“We think Tracey came here because of the male she was with in the condo,” Olivia said. “Our best guess is that he’s got dark hair, Caucasian, and wears a size ten shoe.”
“We have a lot of young men who could fit that description,” Haig said aloud, signing at the same time. He was hearing, Olivia realized. “Can you give us more?”
“He wears a hearing aid, but I guess that doesn’t narrow it down much either,” Kane said. “He may have attended a Camp Longfellow this past summer.”
Both men raised their brows. “Some of our students do attend that camp,” Oaks signed, Val’s voice quietly following. “I know a few who did last summer, but I wouldn’t know them all. If their parents made the arrangements, we wouldn’t know about it.”
“Did you contact the camp for their roster?” Haig asked.
“That’s in process,” Kane said. “It’s off season.”
Haig sighed. “A few went on scholarship, so I had to write a recommendation for them. I have a list of those students. We can bring them up for you to talk with first.”
“That would be great,” Olivia said. “The boy we’re talking about had a relationship with the victim. If he escaped the fire, he might be very emotional. Can you think of any of your male students who seem overly upset recently?”
Oaks gave them an incredulous look. “This is a high school, Detective,” he signed. “They’re all overly upset, every single day. They’re teenagers.”
“Right,” Olivia said ruefully. “This boy would be familiar with boats-rowboats, that is. And he was in the condo at about midnight on Sunday.”
Haig considered. “Nothing’s triggering for me with the boats. But if he was in the condo on Sunday night, he’s a day student. Versus living in the dorms,” he explained. “Residential students return from the weekend with their families on Sunday afternoon and the dorms are locked down at ten each night. Staff do room checks. If he was in the condo at midnight, he would have been missed.”
“Can we borrow copies of your yearbooks for the past few years?” Olivia asked.
“Of course,” Oaks signed as the two men stood. “I’ll have my secretary get the yearbooks and I’ll get a day-student roster.”
“And the residential roster?” Olivia asked and Oaks frowned. “Please.”
When they were gone, Olivia turned to Kane. “He could be right, but kids are going to get out if they want to badly enough. This kid was meeting a girl he’d have sex with.”
“He’d find a way,” Kane agreed. “Val, are you ready for a bunch of defensive teenagers who aren’t likely going to want to talk to us?”
The interpreter shrugged. “I’ve got two at home. I’m used to that.”
Tuesday, September 21, 10:50 a.m.
He needed a break, but he was alone behind the counter. Buster was late. Again. It was hard to get help that would be on time. Damn college kids. No responsibility.
He checked his customers, found them all absorbed in their own business, so he opened his laptop. First, Eric’s bank account. It was all still there. With a few clicks, he wiped Eric’s rather sizeable account, transferring the money to his own holding account. He left eleven hundred behind, so that if Eric stopped to get his customary thousand-dollar withdrawal, he wouldn’t be turned away.
Wouldn’t want him to suspect. That would spoil Albert’s little surprise.
On his cell phone, he typed in Albert’s number, which he’d harvested from Eric’s cell phone. One could learn a lot from an individual’s address book. Phone numbers of contacts, addresses, even personal info like birthdays, passwords, and bank PINs.
your birdie is about to fly the coop, he typed. au revoir. 5:30, lindberg terminal.
He closed his phone. That was that. He wondered what Albert would do. Would he beat Eric up? Force him to stay? Kill him? Mercy, this was more exciting than TV.
Next on the agenda was the embezzling accountant, Mr. Dorian Blunt. Dorian owed him two months’ payment. He’d been duly warned. He logged in to Dorian’s account and saw that only half of one month’s payment had been rendered.
He frowned. The man honestly thought that would be enough. He is a fool.
He wiped Dorian’s account, sending it to his offshore holding account. Now, what to do about Dorian? He had no issue with Dorian’s wife and child, so torching the family home just wouldn’t do at all. Dorian didn’t have a convenient warehouse like Tomlinson’s where he could be dealt with alone. He’d have to think on that one for a while. These things had to be handled delicately.
The bell on the door jingled and part-time help Buster hurried in. “Man, I’m sorry.”
“You’re late.”
“I know. I should have called.”
“Yes, you should have.” He closed his laptop. “I have to do some errands. Darren is coming in at noon. You think you two will be okay to handle the lunch rush?”
“Is Manuel caught up on the sandwiches?”
He’d been lauded by the community for providing immigrants with jobs. Truth was, he was happy to have people around who didn’t speak English. Made for a much smoother operation that way. “Yeah, he’s ready.” He stepped aside so that Buster could man the register. “I should be back before dinner.”
“I could use the hours. I can work the evening, even close up if you want.”
“No, I won’t be gone that long. I’ll close.” God forbid if Buster actually cleaned anything. He might find his microphones. But so far, they were safe. The mikes were hidden very well indeed. Factor in that Buster, Darren, and his other counter help were as lackluster as Manuel and the kitchen help were hardworking, and he had no concerns about leaving his shop. Together they all worked like a song.
Kane and Sutherland had been at the deaf school for hours. He wondered if they’d found who they were looking for. He wondered what if anything that person had seen. He wondered if he could be identified. That would be bad.
So he’d have to somehow figure out what Kane and Sutherland knew. Luckily, he had a plan. Laptop under his arm, he left, the little bell on the door jingling behind him.
Tuesday, September 21, 12:15 p.m.
Eric hung up the pay phone, glad he’d made the effort. Pay phones were difficult to find these days, but he hadn’t wanted to use his own phone to call the synagogue. He’d been angsting over whether he should go to Joel’s funeral. If the cops were on to them, they might be waiting for him there.
But if no one suspected, it would be suspicious for him not to go. They’d been friends since kindergarten. But his quandary had been solved. Joel’s funeral would not happen today, which he suspected had thrown the Orthodox Fischers into a real tizzy. He remembered Joel telling him once how important it was for them to bury their dead within twenty-four hours. But Joel’s body would not be ready for burial until tomorrow.
And I’ll be in France by then. Au revoir, Joel.
He’d already mailed the package of his keepsakes to his uncle. Now the only thing to do would be to go back to his apartment and wait until it was time to leave for the airport. His flight was at 5:30 out of Lindberg Terminal. He didn’t plan to be late.
It wasn’t until he’d turned the key in his front door that he realized something was very wrong. There was a fire roaring in the fireplace. Someone’s here.
The door was yanked open, but all he saw was a hand. Holding his own gun. “I found your gun, Eric. I also found your bag. One really should pack more clean underwear when fleeing to France.”
Chapter Fourteen
Tuesday, September 21, 1:15 p.m.
David woke abruptly, but didn’t move a muscle. Tensed, he listened, then heard it again. The rustling of papers out in the living room of Glenn’s cabin.
Someone is here. The sun was high in the sky outside his bedroom window. He’d only been asleep a few hours. Rolling soundlessly to his feet, he crept to the door and looked out. From here he could see nothing, but he could hear the opening of drawers.
Call 911. But Glenn had only one land line, in the kitchen. And my cell’s sitting next to it, charging. Stupid. Glenn had a rifle, but it was out in the living room. Where it does me no good at all. He stood in nothing but his boxers, no weapon and no phone.