he felt guilty.”
“How did our hero die?” asked Fisher.
“Hit the back of his head in the bathroom. Slipped getting out of the tub.”
“Can I take a look?”
“If they’re done with the pictures. He’s not wearing anything.”
“I knew there was some reason I came.”
“That’s what I said.”
The downstairs bathroom was bigger than Fisher’s apartment. The general lay sprawled faceup on the floor, a trickle of blood coming from his ear. He seemed to have slipped coming out of the whirlpool bath, smacked his head on the side of the marble wall where the bath was recessed, then pirouetted down and smacked the back of his head again.
“We took hair and some skin off the wall,” said Doar pointing. “Probably open and shut.”
“Bathrooms are very dangerous places,” said Fisher.
“Yeah.”
Fisher knelt near the door. The scene was laid out perfectly, the distances precise, soap in the bottom of the tub, water almost but not quite turned off, a towel pulled cock-eyed off the corner of the rack as if Bonham had started to grab for it.
He rose and went back into the den. They’d hit the mute on the TV, but otherwise had left it on, just as they’d found it. Fisher looked around, re-creating the scene from the other night when he and Howe had come over, comparing it to now. Bonham had thrown his jacket down, as though he’d just come in.
“Was he drinking?” Fisher asked.
“It’s not obvious,” said the investigator. “No glass or anything.”
Fisher walked back to the bathroom. There was a small TV in the corner. It was off.
“What?” asked Doar as he started to leave.
“Open and shut,” said Fisher.
Chapter 10
Howe heard about Bonham’s death just as he was suiting up to fly out to Alaska. The lieutenant who brought the information had it third- or fourthhand and couldn’t add anything beyond the simple fact that the general had died in an accident.
Howe didn’t know what to feel or even think. Away from Fisher, he’d started to doubt the FBI agent’s theory, though he couldn’t really dismiss it. He nodded to the lieutenant, then continued getting ready; he had to be in Alaska by nightfall to help prepare the monitoring mission. He went out to the planes with Timmy feeling a little numb; he could focus on the plane and his job well enough, but could only manage a grunt or two as his wingman made his usual jokes about anything and everything.
They were finished with the preflights and about to strap in when a Humvee flew around the corner and nearly crashed into one of the small tractors standing on the apron. The lieutenant who had told Howe about Bonham jumped from the truck, running toward the planes and waving his arms like a madman. Howe leaned over the side of the aircraft; the lieutenant spotted him and began gesturing madly that he should come down. He produced a cell phone from his pocket, holding it up toward Howe.
“FBI wants you,” said the lieutenant when he reached the tarmac.
“FBI?” asked Howe as he took the phone. “Fisher?”
“Last time I checked,” answered the agent.
“This better be important.”
“Tell me something: How big a sports fan was Bonham?”
Chapter 11
“The whole idea of offshore banks, Andy, is that they make it almost impossible to get access.”
“Yeah, but not for you, Betty.” Fisher fed another cigarette into the forensic accountant’s fat fingers.
Betty lit the new cigarette off the one in her other hand. “You’re right about that condo. Worth a hell of a lot more than he said. But the transactions are there to back up the price.”
“Have to be offshore accounts.”
“I need account numbers. At least banks.”
“They’re not on the computer, not according to the state police lab guys. I sent Bartolomo over to help them.”
“Oh, that was smart.”
“Hey, for a computer geek, he’s almost human,” said Fisher. “I had this other brainstorm while I was talking to him.”
“Spare me.”
“He says you can track whether inquiries are made on bank accounts from ATMs and phones and things, because their networks log all the contacts.”
“What’s the point?”
“Well, see, if the four people who were supposed to have died in Cyclops One aren’t dead, then they’re probably checking their bank accounts. We just look at the statements, right?”
“I don’t know if we can come up with those kinds of records,” said Betty. “Besides, not everybody’s as paranoid about their money as you, Andy.”
“I’m not paranoid about money.”
“Excuse me.
“Or maybe a few more people will slip in their bathrooms,” said Fisher. He rose.
“We’ll do what we can,” she told him. “No promises.”
“Thanks, babe. Get ahold of me if you think of something else, okay? I’m counting on you to break this sucker open.”
“Where you going?”
“Alaska. I hear it’s almost warm this time of year.”
Fisher got about halfway to Dulles Airport when he realized he was being followed. It was the sort of break you couldn’t pray for, but the agent managed to contain his glee, unholstering his revolver — the two hideaways were small automatics — and putting it on his lap. He got off the highway and drove a bit farther; when he was sure he hadn’t succumbed to wishful thinking, he started hunting for a bank. Finally he spotted one on the wrong side of the highway; he veered across traffic and pulled into the ATM lane around the back.
His pursuer was obviously driving his own car, because rather than chancing the traffic he drove down the road, turned, and then came back, pulling in front as if he intended to use a teller inside. Fisher, about three vehicles from the machine, jumped out of his car, cell phone in one hand, gun in the other.
He had to dial with his finger through the trigger guard. Doar picked up on the second ring.
“Listen, Doar, this is Andy Fisher, FBI.”
“Mr. Fisher—”
“I have your murder suspect in view, parking lot of FirstWay Bank out here in Taylorville.”
“Murder suspect? Who?”
“Bonham was a Boston Red Sox nut. If he was having a bath, he would have had the TV on in the bathroom and probably been drinking a Scotch. And don’t buy the justifiable-homicide play.”
“But—”
