“Bingo!”
Art was pleased, as Eddie could see. “And that’s not all, boss. We’ll have a list of charges on that card in a few hours.”
The photocopy of the charge slip and driver’s license was the next step in the trail. Art was happy, and thankful as hell that Aguirre had had her brainstorm. Otherwise the car would still be buried among hundreds of others and the trail would be dead. He reminded himself that it wasn’t the end. Just a little closer.
“Harry Obed…hmmm. This isn’t the same guy in the picture with the kid.” Art compared the two again. The photocopy was grainy, but it would do.
“Nope. New York is sending a copy of the license info. We’ll have a better photo then.”
Art studied the face. Middle Eastern features. And the name added credibility to his guess. But from where? Egypt? Lebanon? Yemen? This wasn’t looking like an easy one to deal with. Solving it might bring even more problems, considering the way of the world. “I think tonight is going to be busy. How about you?”
“Shoulda brought my jammies,” Eddie joked. He was good for some comic relief when needed. Things were liable to get stressful now that they had a suspect, or a knowing accomplice.
“So, what’s our next move?” Art mused.
“I think we should wait until the American Express records get here. That’ll give us a trail.”
“If they used it.”
Eddie became serious. “They used it once. Why not again?”
“What if they used the other card? Forensics found that blue tint in the melted card. Amex is green.”
“Right.”
“It was dark blue,” Art added. “Visa and Diner’s Club both have blue in them. Maybe they were trying to spread their trail around.”
Eddie got up from the table and walked to the two-pot coffee machine someone had brought from the office. It was saving trips to the 7-Eleven already. “You want some?”
It was placed close to Art’s area, and his fill for the past hour or so had been achieved. “No thanks.”
“You know, boss, it still all comes back to their carelessness.” Two sugars were emptied into the cup. “We’ll have their bio before long, but what about whoever was in the background? How do we find them?”
Art knew that was supposing there was an accomplice, or accomplices. It was becoming more apparent that there was considerable help given. “It’s not going to be a direct link, that’s for sure. We’ve got possible assistance with the car. Maybe it was rented for them in advance.”
“The records don’t show that,” Eddie said.
“Then check back to the reservation, and the credit card. Who’s paying the bills?” That was already in progress, a task made easier by the proliferation of credit and computers. “Someone who dealt with the transaction might remember something.”
Eddie returned to his chair. “Slim, but worth it.” He didn’t really think so. His hunch was that the car end of things would be cold soon.
Art had a thought. He stared away from Eddie as the concept formed. “Ed, these guys were sacrificed. They were willing, at least I’d think they’d have to be, but they were used. Whether they knew or not… I doubt it.”
“What’s your track?”
“Obed. Picture. Name. It’s a good bet he’s middle eastern, and probably his partner. If there’s a connection here with any terrorist groups, then we might want to get with some people who have experience with this sort of terrorism.”
Eddie agreed. “That’s one possibility. Israeli Intelligence.” It wasn’t a question.
“Right. Do you have copies of the license info and picture?”
“Plenty.”
The senior agent scribbled a note onto his legal pad, then tore it off and folded it down. “Here. Give this guy a call. Meir Shari. He was with the embassy in D.C., if I remember right, but he’s back home now. I was at a seminar he spoke at in Frisco. Smart, realistic thinking sort. No politico thought there.”
“Connections?” Eddie asked.
“He was it. Military liaison with a full portfolio.” Art remembered another bit of information. “He’s the guy who cuffed Eichmann.”
“Who?”
He was young, Art realized. “Adolf Eichmann. He was a Nazi war criminal hiding out in Brazil back in the sixties. Mossad sent a team in to bring him home. He had a date with the gallows.”
“And Shari was in on it? Sheee-it…”
“His connections go back. Way back. He might be able to help us. Hell, he may already be looking into it. The Israelis get nervous when any Arab kills someone in a big, loud way.”
“But how would they know the killer might be an Arab?”
Art smiled. “I’ll give you a book to read. It’s called The Guys. It’s on the restricted list, but we’re cleared. The topic is intelligence appraisal, Mossad style. The way they get some of their stuff is spooky.”
He wasn’t an avid reader — his last book had been The Hunt for Red October—but this one sounded worth the effort. Eddie figured he’d take Art up on it.
“We better keep this quiet.” Art knew that would require a secure line. There were plenty at the office, but secure sometimes meant ‘away from colleagues.’ “The Israeli consulate will have a direct line to Tel Aviv. Head on—”
Their attention shifted to Dan Jacobs. He entered the Hilton’s nearly empty banquet room carrying something wrapped in a white towel. “Dan,” Art said.
“Hell. When are they going to get you a desk.” Jacobs unwrapped the item. It was a two-by-four with fractured pieces of drywall nailed to its shorter edges, one side of which was singed an uneven black. “This might interest you, Art.”
“What do you have?”
“Just a wall member with a story to tell. Look.” He pointed to the top, exposed part of the wood. Eddie and Art came close, leaning over the piece. “They’re faint, but we can print them. We already did.”
“Scuff marks,” Eddie offered.
“Actually from a black sole, we think. This is virgin wood. It was above a doorjamb, so it was clean as a whistle. Not even dust. There was an acoustical hanging ceiling to about here.” Jacobs traced along an obvious line where paint on the drywall had faded from exposure to light.
“Where was this originally?” Art asked.
“Do you have those floor plans — fifth floor?”
Eddie retrieved them from a nearby table.
“Okay,” Jacobs began, “here’s the room where the fire came from. We figure that the charge was about here, in the center of the room. The blast went every which way, but less so to the left and right, or east and west in this orientation. Everything, street side, shooters, walls, and all, was blown out onto Seventh, while the interior south wall blew straight across the back side of the building.”
“We know all this, Dan.” Art was impatient.
“I know. Bear with me. So, we had most of the blast go north and south, plus up and down, more up though. This wall”—his finger pointed to the blue line—“was an interior support structure. You see it runs from the exterior north to almost the interior south. There’s this little indentation here; it kind of makes the room look like a lopsided L.”
“That was the east wall,” Eddie observed.
“Right. This little alcove — it measured about seven by seven — used to be an open area to the room, just like these prints show. But we found this piece of wood strapped to the northwest corner junction of the alcove’s walls. That’s code. It’s for earthquake safety. See, these prints are from the late sixties, but there was a major remodeling done in the late seventies when an art school moved into the fourth, fifth, and sixth floors. This room where the shooters did their dirty work was an AV class — audiovisual. The little alcove was walled in a year after the remodeling to create a small room to store equipment in. Recorders, cameras — stuff like that. It had a single door”—Jacobs sketched the location’s most recent appearance—“right here. And it was padlocked. Only the teacher and dean had keys because there was about two hundred grand’s worth of stuff in there. Anyway, this piece was from right here.” The pencil point came down. “Right above the door.”