“Check everything for prints,” Kerry said. “To this day, we don’t have Fay’s prints, not even from his house in Maine.”
“How does somebody not leave prints in his own house?” Holly asked.
“We think he cleaned up the place before he left the last time. He had only been back for a few minutes when we went in. His house in the Virginia suburbs was also clean of prints, the first time I’d ever seen a house with no prints at all.”
“Yeah, I was the tech team leader on that one,” the tech guy said, “and I’d never seen that either. This guy is really something. By the way, I won’t put this in writing, but it’s my guess that the truck or RV was driven out of here some time after the airplane left.”
“Any idea how recently?”
“Days, is my guess. Why don’t you folks get a cup of coffee or something and come back in, say, two hours?”
Kerry nodded and led them out of the building. The airport manager drove them to the terminal, and they got sandwiches from the machines in the pilots’ lounge.
TWO HOURS LATER, they were back in the hangar. “Tell me about it,” Kerry said.
The tech team leader laughed. “Teddy’s done it again: not a print anywhere, and believe me, we’ve looked everywhere. The guy is a neat freak, paranoid to a turn.”
“Is there anything at all interesting here?” Kerry asked.
“We’ve determined that the vehicle was an RV, consistent in size with one manufactured by Winnebago. If you find it, we can match it to the tracks in here. One other thing, we found this.” He held up a small plastic bag with an object inside.
“Looks like a computer chip,” Kerry said.
“It is; automotive. It’s from the central computer of an SUV, a stock-standard chip, no alterations. Can you associate that with anything?”
Kerry thought for a minute. “Yes,” he said. “The Supreme Court justice killed in the automobile accident.”
“Right. The chip we recovered from that vehicle had been altered to reverse the commands sent from the onboard computer to operate the automatic stability control. If the car went into a skid, for instance, the ASC would cause one or more wheels to brake in order to correct the skid. The replacement chip did the opposite, causing it to skid even more. Fucking ingenious.”
“Well, anyway,” Kerry said, “it lets us tie Teddy to the death of Mr. Justice What’s-his-name.”
“It would, if we had found any material evidence that Teddy had ever been in this hangar,” the tech guy said. “Without prints or other evidence, we can’t prove he was here.”
“Better circumstantial evidence than no evidence at all,” Kerry said.
“if you say so,” the tech guy replied. “But this Teddy is really something, you know?”
“I know,” Kerry replied.
Holly knew, too.
THIRTY-FOUR
HOLLY GOT BACK shortly before dark and took Daisy for a run, cutting over to Park Avenue. She liked the broad boulevard, with its garden down the center and its elegant apartment buildings. She wondered what a small apartment on Park cost, and if there were any small apartments. She could afford to buy something, if it wasn’t too outrageous, and she was getting tired of living in what amounted to a dormitory. There was almost no privacy, unless she locked her door, and if she did that, she felt claustrophobic in her small room.
Back at the Barn, she picked up a New York Times at the front desk and took it upstairs with her. After feeding Daisy, she took a shower and stretched out on her bed with the paper. She came to the classifieds and, on a whim, turned to the real estate section. Almost immediately, an ad caught her eye:
Park Ave. 60’s est. sale, lg 1 BR w/wbf, sep. dr. fur. avbl. 650K.
She called the number, got a woman immediately and made an appointment for the following morning.
Holly arrived at the building, which turned out to be a large, limestone-fronted edifice with a uniformed doorman who found a cookie for Daisy. He called the apartment and told Holly to take the elevator to the twelfth floor, apartment A. She was met by a well-dressed woman in her forties, whom she assumed was the real estate agent.
“I’m Clarissa Bonner,” she said, offering a hand. “Oh, what a handsome dog!” She stroked Daisy’s head. “I grew up with a Doberman, and they’re just lovely. Come and see the apartment.”
Holly followed her around the rooms, which were surprisingly large, with high ceilings. The place was furnished in a rudimentary way, but didn’t look lived-in. When they had seen the whole place and talked about the building, Mrs. Bonner offered her coffee, and they sat down in the living room in front of the wbf, which was blazing cheerfully away.
“Let me tell you what’s happened,” Mrs. Bonner said. “My mother had an eighteen-room apartment covering this whole floor, and when she died last year, we divided it, selling the larger one and keeping this one as a pied-a-terre, just a place to sleep when we drive in from Connecticut for the theater. We kept some of her furniture, too. Then my husband was transferred to San Francisco, so we put it on the market and found a buyer almost immediately. Unfortunately, when she went through the application process, the co-op board turned her down. Her mother, a wealthy woman, was going to cosign the lease with her, but she declined to show the board her tax returns, so that was it. This happened forty-eight hours ago, and we have to be in San Francisco next week. We contacted the two other people who had made offers, but they had both bought other properties, so it’s back on the market, and you’re the first to see it.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know anything about how a co-op works,” Holly said.
“It’s like this: the building is incorporated, the corporation owns the building and leases the apartments. Each lessee owns a number of shares in the corporation, corresponding to the square footage of his apartment. Co-op boards can be very picky, but ours is generally all right. You would have to demonstrate a net worth and income that would show that you could pay the monthly maintenance, and you’d have to meet with the board.”
“How do they feel about pets?”
“No problem with that, as long as your dog is well-behaved, and Daisy certainly appears to be.”
Holly’s mind was racing. She loved the apartment, and she had a feeling Mrs. Bonner was desperate to sell, given her circumstances.
“Mrs. Bonner,” she said. “I believe I could demonstrate to the board that I’m qualified, and I’d like to make an offer right now, if we can agree. What is the lowest price you would accept for the apartment, furnished, as is?”
Mrs. Bonner didn’t bat an eye. “Six hundred thousand dollars,” she said, “if you can pay cash; I can’t wait for a mortgage to be approved. I have to tell you that if the place had a second bedroom we’d get a million dollars more for it; that was our mistake when we divided.”
Holly offered her hand. “Done,” she said. “What do I do now?”
Mrs. Bonner went to a desk, opened a drawer and pulled out a manila file. “Here is the application. I urge you to answer every question fully and to supply copies of your bank and brokerage statements and your tax returns. The board is meeting again the day after tomorrow, for the last time before Christmas, and I think it would be a good idea if you brought Daisy along to your interview.”
“Is there a broker involved?” Holly asked.