I am guessing that Liquida probably tangled his hand in the strap as he was dropping him onto the tarp. The glasses fell off and he never noticed them.”
“You’re sure Liquida did this?”
“Look at his throat.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” she says.
“That’s a puncture wound. Caused by something narrow and sharp. Herman has one just like it in his back. You know anybody else uses a stiletto like that? That’s his calling card.
“I’ll call the French police as soon as we get back to the hotel. Tell them about the body, give them Liquida’s name, tell them to check the FBI’s list for the poster and to search the hotel.”
“You think he’s still there?”
“No. But the French police, once they have the poster and a name, at least they’ll start watching all the airports.” I throw the edge of the tarp over the body. “Let’s get outta here.”
Chapter Forty-Two
I make the call to the local authorities, not from the room but from a pay phone in the lobby of one of the adjoining hotels. I don’t leave my name, but I tell them about Liquida and the poster with his picture and give them the name of his hotel. Even if they don’t catch him, I am assuming that someone at the front desk will recognize his picture. They might be able to tell the cops when he left so that the French authorities will know how much of a head start he has.
When I’m done, I hang up the phone and head back to the room. Before I get there, I hear the alternating high-low pitch of the sirens from the French police cars as they arrive in the dead-end alley down the street.
By the time I get back to the room in our hotel, Harry is already there with his bags packed.
“Time to go home,” he tells me.
“Yeah, I suppose I’m going to have to call Thorpe and tell him what we found and hope he doesn’t turn us over to the French police. If he does, we’ll be here for a month answering questions. Thorpe sent me an e-mail. Told me that if we weren’t back by late tomorrow he was gonna put us on the no-fly list.”
“Nice of you to tell us,” says Harry.
“I didn’t want to worry you,” I tell him.
“Well, then, let’s get our asses in gear before he slams the door and locks us out of the country,” says Harry.
“Where’s Joselyn?”
“She’s in the other room checking her e-mail. She looked a little queasy,” says Harry.
“Yeah, I don’t think she’s used to seeing dead people,” I tell him.
What I mean is, unlike the two of us who have spent a lifetime getting off on morbid victim photos from various medical examiners in capital cases.
The door to the bedroom opens. Joselyn is standing there with a puzzled look on her face. “Hey, you guys. There’s something going on in here I think you need to see.”
“What is it?” I ask.
“Something on my computer. I just noticed. Not sure what it is.”
Harry and I follow her into the bedroom. We stand looking over her shoulders as she sits in front of the laptop.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“It’s this.” She moves the cursor so that the little arrow stops on an item over on the left-hand margin of the screen. “See that?”
The cursor has landed on something called “Specs.”
“What is it?” asks Harry.
“It looks like an external drive,” she says. “The problem is I don’t have anything plugged into my machine.”
“Then where is it coming from?” I ask.
“I don’t know. I suppose it’s possible it could be coming from another room, but that would be highly unusual.”
“Why is that?” says Harry.
“It’s possible you might pick up a Wi-Fi hot spot, you know, a neighbor’s Internet signal. That can travel a little ways. But an external drive, that’s usually hardwired. I’m no hardware whiz kid, but I suppose there are drives that work off Bluetooth. Although the range on that would be real short.”
“How short?” I ask.
“I don’t know, four or five feet. The signal won’t pass through a wall. I’ll tell you that. Give me a second.” She moves to a different screen, the control panel on her laptop, and finds the Bluetooth connection. She toggles it off. When she returns to the original screen, the external drive has disappeared.
She looks over her shoulder at me.
“Turn it back on.”
She does, and the drive appears once more.
