by Blair Howard
“Saliva? Are we talking about the killer?”
He nodded, “I think so. We took samples. I’ll know for sure when we get the results of the DNA screen back from the lab, but that’s going to take a while.”
Damn! Why do these things always have to take so long?
“Well, that’s something, I suppose,” I said.
“Hey, don’t be so pessimistic. If we get a solid DNA profile of the saliva, you can solve this thing, right?”
“It would help, that’s for sure. Anything else?”
He shook his head. “Nope. Whoever killed him was very careful. No hairs, fibers, nothing other than the saliva. I guess we could call that a bonus, if it pans out.”
“How about the hair?” I asked. “Nothing back from the lab yet, I suppose?”
“From the watchband? No. I’ll give ‘em a call when I get back to my office. See if I can chivvy ‘em up a little. Now, on to the bad news. The Archer vehicles. Nothing. I had a team working on them until almost midnight on Thursday and all day yesterday. They’re clean. They hadn’t been cleaned; we just didn’t find anything. If they transported her, they didn’t use those vehicles, which means that if they did move her… they must have used one of the vehicles off the lot. If you want them processed, it will take a couple of months.”
I was tempted to ask him if he was sure, but I wouldn’t insult the man. If he said it, it was fact, that was good enough for me.
“Okay.” He looked at each of us in turn. “If that’s all, I need to get back to the lab. We had a double in last night: murder-suicide.”
He got up, picked up his pile of papers, and left. Kate tilted her chair back and stared at me. It wasn’t pleasant.
“What?” I asked.
She merely shook her head, then stared up at the ceiling. “Harry, what the hell are we doing?”
“Doing? We’re trying to solve a double homicide.”
“No, that’s not what I meant. I meant, what’s happening to us? We never used to be this way with each other. Working together used to be fun. I loved it. Now? I don’t know. I feel like… every time I talk to you, I’m bothering you somehow. Am I?”
Now I began to feel like a real ass.
“No. Absolutely not, but you’re right… well, partly. Look, I had a tough night. Didn’t sleep worth a damn. You just caught me on the wrong foot is all. My fault. I’m sorry. Let’s put it behind us, okay?”
She nodded, but…. And then she seemed to brighten up.
“So,” she said. “What are you thinking?”
“About the case? I think Ruth, and maybe her sisters are good for it, but we need a break. Maybe the saliva is it. Who knows?” We sat quietly, both of us thinking.
“Kate,” I said at last, “we’ve been at this thing now for more than two weeks and have almost nothing but a few theories. It’s going nowhere. Unless we get something back from the lab, it’s dead in the water. I was pushing my luck when I accused Ruth. Unless we can somehow tie her to it, even the check scam is a nonstarter. The DA would throw it out. I need to get back to the office, see what the crew visiting the banks has come up with.” I got up, looked down at her across the desk, “You okay?”
She nodded, but I could tell she wasn’t.
Chapter 31
The first thing I did when I got into the office Monday morning was call Sol Wise. I needed to know if his tailing Ruth Archer had produced any results. It hadn’t. I told him to stay on it, and to put his two investigators on the repo men. Why I did that, I had no idea. It was just a feeling that I needed to know more about them, and I never ignore such feelings.
Next, I walked out into the bullpen to get coffee. Bob Ryan had just arrived.
“Harry,” he said. “We need to talk. I may have something.”
We both made ourselves coffee, and then went to my office. He put his cup on my desk and his briefcase next to it and, still standing, opened it and took out three DVDs. I sat down behind my desk. He placed the disks in front of me.
“What do you have, Bob?”
“Let’s wait for Heather. I’m willing to bet she has exactly the same stuff I have.”
I picked up the phone, buzzed Jacque, and told her to send Heather in as soon as she arrived. The door opened almost immediately, and Heather walked in. She was grinning from ear to ear.
“You too?” Bob asked.
“I think so.” She sat down in one of the guest chairs, opened her briefcase and retrieved two disks just like Bob’s.
“Okay,” I said. “Sit down, Bob. Let’s hear it.”
He sat, and looked at Heather. She shrugged.
“All women,” he said. “Every one of the accounts I visited was opened by a woman. I made it through twenty-five banks and then called it quits. There was no point in going on. It was the same thing every time.” He looked at Heather, his eyebrows raised questioningly.
“The same,” she said. “I stopped after only twenty, I’m afraid, but when you look at the images, I think you’ll see why. Right?” She was looking up at Bob.
“Absolutely. Not just women, one woman. Take a look.” Heather stood and put her disks beside Bob’s.
I slipped the first of the disks into the drive. There were literally hundreds of images on it. All were of women. All were from security camera footage. In some the women were walking into the bank, in some they were seated in front of the clerks’ desks. At first I thought they were all different, but then I got it. It was the same woman, but in disguise, wearing different wigs, glasses, hairstyles, you name it. The metadata told me the images had been collected over a period of three months. I looked up at Heather, then at Bob. Both were smiling. Bob handed me another disk. It was the same. This time, though, the images had been taken over a different period. I started to laugh.
“What?” Bob asked.
“It would be funny if it weren’t so stupid. Oh, none of them are recognizable as such, and there aren’t many where the full face is visible from the front, but I know who it is—or rather, who they are.”
“They?” he asked. “I thought they were the same person.”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so. I think it’s the Archer twins.”
They both looked at me.
“You’re kidding, right?” Heather asked.
“Not at all. Unfortunately, I can’t prove it. The disguises are good, and the girls look so much alike anyway.”
I picked up the phone and punched the button for Tim’s extension. “Can you come in here for a minute, please, Tim?”
“Here,” I said when he arrived. “Take a look at these and tell me what you think?”
“Bank robber?” he asked.
“Er… yeah, at least I think so. I need to know who this woman is…. No. I already know that, but I need to know for sure. I need something I can use for proof. Can you do that?”
He looked at me quizzically.
“Okay. Sorry I asked. Of course you can. How and when?”
“If you know who it is, I need a photo, full face frontal, to use as a baseline. Do you have one?”
“Unfortunately, no. Bob?”
“I’ll get one. Where do I go?”
“Fortunately, they’re identical twins, so you only need to find one of them. I suggest the dealership. Rebekah Archer runs it.”
“Okay. Let me get caught up here, and then I’ll go. Anything else?”
“No. You did great. Both of you. This may be just what I needed.” I turned to Tim. “How long?”
“Not sure. Once I have the photo, it will take a while for my facial recognition software to run the images. Unfortunately, mine’s not as good as the FBI’s, so it will take a while longer. Tomorrow, maybe?”
“As soon as you can.”
Chapter 32
I picked Amanda up from Channel 7 at the usual time that evening, just after a quarter to midnight, after the late night news broadcast. As usual, she was starving.
“I need food, Harry.”
“You a
lways need food. How the hell you keep the pounds off is a mystery.”
“No it isn’t. I eat healthy and I work out, a lot.”
I had to admit, she was right on both counts: she did work out—I loved to watch her—and she did eat healthy, most of the time.
“So feed me, then. Before I pass out.”
“I have some tilapia. We could have that with a green salad?”
She nodded. “I could murder a plate of fries. Do you have those too?”
“Frozen, yeah.”
“Goodie. Fish and chips and salad. Go, go, go. I told you, I’m starving.”
I went.
I parked the car in my garage and closed the door behind us. The first thing I did when we entered the living room was head for the drinks cabinet. I retrieved the half empty bottle of Laphroaig on instinct, then paused and looked at Amanda.
“I’ll have wine, if you don’t mind,” she said, heading for the kitchen. As I watched her go, the summer dress swinging around her knees, I was once again struck by how lovely she was, no matter the angle of the view.
I poured myself a healthy three fingers of Scotland’s best—ah… maybe it was four fingers. Amanda came out of the kitchen with a tumbler full of Niersteiner.
“That’s uncouth,” I said.
“Screw the couth,” she said with a laugh. “I’m thirsty and it’ll save me a trip to the kitchen to get more.”
“Oh I very much doubt that,” I said, also laughing.
She leaned in close and kissed me on the lips. She tasted… amazing, a combination of cool white wine and cherry lipstick.
“So? Are you going to feed me or not?”
I sighed and got to my feet. “You are so high maintenance.”
“But worth it, right?”
I had to admit it: she was.
I fixed the fish. It took only a few minutes, and then I fixed the salad, and threw a load of frozen crinkly fries into the oven. Ten minutes later, we were at the table enjoying the meal. Life was good.
The meal finished, Amanda stacked the plates in the sink and refilled her tumbler. I refreshed my glass of scotch, and we retired to the sofa in front of the window. I thumbed the remote to dim the lights, and we sat quietly together, looking out over the river. The water was still, the reflections of the moving lights on the Thrasher Bridge glittering on the surface. A three-quarter moon cast eerie shadows along the far bank almost 200 yards away. Then something caught my eye.
I leaned forward. There it was again: a tiny flash of light among the foliage across the river. I stared into the darkness. What the hell was it? A flashlight? No. Something was reflecting the lights on the bridge.
What the hell?
And then I got it. It was either a pair of binoculars and we were being watched… or it was a scope. I jumped to my feet, grabbed Amanda’s wrist, and flung her across the room and onto the floor; the tumbler flew out of her hand, upward, hit the ceiling and smashed, showering the room with wine and shards of glass. No sooner did she hit the floor than there was an almighty BAM, and a small hole appeared in the center of the floor-to-ceiling window pane; it fractured, and a spider web of cracks shot out to the edges. BAM. A second hole appeared, and then, almost in slow motion, the glass wall shattered, came apart, and fell inward.
BAM, BAM, BAM. Three more shots rang out on the far side of the river; the bullets slammed into the wall behind me.
It’s funny what strange thoughts go through your head at moments like that. Well, not funny—you know what I mean. My only thought as I crouched down on my knees and the slugs howled over my head was, I hope to hell the neighbors are out.
The shooting stopped, but we stayed down. We were both in the kitchen area, out of sight. I crawled over to the dining table, reached up, grabbed my phone, and punched in 911. Then I looked around at Amanda.
Oh shit.
She was lying on her face on the carpet, her hands to her cheeks, legs spread.
Oh shit, oh shit.
I dropped the phone and crawled over to her. I grabbed her arm and tried to turn her over.
“Is it over?” It was more a scream than a shout, but hell, it was music to me. I grabbed her, pulled her to me, and clamped her to my chest.
“Lemme go, dammit! I can’t breathe.” I heaved a sigh of relief and relaxed my grip; the phone was squawking on the floor. I picked it up and reported shots fired, and gave the dispatcher the address.
“Stay down,” I said, releasing her. I crawled over to the side table, grabbed my MP9 out of its holster, chambered a shell, and then crawled over to the window, trying not to put my hands or knees on the broken glass that covered the floor. Impossible.
Cautiously, I peered around the edge of the window frame.
This time I saw the muzzle flash and then, less than a second later, I heard it. BAM. The bullet howled past my face and hit the basement door.
“Stay down!” I shouted to Amanda. Then I fired all twelve rounds in my pistol at the spot where I’d seen the muzzle flash. The silence that followed was palpable. The confines of the room had contained the noise of the gunshots, and my ears were ringing. I looked at the nine. The clip was empty, and I didn’t have a spare handy. Damn.
My fire was not returned, but I wasn’t about to get up and show myself. Instead, I sat with my back to the wall and looked around at the train wreck that was now my living room.
I looked over at the couch, and shook my head in awe when I saw the two small holes in the leather. One of them was at the exact spot where Amanda had been sitting. If I hadn’t…. Oh my God. It didn’t bear thinking about. Once again my instincts, or whatever, had saved a life. This time the life of someone very close to me.
Safely out of sight behind the kitchen wall, I crawled over to her, stood up, and helped her to her feet. She was a mess.
“Here, let me look at you. Turn around.”
There were numerous tiny cuts on her bare shoulders from shards of flying glass—none deep, none that would even leave a scar, but that didn’t make me feel any better. I shuddered when I thought of what it could have been. I’d almost lost her, and it would have been my fault. I can’t describe the overwhelming feelings I had for her at the moment.
Soft? Me? Of course. Aren’t we all when it comes right down to it?
I put my arms around her and held her close, her head on my chest, “Well, sweetheart,” I whispered. “This will be a night to remember, that’s for sure.”
“It’s one I want to forget,” she whispered back. I couldn’t say I blamed her.
“It’s over. I think. I need to call Kate.”
She answered on the fourth ring. I think she must have been in bed, asleep, because it took a minute for her to grasp what I was saying.
“Stay put,” she told me. “I’m on my way.”
“Oh, we’re not going anywhere.” I could hear sirens approaching in the distance. When she arrived fifteen minutes later, the place was already crawling with officers. The beams of a dozen flashlights waved back and forth on the far side of the river. A team of paramedics were attending to the cuts on Amanda’s back. Me? I was on my third glass of Laphroaig and feeling no pain.
“Jesus, Harry,” Kate said, shaking her head at the offer of a drink. “Who the hell did this?”
“Damned if I know. If I had to guess, I’d say the Archers are behind it. Trouble is, I just can’t imagine any one of those three beauties crawling about in the undergrowth over there. Can you? They just aren’t the type. If they are behind it, I’d put money on the repo men.”
“But surely,” Amanda said, shrugging off the paramedic that was trying to take her out to the ambulance, “surely they can’t be that stupid. They’d have to know that killing Harry wouldn’t stop the investigation.” She turned on the medic. “For God’s sake, leave me alone, I’m fine.” Then she seemed to realize what she’d said. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’ll be all right. Thank you for looking after me.” He nodded and left her to
it. She took a seat at the table next to me.
“True, it would go on,” Kate agreed. “If anything it would have stepped it up, several notches. Still….” She rose to her feet, went to the sofa, and fingered the two bullet holes.
“Small caliber,” she said, more to herself than anyone else. “Probably a .223 AR15 assault rifle, I shouldn’t wonder. Plenty of those in these parts. If we can find one of the slugs we should be able to tell, if they’re not smashed all to hell, that is. What are you going to do, Harry? You can’t stay here.”
“You’re right, not until I can get the window repaired and the mess cleaned up. I guess we’ll go to Amanda’s apartment and stay there for a while.”
“That sounds like a plan,” Kate said. “In the meantime, I’ll have an officer stay here until morning.”
“Thanks. I’ll call Jacque first thing and have her hunt someone up to either repair the window or board it up. Oh, and you’d better check on the neighbors while you’re here, make sure no one was hit by stray bullets.”
“That’s already been done.” She held out her hand and nodded to the MP9 on the table beside me. I sighed and handed it over. I’d get it back sometime next year, I supposed.
I looked at my hands. There were several cuts, one quite deep. One of the medics dug out a chunk of glass and put in a couple of stitches. Afterward I flung some fresh clothes into an overnight bag, grabbed my spare MP9 from the wall safe, took one last look around what was left of my living room, shook my head, took Amanda’s arm, and left with her.
That night, as we lay together, I couldn’t get to sleep. My head was a whirl. Over and over I saw the scope glittering in the darkness, the great window caving inward like a wall of water, Amanda lying face down on the kitchen floor. Time and again I looked at her as she slept. I couldn’t help it. I was devastated by thoughts of what might have been, and I was angry.