I envision her blue helmet with the unbuckled chin strap, and I should have said something. I should have told her to fasten it.
“I asked the NCB guy what he was calling in reference to, and he said he was aware of the developing situation in the park on the waterfront,” Marino explains.
“Those were his exact words? The developing situation?” Now I’m really baffled.
“I swear to God. And I’m thinking, What the hell? What situation could he know about? How could he know there’s a body in the park by the water here in Cambridge?”
“I don’t understand…” I start to say.
“I asked how he could be aware of any situation period around here,” Marino talks over me. “What was his source? And he said that was classified.”
“I don’t understand,” I repeat myself. “How is it possible that Interpol’s call to you was in reference to Elisa Vandersteel, assuming that’s who’s dead?” It’s completely illogical. “Was her name mentioned?”
“No, but he was talking about a sudden death. That was how he phrased it, a sudden death that had international consequences, which is why Interpol is involved,” Marino says.
“Elisa Vandersteel would have international consequences,” I reply, “since she’s not American. Once again, that’s assuming the driver’s license is the dead woman’s.”
“It felt like that was the situation he was referencing. That he somehow knew about it.”
“Tell me how it’s possible? I’ve never heard of something like this happening,” I reply. “The local media hasn’t even caught wind of it yet. Is there something on the Internet I’ve not been told about? How could Interpol know about a death before you’ve been to the scene or called the medical examiner?”
“I asked Lucy if anything had been tweeted or whatever,” he says. “I called her right after I hung up from talking to the Interpol investigator. Nothing’s out there about the Vandersteel case that we know of. Assuming that’s who she is. But you’re right. It seems Interpol knew before either of us did, and I don’t understand that either.”
Marino’s portable radio is charging upright in the console, and it hasn’t escaped my notice that there’s very little chatter. In fact it’s so quiet I forget the radio is in the car until I notice it. I’ve heard nothing go over the air that might alert anyone about the dead body awaiting us at the park.
“But how would Interpol investigators or analysts know about a body found in a Cambridge park near the water in the past thirty-some-odd minutes?” I ask. “I’m sorry, something’s off about this, Marino. And it’s not the way the process works. Local law enforcement requests assistance because there might be an international interest-”
He interrupts, “I know how it’s supposed to work. You think this is my first friggin’ rodeo?”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of Interpol initiating contact about a homicide scarcely anyone knows about yet,” I emphasize. “We don’t know she’s a homicide for that matter. We also haven’t verified the victim’s identity. We don’t know a damn thing.”
“All I can tell you is the investigator who called said he was from their counterterrorism division. He said he understood we have a situation,” Marino uses that word again. “A death with international consequences, and I got the feeling he was thinking about terrorism, based on the words he used. I sure as hell wish I had a recording of what he said.”
“And where did the information come from?” I’m going to keep pounding that drum. “Just because a British driver’s license was found on a bike path? And how would he even know about that unless Barclay told him? This is absurd.”
“When I asked him how the hell he could know about anything going on in Cambridge, and why he was calling me directly, he said they’d received e-mailed information that listed my name and number as the contact.” Marino stares straight ahead, and he must be thinking the same thing I am, but he won’t want to admit it.
“Interpol doesn’t work that way.” I’m not going to back down because this is something I know about, and Marino has been duped. “And they don’t hire psychics with crystal balls who can predict cases before the rest of us know about them, last I heard.” I instantly regret saying this because he’ll take it as a slight directed at him, when it’s not. “It’s implausible if not impossible that they could know about a scene and a dead body we’ve not so much as looked at yet.”
“Well I’m not the one who’s pals with the secretary-general,” Marino replies with a sarcastic snap. “Maybe you should call him up and ask him how the hell they found out so damn fast.”
I’ve been to Interpol’s headquarters in Lyon, France, numerous times, and am on friendly terms with the secretary-general Tom Perry, who’s actually American, a Rhodes scholar, a former head of the National Institute of Justice, and a bona fide Renaissance man.
“If need be I will,” I reply reasonably, ignoring Marino’s sting, careful of my tone because I don’t want to argue with him. “How was it left?” I ask.
“The investigator said the Washington headquarters, the NCB, was contacted but didn’t say by who. He said it was protected information, the same shit I use as an excuse all the time. So I didn’t think much about it,” Marino explains, but I can tell he’s thinking about it now.
“This is sounding too much like the nine-one-one complaint,” I reply, in hopes he’ll make the same connections I am.
I’d rather he draw his own conclusion so he doesn’t kill the messenger.
“Yeah, and the guy coughed.”
“Who did?”
“The Interpol guy coughed several times and I remember wondering if he had a cold. And now that I’m thinking about it, the person who left the bogus nine-one-one coughed too.”
Marino has a hard edge to his glumness, and his face is deep red.
“I’m beginning to think that whoever murdered Elisa Vandersteel has anonymously reported his own damn case to Interpol because he wants the entire damn planet to know about it,” he then says above the noise of his car, and I can see his pulse pounding in his neck. “And God only knows who else has been contacted.”
That may be Marino’s biggest worry. But it’s not mine.
THE ANGRIER HE IS the calmer I get.
“There had to be a source,” I persist anyway, because I deal with international cases far more often than Marino does, and I know the routines and the protocols. “Did a police officer contact Interpol? In other words did another cop contact the NCB in Washington about the Cambridge case? Because that shouldn’t be classified.”
“Got no idea who the source was but somebody sure as hell told somebody something,” he almost yells over the roar of his engine. “Hell no, Barclay didn’t, though. He wouldn’t without clearing it with me. He wouldn’t even think of it.”
“Interpol’s very careful who it talks to. You have to be authenticated and verified.” I gently lead him closer to what will most assuredly be an unpalatable truth.
“I don’t think it was a phone call. It sounds like they got an e-mail,” Marino says, and the ugliness he’s about to face is going to enrage him.
I look at his profile inside the dark SUV, at the big dome of his bald head, his strong nose, and the hard set of his heavy mandible.
“I do know that e-mail is the quickest and simplest way to report something to them,” he’s saying. “The forms and everything are right there on the Internet. They’ve got it all on a website. It’s easy but it’s also going to be monitored and traceable.”