“What about you?” Pinker demanded.
“I’m going to look for someone to ID the victim. But before that, I’m calling the Chief of Detectives. He is not going to be happy.”
While interviewing a nearby shop owner, Simmons was called back to Monsieur Hexie’s apartment. He went upstairs and found a fair-haired, middle-aged man and brunette young woman talking to the CSI supervisor. “Can I help you?” he asked.
“Peter Sebastian,” the man said, studying him dispassionately. “FBI. I’m deputy head of violent crime.”
“…you slumming?”
“Unfortunately not. I’ve spoken to your chief.”
Simmons knew what that meant.
“This is Special Agent Dana Maltravers, my assistant,” the FBI man said, glancing at the woman. She gave Simmons a tight smile. “No, Detective, we aren’t slumming. This is the second murder in D.C. in rapid succession. You can understand the Bureau’s interest, given the large number of VIPs in the district.”
“But they’re not your problem, are they?” Simmons said. “You’re a violent-crime man.”
Sebastian looked at him icily. “Can we have some cooperation here, please?”
Versace chose that moment to make his entrance. “Cooperation?” he said. “That’s my middle name.”
Dana Maltravers looked at him. “And your other names are Gerard and Pinker?”
The detective laughed. “On the button. Give the lady a coconut.”
The agent’s lips started to form into a smile, then she saw her superior’s expression. She ran a hand through her short brown hair and looked away.
Peter Sebastian introduced himself and his colleague again, then turned back to Simmons. “So, Detective, about that cooperation?”
Simmons raised his shoulders. “Sure. Tell us how this particular cooperation is going to play.”
“Very well. You remain in primary control of the investigation into this murder and that of the rock singer, but you inform us of every development immediately.” The FBI man smiled, showing gleaming and perfectly straight teeth. “And we reserve the right to take over if and when we deem that appropriate.”
“Oh, right,” Pinker said, stepping forward. “We do the legwork and you step in at the end to get the applause.”
Sebastian’s gaze hardened. “Let’s face it, Detective, you and your partner haven’t exactly covered yourselves in glory so far.”
Simmons put a hand on Pinker’s arm.
“If you’re unhappy,” the blond man concluded, “ask your chief about the terms. He agreed to them.”
“No need,” Simmons said. He and Versace had shown they weren’t pushovers; now they needed to get on with the investigation. “What do you need to know?”
Sebastian inclined his head toward Maltravers.
“Has the victim been identified yet?” she asked, looking at her clipboard.
“Not officially,” Simmons replied. “But the CSIs found a brochure for the shop downstairs. The photo of Monsieur Hexie matches the dead man.”
Dr. Gilbert’s initial impressions were then passed on. After hearing about their canvassing, Dana Maltravers looked at them both.
“What are your thoughts about the modus operandi?”
Versace shrugged. “Musta hurt something awful.”
Clem gave a weary shake of the head. “I guess you mean the fact that both this victim and Loki were killed with two weapons?”
“Very good, Detective,” Sebastian said. “I’m glad one of you has been paying attention.” He ignored Pinker’s glare.
“Oh, we both noticed that, all right,” Clem said, rescuing his partner. “We’re just keeping an open mind about it.”
“Yeah,” Versace said. “After all, most murderers have got two hands.”
Sebastian and Maltravers looked at each other.
“You don’t think the number two might have some symbolic meaning?” the female agent asked.
Simmons screwed up his eyes. “You mean, some kind of binary significance? A pair, that kind of thing?”
Maltravers shrugged. “I guess. Or maybe there were two killers.”
Pinker glanced at Simmons. “We haven’t excluded that possibility.”
“There were no footprints on the street at the first murder,” his partner added. “But the CSIs should be able to get prints from the rugs here.”
“Let’s leave that for now,” Sebastian said. “We’ll leave you to your work, Detectives. Perhaps we could meet at your office, say, midday?” His tone made clear that the issue wasn’t negotiable.
After the agents had left, Pinker nudged his partner.
“Binary significance?” he said, ironically. “What the hell has that got to do with anything, Clem?”
“Search me,” the big man replied, with a soft grin. “I just wanted to show off my lack of a college degree.” He turned away from his partner. “Now it’s time I worked on the voodoo connection.”
Pinker gave a hollow laugh. Then he realized that Simmons was serious.
Fourteen
I flattened myself beneath the quilts, leaving a small space to see through. Unfortunately, my ears were still well covered, so the first sound I heard was the crash of the door being kicked open. I saw a figure in a gray uniform and beret, with a leveled assault rifle.
“Base, unit eleven at loggers’ cabin. Door has been forced. Fugitive not present. Over.”
I watched as his eyes moved up to the platform.
“Base, eleven. Wait one. Checking bedding. Over.”
The man slipped a walkie-talkie into a holder on his belt and slung the rifle over his shoulder before taking out a pistol like the one I was holding. Then he started up the rungs.
I considered what to do. Killing the guy would be easy enough, but I was less keen on that than I had been the day before. I didn’t want to be reduced to their level. Which didn’t mean I wasn’t going to get even with the shitheads in the camp at some stage, but I needed to get away first.
The man’s head gear appeared, then his face. I had to act quickly, while I still had the advantage of surprise. I moved forward and reared up from the bedding, head butting him squarely in the face. The contact was good and he lost his grip on the ladder and crashed to the floor. I slid down the ladder and held my pistol on him. That wasn’t necessary. He was out cold.
The walkie-talkie squawked before I could do anything else.
“Eleven, base. Confirm status. Over.”
I had to answer-if I kept quiet, more people would be sent after me. At least I’d heard the unconscious man speak. I took the device from his belt.
“Base, eleven,” I said, copying the accent as best I could. “Bedding clear. Stand by.” It suddenly occurred to me that, if I held my nerve, I could sell the bastards a dummy. I removed a leather strap holding a compass from his neck then looked cautiously out the open door. There was no one else in sight. I went out onto the veranda and decided on a direction that I wouldn’t be taking. “Tracks outside heading into forest. Bearing, thirty degrees. Over.”
“Roger, eleven. Return to RZ point Charlie. Confirm. Over.”
“RZ Charlie confirmed. Over and out.”
I waited for a response, wondering if I’d said anything wrong.
“Roger, base out.”
I exhaled hard, then looked down at the man by my feet. He hadn’t moved, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I checked the guy’s belt. There was a sheathed combat knife at the rear. I pulled off his jacket and hacked it into strips. Tying his wrists, I ran the material round the top of the heavy table and secured it. After binding his ankles, I reckoned he was there for the duration. I took the watch from his left wrist. The time was seven forty-one, but there was no date or month display. The cold at night and the relatively short days, along with the yellowing leaves on the occasional deciduous tree, suggested it was autumn.
I removed a couple of full ammunition clips from the young man’s belt and pulled on my jacket. After I’d laced my boots, hung the compass round my neck and stuffed my jacket pockets with cans of food and drink, I was ready to leave. I took the man’s rifle and pistol with me, as well as my own. They would be stashed in the forest where no one would ever find them. Finally, I dropped the walkie-talkie to the floor and crushed it with my boot-after the bug in my arm, I wasn’t taking any more chances of being located than I had to.