“You know these people… sorry, what did you say your name was?”
“Special Agent Cooper.” I took a card from a back pocket and placed it on her desk.
She picked it up and checked it over. “Special Agent, as an ex-CCT yourself, you'd know that guys like this are pro airmen with a capital F for fanatic. They do it right. Having all their gear present and accounted for is a given.”
I took a stroll around the room. What Selwyn said was generally true, but professionals did get sloppy, even careless. I once knew a guy in 82nd Airborne who'd done over three thousand jumps — spent his whole life stepping out of planes. And then one day he did a demonstration jump with some buddies. The idea was to land on a pontoon moored in San Francisco Bay. For some reason, he decided not to wear a helmet. There was a wind shift. He made the pontoon OK, only he landed a little hard and hit his head on a bollard. This knocked him out cold and he toppled quietly into the bay. His buddies all high-fived each other while he drowned under their noses.
“Let's say Wright did leave one of his knives behind, and did commit suicide,” said Selwyn. “Do you really think he'd have cut through the harness with the knife in your hand there, and then have the presence of mind to replace it in its scabbard?”
No, I didn't.
“So, what's the terrain like where Wright came down?” I asked.
“Open, but scrubby with a few trees. The chute drifted and landed in a stand of slash pines half a mile from where the body was found.”
A thought occurred to me. “Those knives are balanced for throwing. It would've come down point first, traveling fast. If the ground's soft, it would have come to a stop four feet under.”
“I know. I personally combed every inch of ground in the vicinity of the deceased for exactly that reason. I found nothing.”
“And I suppose you also scanned with metal detectors?”
Selwyn leaned back against the bench, hands in her pockets, lips pursed. “Turns out the area was a former dump. All sorts of old World War Two scrap was bulldozed into the ground thereabouts, much of it metal. The screen on the scanner lit up like stage lights.” She tilted her head, studying me. “So, are we going to get around to discussing the only theory that fits the facts, or what?”
“You mean the one where the men he jumped with — possibly the leader of the stick — attacked him in midair, used one of Ruben's own knives to cut him out of his harness, and then pulled his rip cord for him?” I said.
“Yeah,” she answered with a crooked smile. “And here I was thinking I was going to have trouble with you.”
Wright was the kind of guy who'd embrace death only if he could take maybe a dozen bad guys with him. He wasn't the suicide type. So that left murder. That meant I was looking for a murderer. I was also looking for a drink. The clock on the wall said so, it being almost 2100 hours.
“You want to join me for a whiskey?” I asked Selwyn. The invitation was purely business, of course.
“Love to, but my man will kill me,” she said, reaching to switch off the laser printer.
“You married?” I asked. She glanced up at me. Maybe I was getting a little personal.
“Was.” She picked up a framed photo from her desk and handed it to me. “My man,” she said. The photo was a family shot — Colonel Selwyn, her husband or partner, and a three-or four-year-old boy. They were standing together on a sandy beach, the water lapping at their toes. All three seemed happy to be there. “My husband, Manny's father, was killed soon after this was taken, in an aircraft accident — a light plane, engine failure. He was a passenger. Manny knows his father, but only through photos and home videos.”
“I'm sorry,” I said. Truly, gravity sucked. Change-the-subject time. “Listen, I'm not sure what your schedule's like tomorrow, but I'd like to go and have a look at where Wrong Way came down.”
“Who?”
“Wrong Way — the deceased. That's what we called Ruben Wright. If you could walk me around the area, it'd save me some time.”
Colonel Selwyn picked up a briefcase and motioned me toward the door. “OK, but it'll have to be first thing in the morning. I'm taking a half day — being a mom, you know.”
“ Oh-nine-thirty good for you?” I asked.
“Yep. You'll need a four-wheel drive.” Selwyn flicked off the interior lights after we stepped outside. Motion-sensitive lights took over, pushing back the twilight. Insects began strafing runs on the bulbs.
“Is the officers' club still worth a stopover?” I asked.
“Sure — if you like testosterone over ice. Otherwise, head on over to Destin. Plenty of good places there. Try The Funkster. The beer's cold, the music's good — if you like blues. Can't miss it. On the left as you come into town.”
Destin. I'd had some wild nights in that town, but that was in another life. We exchanged thanks, and I stood by my vehicle and watched the DI drive off until the lights on the building behind me switched off.
SEVENTEEN
Four black guys on steel guitars, a snare set, and an accordion were cooking up some zydeco music that brought gators and marsh gas to mind. The bar was weathered, smelled of beer sweat, and was bathed in neon from Miller Lite and Budweiser signs on the walls. The place was full, though perhaps not compared with when the summer-vacation crowds got thirsty. I ordered a Glen Keith on the rocks and found a spot among the wallflowers, watching the talent with one eye and the band with the other.
I'd barely settled in when I heard someone with a broad English accent yell behind me. “That was a fuckin' wanker's shot, mate.”
I glanced over my shoulder. Three men were playing pool.
“And you're a fuckin' tosser,” roared one of them over the music.
I heard the guy beside me grumble to his drinking buddy, “Those goddamn SAS assholes get away with murder.”
So the loudmouths were British Special Air Service — SAS. That accounted for the accents. I didn't need to be a cop to sense a situation brewing. They were drinking shots of something bright green. Maybe it wasn't the alcohol they were reacting to but the artificial coloring. Lined up on a windowsill behind them was a collection of over twenty shot glasses. That was a lot of artificial coloring. The apparent ringleader, and the oldest of the three, had light-colored hair dyed blond at the tips and brushed forward like he'd stepped out of Julius Caesar's Rome. He had narrow brown eyes and pale skin strewn with freckles, and was slightly taller and thicker set than his comrades. The Brits were showing off to a couple of attractive local twenty-somethings occupying the other pool table, both of whom were doing their best to ignore the attention.
“Eh, ‘ave you ladies ever sampled the delights of an English lad?” I heard the guy with the Roman haircut inquire.
Again, no response from the women. They were being polite, but standoffish. It seemed to me they just wanted to play their game in peace.
“Basically, luv, what ‘e was sayin' was ‘ave you ever gobbled an English knob?” said another.
His buddies thought this comment uproariously funny. One of the men had to steady himself with his cue stick, using it as a crutch to stop himself from sinking to his knees.
I glanced beside me. Knuckles were bunching.
“Limey assholes,” I heard another guy say beneath his breath. He took a step forward, into my line of sight. He looked like a Special Ops guy, one of ours, pumped muscle with a bony skull shining beneath hair cut as short as pig bristle.
The guy with the blonded tips sauntered on vaguely wobbly legs over to the objects of their attention. He put out his hand toward the woman's butt as she leaned over the cushion to play a shot. I took a couple of steps toward them. It was a nice butt, so I knew where he was coming from. I also knew where he was going if it landed — into a Dumpster out back, especially if she objected. I took another step and, before my left hand knew what was going on, my right had reached out and caught his by the wrist.