tang of salt, and under that a lingering odor of gasoline and smoke, and something worse than smoke. He’s not keen about getting the drips on his shoes-fine leather doesn’t like salt-but knows better than to complain as Tolliver stomps through the slop in his highly polished knee-high dress boots, heading along a companionway. They haven’t bothered with crime scene tape because the entire yacht is a crime scene.
As the big state cop leads the way, he says, “Surveillance cameras show you boarding this tub at 10:20 a.m., exiting by the same route at 11:10 a.m. Sound about right?”
“Yup.”
“Silly question, but was Bing alive when you left him?”
“Not a silly question, and yes, he was. Alive and more or less relaxed. Certainly unaware that something bad was about to happen.”
“No security on board, you said. Or staff.”
“Yeah, and I thought that was a little odd. But then Jonny Bing is-I mean
Tolliver glances back. “Or a dozen disco boys.”
Jack hazards a raised eyebrow. “Is that the word on Bing?”
“Word is Jonny wasn’t particular as to gender. But you got the blond part right, apparently. And it was only one. Maybe he was cutting down.”
“So it was a lover’s tiff?”
“Nah,” Tolliver says, gesturing for Jack to step ahead of him. “Go through that door or hatch or whatever they call it, then turn left.”
“Door, I think,” says Jack, lifting his cuffs as he steps into about an inch of standing water flecked with suds of chemical foam.
Unlike Jack and Tolliver, the on-site crime team members are wearing white rubber boots and white disposable overalls. They have digital cameras set up on tripods, laser measuring devices, a chemical sniffer, all the toys. The objects of forensic interest lie on a partially melted bed-a giant round mattress, like something out of an old Hugh Hefner fantasy-set up on a hardwood pedestal. Behind the thronelike bed, the curving wall is mirrored. Narrow, vertical mirrors joined together like some giant diamond. More like cubic zirconia. Because to Jack the whole setup looks cheesy, very unlike the elegant salon where Bing had made him welcome, or the rest of the luxuriously appointed yacht. Maybe the sleaze of the playboy bedroom made it appealing, a retro thing. Different strokes.
Jonny Bing, still recognizable even in sudden, violent death, lies on his side among the pink satin sheets. Pink from the blood that was washed away before it had time to soak in. In the strobe flash of the cameras, the glittery wetness makes him seem almost alive. Almost. Bing’s left eye looks wrong.
“Shot to the head took him down,” Tolliver explains. “We think small caliber because there’s no apparent exit wound. Same with the shot to the heart-no exit. So, a classic double tap. Same deal with the boyfriend, except he got it in the forehead instead of the eye. Small entry wound, no apparent exit. Bullet bounces around, it’s like an instant Cuisinart for the brain.” The trooper gives Jack a look, almost friendly, like the old days when they were professional colleagues of a sort. “Tell that to Naomi Nantz the next time she dices up sweetmeats, what a bullet does when it rattles around inside a skull.”
“She’ll appreciate that,” Jack says, smiling but not feeling it. Feeling instead the slosh of contaminated water soaking into his Italian leather shoes.
“The precision of this, both vics hit exactly the same way, makes me favor the lone gunman theory.”
“Looks that way,” Jack agrees.
The second victim, assumed to be the sexual partner because, like Bing, he’s naked, tangled in satin sheets, is a Caucasian youth with shoulder-length bleached-blond hair. In life the victim had been lithe and athletic, at least a foot taller than his partner. On the floor a few yards from the giant bed is the real puzzle. Lying on its side like a partially charred log is the fully clothed body of an Asian male. Thirtysomething, is Jack’s guess, but he could be off ten years in either direction, on account of the fire damage, or whatever made the man’s flesh start to slough off.
“You’ll notice the human barbecue has a gun in its hand.” The big trooper crouches, pointing. “See the fingers? They look broken to me. We’ll know for sure after the autopsy, but the M.E., who hates getting his feet wet just like you, he concurs: fingers busted. Like somebody put the gun in his hand, had to force it.”
“Made this guy fire the weapon?”
Tolliver stands up, snorts. “Are you serious? A double, double tap? No extra shots fired? Whoever did this is a genuine marksman, a skilled assassin. Not some frozen corpse with a busted hand.”
Jack’s eyes are watering from the smell. “Frozen? What are you talking about?”
“This guy here. He’s charred on the outside, frozen underneath. M.E. tried for a liver temp, said it was like bumping up against a stone. Pretty neat trick, eh? We’re calling him Baked Alaska.”
Jack takes a step back, letting his eyes drift over the scene, putting it all together. “Okay. Bing and his buddy are shot in bed. The shooter then drags in a frozen corpse, plants the gun, douses the place with gasoline? That’s your theory of the crime? The assassin was creating a particular scenario, or attempting to?”
Tolliver nods approvingly. “Pretty quick for a retired dude. Yeah, and I’ll bet my next pulled-pork sandwich that Mr. Baked Alaska will turn out to be connected to one of the local Asian gangs.”
“So it’s supposed to look like a gang hit that went wrong somehow?”
“Yeah. Might have worked, too, but the genius who set this up didn’t know about the fire suppression system on board. He got ignition but no liftoff.”
“Surveillance?”
“No cameras in the bedroom, which is a surprise. Wouldn’t have surprised me if that little horn-dog Jonny Bing wanted to keep mementos of his conquests, but apparently not. There is a pretty elaborate surveillance system in place elsewhere, covering the hallways, engine room, bridge, decks and so on. The bad boy who did this was smart enough to figure that out, and yanked the hard drive. I’m assuming he got to the surveillance DVR after he killed the victims, but before he attempted to torch the place. So he had a plan. Messed up with the fire part, but he got away undetected. Which is a genuine mystery. And you know how I hate mysteries.”
Jack frowns. “Wait. You clocked me on the marina surveillance but not the shooter?”
“Not so far. We’re assuming the shooter approached from the water, using the ship as a screen from the marina surveillance cameras, which cover the floating dock system, but obviously can’t see through the ship. We’re checking any and all surveillance systems all along the bay, from Boston Harbor to Hull, but that will take a while.”
Jack has had enough of the smell. He carefully wades out to the companionway, trying to keep his trouser cuffs dry, and failing. “This sucks,” he mutters.
“What’s the big deal?” Tolliver responds impatiently. “Take your fancy threads to the dry cleaner. Bill it as an expense.”
“No, it’s not that,” Jack says. “I’m just thinking, if I hadn’t dropped in on Jonny Bing, he’d probably still be alive.”
The big trooper shrugs. “Maybe. Or maybe he was already scheduled for demolition.”
“Yeah.”
“I’d be curious to know what your boss thinks.”
“Me, too,” says Jack.
Chapter Seventeen
Kidder has to force himself to drive just below the speed limit. What he wants to do is put the pedal to the metal, open the windows and dry the goo out of his hair. He’d attempted to rinse away the gunk with seawater,
