“It crossed my mind once or twice.”
Donovan looked at the body, scanned the room. “Where’s Luther?”
Waxman jerked his head. “Follow me.”
In back of the motel was an empty lot. A patch of mud and weeds that might have been prime real estate at one time.
Those days were long gone.
A far corner of the lot was roped off with yellow crime-scene tape. A cluster of cops and technicians quietly worked the spot, their attention focused on a body lying faceup before them.
The rain-soaked earth sucked at Donovan’s shoes as he walked. Remembering the dried mud he’d just knocked off, a fresh spike of nausea assaulted him.
Had he been here before?
Thoughts of Gunderson’s kiss drifted through his mind again, but he immediately smothered them. Play this out, he told himself. Don’t jump to conclusions.
Yet even as he pushed himself toward denial, his old friend instinct dragged him in the opposite direction, connecting the dots.
He didn’t like the picture that was forming.
“Luther Dwayne Polanski,” Waxman said as they reached the body. Luther’s face was a death mask, glassy eyes staring heavenward. “Looks like the assailant came into the room, shot Kruger, managed to wing Luther”-he turned and gestured toward the rear of the motel where a row of windows faced the field. One of them was hanging open-“then chased him out here and put another one in his back. The impact spun him right around.”
Donovan swallowed. Stared down at Luther’s body. “You’re talking about Nemo.”
“Who else?”
“Because of the money?”
“That would be my guess,” Waxman said. “You realize we’re completely screwed, don’t you? This is all on us. Once the brass puts it together, we’ll both be lucky they don’t bring us up on charges.”
Donovan kept his gaze on Luther’s body. “That’s the least of my worries. Without Luther, I’ve got nothing. He was my last link to Jessie.”
“You don’t know that,” Waxman said.
“I don’t know much of anything right now, except time is running out.”
And so was Jessie’s oxygen.
“Maybe Nemo’s been the key all along,” Waxman said. “I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s definitely a chilly bastard.”
“What do you mean?”
Waxman gestured to a nearby tech. “Hey, Joe, can I see that butt again?”
The tech nodded, then opened his forensics case and brought out an evidence bag, handing it across to Waxman. Waxman held it up for Donovan, showing him the damp cigarette butt inside.
“Son of a bitch stood here and had a smoke after he shot Luther. Mr. Casual. Flicked it onto Luther’s chest. Pretty cold, you ask me.” He handed the baggie back to the tech, but Donovan couldn’t take his eyes off the butt inside.
The filter was torn off.
Donovan felt himself starting to teeter.
“Joe’s gonna try a saliva trace,” Waxman said, “but the rain probably ruined any chances of…” He paused, looking at Donovan, grabbing him by the elbow. “Christ, Jack, you look like you’re about to keel over.”
“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Donovan said, then turned abruptly and headed back toward the motel.
47
He went straight to the Chrysler, shut himself inside, then closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the wheel.
Willing himself to concentrate, he tried to remember what he’d done last night. He knew he’d followed Nemo, saw him get out of the Del Sol, go into the motel office — then nothing. Nada. Zip. Zero.
Now Luther was dead and Donovan had mud on his shoes. And a dull, sick ache in his stomach told him that Waxman was wrong. It wasn’t Nemo who shot Luther. It wasn’t Nemo at all.
Sitting upright, he reached under his coat, pulled out his Glock, and ejected the cartridge. It had been full when Al Cleveland gave it to him. Now, three rounds were missing.
Three rounds.
But that didn’t add up, did it? Luther had taken one to the arm and another to the back, while Charlie Kruger took three hits, making a total of five.
So maybe Waxman was right, maybe the killer had been Nemo after all.
But what about the blood on the carpet?
Unlike Waxman, Donovan had spent some time with homicide, just prior to going federal, and he knew-just as the forensics techs would soon confirm-that it wasn’t Charlie Kruger’s blood on that carpet. Charlie was already on the bed when he was shot.
The simple process of elimination said it was Nemo’s blood. It had to be.
And if Nemo had been lying on that carpet, where was he now? No way he could’ve lost that much blood and walked away. Besides, the stain was static. No trail to the bed, no trail any…
The bedspread. One of the bedspreads was missing.
Had someone used it to transport the body?
When investigating a crime, it’s easy to come up with a half dozen different theories, different ways the job could have gone down. Each one is kept in mind as the crime scene is processed, but no matter how many theories you come up with, there’s always one that stands out. One that makes the most sense. One that sticks in your mind even before the evidence is collected.
The one in Donovan’s mind went something like this:
Nemo drove straight to the motel, which meant he’d been here before. He knew Charlie Kruger, had met him sometime in the past, and he knew that Kruger was hiding Luther. Pissed off and wanting his money, he grabbed Kruger and forced him to take him to Luther’s room.
Once inside, Nemo demanded the cash, shooting Kruger in an attempt to scare Luther into giving it up.
Then something unexpected happened. An uninvited guest arrived, shot Nemo, winged Luther, and chased him through the bathroom window and onto the field.
Luther had been shot twice.
And Nemo?
Judging by the pattern of the stain, Donovan would guess he’d suffered a head wound. Probably a single shot, close range.
Which meant three rounds from the same weapon.
Nemo’s head, Luther’s arm and back.
Glancing uneasily at the Glock and its cartridge in his hands, Donovan shifted his gaze to the cigarette butts crowding the ashtray.
The killer had smoked a cigarette, flicked it onto Luther’s chest, then calmly walked back to the motel room, grabbed a bedspread, and rolled up Nemo’s body.
But why? And where had he taken it?
A sudden thought occurred to Donovan, accompanied by a surge of panic.
Bracing himself, he took the keys from the ignition, then climbed out of the Chrysler and moved around to the trunk. Shoving the key into the slot, he hesitated a moment, then slowly turned it.
The latch popped open with a loud thunk.
Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, Donovan carefully raised the lid, knowing exactly what was in there before he even looked inside.
