“With you, Fred. Keep going.”
“Well, it’s about a hundred eighty miles to Nassau from Miami. Exactly one hour and fifty-two minutes later, ATC in Nassau tracked a small aircraft, no transponder, ascend into radar range, about six hundred feet.” Dellray paused. “And then it stopped.”
“Stopped?”
“They thought it stalled. But it didn’t drop off the screen.”
“It was hovering,” Rhyme said.
“My guess. They figured that with no transponder the plane was an ultralight — one of those homemade gizmos that sometimes just sit like birds in headwinds? It wasn’t in controlled airspace so they didn’t pay any more mind. The time was eleven oh four a.m.”
“Moreno was shot at eleven sixteen,” Sachs said.
“And at eleven eighteen it turned around and descended outta radar. Two hours and five minutes later, a small aircraft, no transponder, crossed into U.S. airspace and headed toward South Miami.”
“That’s our boy,” Rhyme said. “Thanks, Fred.”
“Gooood luck. And forget you ever knew me.”
Click.
Wasn’t conclusive but like all elements in a case it was a solid brick in the wall of establishing a suspect’s guilt.
Nance Laurel got a call. While someone else might have nodded or offered some facial clues as to the content she listened without expression; her powdered face was a mask. She disconnected. “There’s an issue with another case of mine. I have to go interview a prisoner in detention. It shouldn’t be long. I’d like to stay but I have to take care of this.”
The prosecutor gathered up her purse and headed out the door.
Sachs too received a call. She listened and jotted a few notes.
Rhyme turned from her and was regarding the charts once again. “But I want more,” he griped. “Something to prove that Shales was at the controls of the drone.”
“Ask and ye shall receive.” This, from Amelia Sachs.
Rhyme lifted an eyebrow.
She said, “We have a lead to the whistleblower. If anybody can place Barry Shales in the Kill Room on May ninth, it’s him.”
Sachs was pleased to report that Captain Myers’s officers who’d been canvassing the patrons of Java Hut when the whistleblower uploaded the STO had found some witnesses.
Her computer gave a bleat and she looked toward the screen. “Incoming,” she said.
Sellitto gave a harsh laugh. “Not a good choice of words in this case, you don’t mind.”
She opened the attachment. “People buy a lot more with credit or debit cards nowadays. Even if the bill’s only three, four dollars. Sure helps us, though. The canvassers talked to everybody who charged something around one p.m. on the eleventh. Mostly a bust but one of them got a picture.” She printed out the photo attachments. Not terrible, she decided, but hardly high-def mug shots. “Has to be our man.”
She read the officer’s memo. “‘The photographer was a tourist from Ohio. Shooting pictures of his wife sitting across from him. You can see in the background a man, blurred — because he’s turning away fast and raising his hand to cover his face. Asked the tourists if they got a better look at him. They didn’t and other patrons and the baristas didn’t pay any attention to him.’”
Rhyme looked at the picture. Two tables behind the smiling woman was the presumed whistleblower. White. Solidly built, in a blue suit, an odd color, just shy of navy. He wore a baseball cap — suspicious, given the business attire — but seemed to have light-colored hair. A big laptop sat open before him.
“That’s him,” Sachs said. “He’s got an iBook.” She’d downloaded a picture of every model.
The criminalist observed, “Suit doesn’t fit well. It’s cheap. And see the Splenda packets on the table, along with the stirrer? Confirms he’s our man.”
“Why?” Sellitto asked. “I use Splenda.”
“Not the substance — the fact it’s on the table. Most people add sugar or sweetener at the milk station and throw the empty packets out, and the stirrers too. So there’s less mess at the table. He’s taking his detritus with him. Didn’t want to leave friction ridge evidence.”
Most objects, even paper, retain very good fingerprints where food is served because of grease from the meals.
“Anything else about him?” Pulaski asked.
“You tell me, rookie.”
The young officer said, “Look how he’s holding his right hand, palm cupped upward? Maybe he was about to take a pill. Could be a headache, backache. Wait, look, there’s a box. Is it? A box at the side of the table?”
It seemed that there was. Blue and gold.
Rhyme said, “Good. I think you’re right. And notice he’s drinking tea — see the bag in the napkin? — in a coffeehouse? Looks pale. Maybe it’s herbal. Not that unusual but a reasonable deduction could be stomach issues. Check antacid, reflux, indigestion medicine boxes that come in two colors.”
A moment later Cooper said, “Could be Zantac, maximum strength. Hard to say.”
“We don’t need definitive answers on everything,” Rhyme said softly. “We need direction. So he’s probably got a bum gut.”
“Stress from leaking classified government documents’ll do that,” Mel Cooper offered.
“Age?” Rhyme wondered.
“Can’t tell,” the young officer replied. “How could you tell?”
“Well, I’m not asking you to play a carnival game, rookie. We see he’s stocky, we see he’s got stomach issues. Hair could be blond but could be gray. Conservative dress. It’s reasonable to speculate he’s middle-aged or older.”
“Sure. I see.”
“And his posture. It’s perfect, even though he’s not young. Suggests a military background. Or could still be in the service, dressing civie.”
They stared at the picture and Sachs found herself wondering, Why did you leak the kill order? What was in it for you?
A person with a conscience…
But are you a patriot or a traitor?
Wondering too: And where the hell are you?
Sellitto took a call. Sachs noticed that his face went from curious to dark. He glanced at the others in the room, then turned away.
Whispering now: “What?…That’s fucked up. You can’t just tell me that. I need details.”
Everyone was staring at him.
“Who? I want to know who. All right, find out and let me know.”
He disconnected and the glance in Sachs’s direction, but not directly at her, explained that she was the subject of the call.
“What, Lon?”
“You want to step outside.” He nodded toward the hallway.
Sachs glanced at Rhyme and said, “No. Here. What is it? Who called?”
He hesitated.
“Lon,” she said firmly. “Tell me.”
“Okay, Amelia, I’m sorry. Look, you’re off the case.”
“What?”
“Actually, gotta say, you’re on mandatory leave altogether. You’ve gotta report down to—”
“What happened?” Rhyme snapped.
“I don’t know for sure. That was my PA. She told me the word came from the chief of detectives’ office. The formal report’s on its way. I don’t know who’s behind this.”
“Oh, I do,” Sachs snapped. She ripped open her purse and looked inside to make sure she had the copy of the document she’d found on Nance Laurel’s desk the other night. At that time, she’d been reluctant to brandish it as a weapon.
Now she no longer was.
CHAPTER 65
Shreve Metzger ran a hand through his trim hair, remembered his first day out of the service.
Somebody, a civilian, on the streets of Buffalo had called him a skinhead. Baby-killer too. The guy was drunk. Anti-military. An asshole. All of the above.