'I guess as far as lawyers go, she is. Well,' Bolinger said, gathering up his papers, 'I've given you enough stuff for one day. I'm sure you're going to want to get to your hotel and get ready for tonight.'
'What's tonight?'
'You said the car dealer was taking you to Sixth Street, right?'
'Yeah. Oh yeah. Yeah, that's a good idea,' Unger said, standing and seeing Bolinger to the door. 'I've got to check in with Dean, too. Um… so tomorrow I kind of want to get a feel for this West Lake Hills course. How about we get things going around two in the afternoon?'
'So soon?' Bolinger said with a straight face. 'Why not take the day to settle in and we can meet on Wednesday morning?'
'Oh, you sure you don't mind?' Unger actually smiled, glad to see that this guy got it.
'No. I'll get to work on this stuff,' Bolinger said, patting his files. 'What I would like you to do, though, is give my captain a call and tell him you'd like to have my help for the next week or so.'
'Why?' Unger asked dubiously.
'You're the FBI,' Bolinger said. 'You'd be helping me out if you just call him and say you're working on a case that involves the Lipton, I mean, the Marcia Sales murder. If he gets a call from you, he'll let me work on this with you for a few days. That way I can get going on this and take some of the workload off your hands.'
'I appreciate that, Bob,' the agent said, unable to help feeling slightly suspicious. 'I really do. That sounds great. I'll give him a call right now.'
By the time Bolinger got back to the station, John Clark, the captain, was asking to see him. The detectives' squad room was in turmoil, but Bolinger was so tuned into getting clearance to work with the FBI that he paid no attention to all the hubbub. He marched straight through it all and into his boss's office. The captain was on the phone but held up one finger and got off after a few curt words to someone whose name Bolinger recognized as a local TV anchor.
'You want to help this guy from the FBI, Bob?' the captain asked skeptically. His face was hard and his bullet-shaped head was bald except for a few steely strands that traversed his flushed dome from ear to ear.
'Yeah,' Bolinger said, then lied. 'I told Dean Wentworth I'd help him out. He's got this one by himself. Dean's busy as all hell with that string of bank robberies.'
The captain nodded grimly. 'Well, you can give them some help, but not right away. I want you to get up to the campus and take a look at that kid who was killed. I want you to handle it.'
'What kid?' Bolinger said, the energy in the squad room suddenly making sense.
'You didn't hear the call?' the captain asked. 'It was the kid who testified in the Lipton case, the dead girl's old boyfriend. I'm surprised you didn't hear about it.'
'I've been out all afternoon,' Bolinger said hesitantly.
'Well, I'm on my way there,' the captain said, rising from his chair and removing his hat from the coat rack behind his desk. 'You might as well go over with me. You know the father, right? The father of the girl.'
'Yeah,' Bolinger said.
'I guess this kid made him look pretty bad at the trial?'
'He did.'
'Well, you'll want to have a talk with him, I'm sure.'
'Yes,' Bolinger said. He was having a hard time believing what he'd just heard. If it was what it appeared to be, then it certainly shot his theory all to hell.
'Yes, I'll want to talk to him right away,' he murmured.
CHAPTER 17
Bolinger rode with his captain through the area dominated by student housing. They passed within two blocks of where Marcia Sales was killed and as they did, the captain bitched about the pressure he was going to be under now that another student was dead. The body had been found by a guy walking his dog in Pease Park, a green area near the university that encompassed a portion of Shoal Creek. It was a favorite spot for runners. A dozen police cars, an ambulance, and a fire emergency vehicle lined a portion of the parkway that ran through the park. Bolinger hopped out and followed his boss over the guardrail. As they tromped down a slope into the afternoon shade of the woods, Bolinger paused to light a Winston.
Castle lay in a tangle of brush just to the other side of a hedge that bordered a blacktop path. His clouded eyes stared up at them and his mouth was agog; a nasty rope burn had scoured his neck. Bolinger removed his sunglasses and crouched down next to the student. Like Marcia Sales's, his torso had been split open like a pea pod. The incision was neat and clean and his innards had been removed. The lab techs were carefully stepping around in the brush, and he heard someone say something about a coyote. Bolinger absently wondered how much of the evisceration was due to the killer and how much was due to any dogs or coyotes that might have gotten into it.
'Lipton,' he murmered.
'What's that, Bob?' the captain said, leaning over him.
Bolinger looked up with the cigarette hanging from his lips. 'I said 'Lipton.' He did this.'
The captain's face clouded over. Bolinger was his best homicide man, maybe the best he'd ever seen. But he was also a hardheaded mule, a man who had a difficult time admitting when he was wrong.
'I want you to look into the father, Bob,' he said firmly. 'I know how you feel about your instincts. I respect that as much as anyone… but I want you to check him out. Keep an open mind. Can you do that?'
Bolinger looked past his boss at a young woman who was sliding what looked like a kidney into a cellophane bag.
'Yeah,' he said as he rose to his feet. 'I can do that.'
Back at the station, Bolinger let the captain out at the curb.
'You going out there now?' he asked.
'Yeah,' Bolinger answered.
'You'll take someone with you, Bob?' the captain said, leaning into the car through the window. It was more than a suggestion.
'Okay,' Bolinger said.
'Good.' The captain rapped twice on the roof of the cruiser with his knuckles. 'Let me know what you turn up. I'll be here all night.'
Bolinger paged up Farnhorst, who had been questioning a barmaid down on Sixth Street about a knifing on Saturday night.
'But I'm having a sandwich right now,' he admitted.
'I'll swing by and get you,' Bolinger said.
On the ride out to Sales's place, Bolinger filled in Farnhorst on what had happened.
'My gut tells me it's Lipton,' he concluded.
Farnhorst nodded but was noncommittal, and that made Bolinger wonder. He knew better than the captain about his own propensity to be pigheaded. Was he being that way now? They pulled into Sales's dirt drive just as the sun was dipping below the rim of the western hills. It was a perfect crimson orb. With it went the warmth of the day, and Bolinger rolled up his window before he got out.
Together they mounted Sales's porch. The creak of old wood called out amid the din of ten thousand night insects. The tranquil setting was strangely familiar.
'Bob,' Farnhorst said in an alarmed tone, 'look.'
As Farnhorst drew his gun, Bolinger looked down on the porch. There was a spattered line of blood he hadn't noticed that started at the bottom step and ended at the front door. Bolinger knelt down and touched it with the tips of his first two fingers. It was still greasy and moist.
'It's not too old,' he said quietly. He looked at Farnhorst's gun but didn't draw his own. Instead he stood and hammered on the door. There were no lights on, and the new dusk made it quite dark inside the cabin. Through the front window, he could see a large form passing quickly through the gloom. The porch light went on suddenly, and Farnhorst stepped back into the shadows with his gun raised. Bolinger stepped aside as well. The door swung slowly open, spilling light into the cabin through the screen. There was no one in sight.
'Don,' Bolinger cried out, 'it's Bob Bolinger. We need to talk to you.'
There was some shuffling inside the cabin, and suddenly Sales appeared in the doorway.
'What do you want?' Sales demanded in a tone that was sullen and much harsher than Bolinger had grown used to over the past year. His expression was hard to read through the screen, but Bolinger could hear the tension in his voice.
'Put the gun down,' Farnhorst commanded in a loud booming voice that seemed almost obscene on such a peaceful night. Sales had a pistol in his hand, and although his arm hung straight down with the gun pointed at the floor, it made Bolinger swallow hard.
'You put yours down then.' Sales glowered. 'I don't need someone pointing a gun at me in the doorway of my own house.'
'Put it down,' Bolinger gently told his partner. 'We need to talk to you, Don.'
'Talk,' Sales said. Some of the tension left his voice at the sight of Farnhorst's weapon by his side.
'We want you to come downtown with us,' Bolinger said. 'Will you do that?'
'Why?' Sales asked. 'What's the problem? I didn't do anything.'
'I know, Don,' Bolinger said. 'But Frank Castle was killed last night. Someone cut him open.'
Sales stared blankly at the detective. He sighed resignedly and said, 'Let me get my coat.'
Without waiting for a reply, Sales turned back into the house, then emerged a minute later emptyhanded, wearing a black suede jacket and a matching cowboy hat. Farnhorst kept his gun ready, and when Bolinger asked about the blood on the porch, he tightened his grip. But Sales only laughed at them and held up his left hand. There was a blood-soaked bandage wrapped tightly around his index finger.
'Cut it to the bone,' he explained. His mouth was twisted somewhere between a grimace and a smile. Then, pointing to the small shop on the side of the cabin, he continued, 'Band saw.'
The two detectives nodded silently and followed Sales across the dusty front yard. They piled into their car just as the headlights from his pickup cut into the
