Kostas had worked an espionage network with only a paper calendar and sticks of chalk. Despite my discovery, I had no way to identify who picked up the files. With trial next Wednesday, I was running out of time.
Glenn Bernthal had said that the whistleblower website known as Project Transparrior had posted an article about research projects at Benton Dynamics. That was my best lead. Richard Kostas may have tried to expose what was going on at his company, but he could have had other reasons to steal the files.
Glenn and I were scheduled to play racquetball this afternoon in Bridgeford, and maybe he could tell me more of what he had learned about Benton Dynamics later today. I would have to wait to speak with Glenn.
Benton Dynamics had every reason to shut down Richard Kostas, if he had been leaking top-secret research projects to Project Transparrior. Killing Kostas did not seem logical. That corporation had filed a lawsuit against Dupree and Kostas before he died. The case was in the public arena. Going through the courts and taking justice into your own hands at the same time did not make sense. Benton Dynamics would have chosen one strategy or the other, but not both. That corporation was huge and secretive. Perhaps the different factions within it were working different angles.
I scanned the trees, road, and shoreline for additional clues, but found none. I photographed the chalk mark on the recycling bin and considered whether the sheriff could help identify Kostas’s spy network. She was tracking down murder suspects, but I had no other idea where to start.
The rumble of a car motor came from the direction of Ocean Highway. I thought about the dark van, but the distant engine growls were probably just ordinary traffic.
Contacting the sheriff would make sense, if I were just a private citizen or an employee of Benton Dynamics, but Marisa Dupree was my client. The lawsuit alleged that she and Richard Kostas had stolen confidential files. By calling Sheriff Tompkins, I risked pushing Marisa into the hands of the police.
Scrolling through my list of contacts on my phone, I searched for Marisa’s number, but decided not to call her. Tipping her off to what I had learned would create complications. She had denied stealing files from her former employer. Despite how the case had appeared from the beginning, some part of me believed her, but not entirely.
If I were wrong, it would not have been the first time a client had duped me. If she had nothing to do with Kostas passing confidential files to some unknown person, then contacting the Sheriff was not an issue, but it was a risk.
When I called Sheriff Tompkins, she declined to meet me out at the site of the murder, claiming that her afternoon schedule was booked. Instead, she asked me what I had found, but I would have a better shot at convincing her of Kostas’s scheme if I showed her the photo of the chalk mark in person. I arranged to meet her at the police station in twenty minutes. When she hung up, I wondered if going to the sheriff was a mistake. I had photographed only the second chalk mark at the murder scene and not the first one at Turner Creek Sporting Clays. I needed more time, but did not leave myself any.
At the entrance to the police station, the same blank-faced deputy who had greeted me for my interrogation last Thursday said that Sheriff Tompkins was expecting me. He picked up a phone receiver, buzzed her, and looked off into the distance as he listened to his boss. The deputy put the phone receiver down and said she would be a few minutes. All the seats in the small waiting area were occupied by a family with worried expressions, probably wondering how they could post bail for some reprobate kid of theirs in custody. The deputy walked me across the squad room and pointed to a folding metal chair outside the sheriff’s office. I sat down. The door was ajar. Her telephone rang.
I heard her say, “Hello, Sheriff Tompkins here.”
A raspy female voice said, “Dr. Hegazi, Office of the Chief Medical Examiner. You left a voicemail?”
She was on speakerphone. I leaned toward the door, not far enough for anyone inside her office to see me, and listened to their conversation.
Tompkins replied, “Yeah, thanks for calling me back, Doctor. I appreciate it. Look, I’m, um, I’m calling you on a murder case. I was hoping that you’d share what you got so far for our investigation. The victim’s name was Richard Kostas.”
“Spell that.”
“K-o-s-t-a-s. We found him floating in the Chesapeake Bay on Wednesday.”
“Oh, that one. Well, let’s get the formalities over, all right? Your name?”
“Sheriff Amanda Tompkins.”
“Agency?”
“Chester County Sheriff’s Department.”
“I called you, so your phone number is confirmed. Last question. Your badge number?”
“Eight.”
“Small department out there, huh?”
“Yeah, a little different on the Eastern Shore. We’re not Baltimore.”
“Okay, let me get to my computer and open the file. Can you hold?”
“Sure.”
A muscle-bound deputy lumbered down the hallway with a manila folder in hand. I sat up straight and did my best to appear bored and nonchalant. He passed by without a word, entered an office, and closed the door.
The stillness of the narrow hallway felt tight and suffocating. Dr. Hegazi eventually returned to the phone and said, “Okay, got it. What can I do for you?”
The sheriff asked, “I was hoping you could tell me how Richard Kostas died?”
“Well, we’re still working on it. We’ve got a lot of cases.”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
“A full report takes weeks.”
The sheriff said,
