“The eldest, Tony Jr., found him in the garage. TJ’s a smart kid. On the football team, too. He dialed nine-one-one and when the call came through I drove straight over.”
“What about Mrs. Short?”
“Debbie? At work. Tony worked shifts and they took it in turns with the kids in the summer.”
“Any other witnesses see anything?”
“Nope.”
“So what did you do when you got here?”
“Well, the kids were screaming and crying. One of the neighbors came by and she took them home with her. I opened the garage door and turned the engine off real quick, you know, to get the smoke out. Tony — I mean Mr. Short — had run a hose or something from the exhaust in through the window.”
“And you’re sure he was buckled in?”
“Oh, yeah. In the backseat, like I said. I got him out the car and tried to give him CPR, but he was gone. I did what I could.”
She could see that Seeley was still upset, perhaps thinking that if he’d got there sooner he maybe could have saved him. She knew that it was always harder if you knew the victim. It gave death a personal edge, as if you’d betrayed some unspoken agreement to look out for each other.
“Don’t worry, Officer,” said Jennifer as she turned to face him. “You did the right thing. Believe me, by the time you got here, he was already dead. There was nothing you could have done.”
He smiled gratefully.
“Well, then I radioed back in and they sent the coroner to collect the body. I would have gone to tell Debbie myself, but I had to deal with the fire, so one of the other guys went over. I heard she took it pretty bad.” He shook his head, his lips compressed in sympathy. Jennifer shot him a questioning look.
“The fire. What fire?”
“Oh, you know, these damn kids.” He nodded down the road where one of the children was nursing a sprained wrist where he had just fallen. “We get a lot of problems round here. There’s not a whole lot for them to do apart from hang round the malls or make trouble. There’s a field out back and someone had set fire to a bunch of trash.”
“On the same day?” Jennifer fired the question at Seeley, her eyes locking with his.
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat nervously. “One of the neighbors was worried about it spreading, what with the hot weather we’ve been having an’ all. Why? I do something wrong?”
Jennifer didn’t answer. She was already making her way past the side of the house, through the yard and the upturned pink bicycle lying in the middle of the path, and out through the back gate. She didn’t believe in coincidences.
Seeley had been generous when he had described it as a field. In reality it was a desolate scrap of wasteland, a lunar landscape of yellowing weeds and dry brown earth dotted with rusting refrigerators and burned-out cars that separated the houses from the ugly welt of the interstate in the distance.
To the left of the gate she had just come through, in the shadow of a cypress tree, a crater perhaps ten feet across and five feet deep — one of several — scarred the earth. A large pile of ashes, charred wood, and twisted metal rose from within it like a grotesque funeral pyre. Seeley came running up behind her.
“What did I say?”
Jennifer stared at him, hands on her hips.
“Don’t you think it’s strange, Officer, that on the very day that Tony Short committed suicide, someone lit a fire twenty yards from his house?” Seeley looked at her blankly.
“Folks light fires all the time.”
“Don’t you think it’s possible that before killing himself, he decided to burn something?” Jennifer stabbed her finger forcefully in the direction of the hole. Understanding flooded over Seeley’s face.
“Oh, I geddit. It’s just that the kids here, you know, they’re always foolin’ around. But, yeah, sure, why not?”
Jennifer approached the remains of the fire and looked into it carefully. Despite what she’d just said, she had to admit that Seeley was probably right. But then again, if someone had murdered Short, it was just conceivable that they had started the fire to destroy the murder weapon or some other piece of evidence. Either way, she had to be sure.
“Give me a hand.” She jumped down into the hole and stepped into the ashes, gray and white flecks rising around her ankles like flies around fruit on a summer’s day. Seeley scrambled down to help and together they moved several large pieces of wood out of the way, until Seeley breathed in sharply.
“What the hell’s that?” Out of the ashes, a large metal object had appeared, its sides blackened, rusted and twisted where it had buckled under the heat.
“I have no idea,” said Jennifer. “Here, help me move it.”
They dragged the object out of the middle of the crater, clouds of dust and ashes billowing around their heads, making them cough and their eyes stream.
It seemed to be some sort of large metal container. It had two compartments, the upper one being nothing more than a shallow tray accessible under the top lid, while the much larger, lower one was reached from a panel on the side. Both compartments were empty.
And then she noticed it.
On one side, where the silver paint had almost all peeled away, she could just about make it out; a ghostly signature that the heat had not quite been able to erase. The U.S. Treasury seal.
The sight triggered a memory of where she’d seen a similar container before. Inside Fort Knox.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The ground had already been beaten into a muddy pulp by a steady procession of heavy trucks and earthmoving equipment. The air reverberated with the roar of diesel engines, the whine of hydraulics, and the steady chatter of an unseen pneumatic drill. In the distance a crane was being assembled while closer to the road, temporary accommodation units were being hoisted into place, the operation overseen by a group of three men wearing fluorescent jackets.
Catching sight of the yellow Bentley as it drew up, one of the men broke away from the group and hurried over to the car, holding onto his hard hat as it wobbled on his head. He waited for the chauffeur to step round and open the door before peering in.
“Mr. Van Simson. We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.”
“Next time I’ll book an appointment,” said Van Simson as he stepped out of the car, black Wellington boots over his pale brown trousers, a light blue sweater tied around his shoulders over a white shirt. The chauffeur offered him a bright yellow hard hat, which he ignored. “Where’s Legrand?”
“Overseeing the foundation work in sector three.” The man pointed behind him. “I can take you over.”
“No need. Get back to work.”
Van Simson indicated with his head for his chauffeur to follow him. He set off up the hill, stepping carefully over the treacherous tire furrows that in some places were over a foot deep.
His phone rang.
“Charles?” Van Simson snapped. “I hope you’ve got good news.”
“I’m afraid not. Ranieri’s dead. Has been for over a week. Murdered. Cops have been trying to keep a lid on it.”
Van Simson stopped and six feet behind him the chauffeur stopped, too, and waited.
“So where’s the coin?” Van Simson hissed.
“I don’t know,” came the nervous reply.
“You don’t know? What about the priest’s apartment?”
He set off again and the chauffeur followed.
“We already did that. There was nothing there. He must have stashed them somewhere else. The cops are all over it now.”
“Damn you, Charles,” Van Simson spat. “This is your fault. You were too slow. Someone else got to him first.” He kicked a clod of earth and it sailed through the air ahead of him.