More preliminary questions, which Joey Wilson responded to with a helpful attitude.
Then Rhyme asked if he’d seen Cable near the airplane.
“Umm, I think I did.”
“Where?”
“I don’t recall. I was headed to the lunchroom. For some breakfast. Ha. ‘Lunch’ room for breakfast. That’s funny.”
“You didn’t see him while you were refueling?”
“Oh, I didn’t tank him up... Mr. Nash, I mean.”
“You didn’t refuel the plane?”
Wilson looked up from the floor. “No, see, he wasn’t scheduled for it. That jet of his can go two thousand miles on a tank. The more you carry — the more gas, I mean — the heavier it is and the worse the mileage. Best to fly with as little juice as you can. Mr. Nash’d refuel in Brazil. I remember one guy one time was flying a Cessna Citation — now, that is a fine airplane. You ever been in one? No, well, it’s a superb piece of aviation machinery and he lands with about a hundred gallons left, you believe it? He was trying to save the money on fuel! He’s flying a two-million-dollar aircraft and scrimping on the Shell.”
“Just to confirm, you saw Deputy Cable near the plane.”
“I’m pretty sure. Couldn’t swear to it. Say, seventy percent sure. No, fifty-five.”
“Thanks for your cooperation.”
The man gave another look at the wheelchair and then headed off.
Rhyme and Gillette were about to go over the man’s performance when Sachs returned shortly later. “Got some finds, Rhyme.”
“A picture of somebody with a moustache and a black top hat filling a bowling-ball bomb with gunpowder and sticking a fuse in it?”
“Not quite so good, but close.”
“And?”
“Some video. From one of the office buildings.”
“You got it that fast?” Rhyme asked.
“I was persuasive,” Sachs said. “Well, threatening really.”
“Want to review it?” Gillette asked.
“Please.”
He loaded the card into his computer and began playing the video. As they watched, Rhyme told Sachs what he’d learned — a synopsis of the three suspects’ stories.
You couldn’t — naturally — see the airplane, but you could get a good image of the office door of the Southern Flight Services company. There was motion. “Look.”
The door of the FBO was opening and Anita Sanchez was walking outside.
She turned and disappeared off camera.
“Ha,” Gillette said.
Anita Sanchez was walking to the left. Exactly the opposite of the way she said she’d turned.
Rhyme said, “So she was lying. She did walk toward the plane.”
“Was she carrying anything?” Gillette asked.
It was hard to see, given the bad quality of the image. She might have been holding a purse. Or maybe a small package containing C4 explosive.
Ah, interesting. Rhyme was beginning to think this interrogation business had something to it.
Gillette said, “It’s probably not enough to bring her in.”
“But we could get a warrant to listen in to her conversations. Maybe poke around in her office,” Sachs said.
“Sure, I’ll put that together.” He pulled out his cell phone.
Then Rhyme cocked his head. “Dammit.”
“What, Rhyme?”
“G-nissap sert on.”
“What?” Gillette asked, pausing with the phone in his hand.
Then Sachs was nodding. “Just caught it, Rhyme.”
He told the detective, “Look at the upper-right-hand corner.”
“That sign?”
“Right.”
“What about—? Oh, it’s backwards.”
GNISSAPSERT ON... NO TRESPASSING
Gillette was chuckling.
Rhyme, though, was not amused. “That’s why the image was so dim. It was a reflection.”
Sachs said, “The camera must’ve been pointed at the window of one of the office buildings. The glass façade was like a mirror. It looked like Sanchez turned toward the plane. Actually she turned away from it. Just like she said. She was telling the truth.”
“Almost as bad as witnesses, goddamn videos. Hell.” He actually felt betrayed by the one forensic clue they had.
“She’s innocent,” the detective said.
“Not innocent,” Rhyme corrected. “We just didn’t catch her up with that lie.” He shrugged. “And there’s nothing else in her interview to implicate her.”
“What about the mechanic?” Sachs asked. “What’s his name again?”
“Mark Clinton.”
“Right.”
“You can’t catch somebody lying if they don’t tell you anything. He was sun blinded.”
“Was it sunny?” Sachs asked. “There was that terrible storm yesterday.”
Gillette said, “Clear blue skies until about ten. Then the storm came in. Yep, he’s telling the truth, too.”
Rhyme, though, said, “Or maybe not.” He was studying the hangar door.
“How do you mean, Lincoln?”
“The ocean’s behind us?”
“That’s right.”
“East.”
Gillette said, “Son of a gun. Right. The hangar opens to the west. At nine in the morning, nobody in here would see any sun at all. The light was coming from the opposite direction.”
“Okay, so he was lying.”
“But what’s his motive for lying?” the detective asked. “He was just saying he didn’t see anything.”
“That’s not important,” Rhyme reminded. “All we need to do is find deception and then start wearing him down.”
“So, should we get that warrant?” Gillette asked.
“I’d say...” Rhyme’s voice fell silent. He was looking out on the tarmac. “I’d say wait a minute. Get him back in here.”
“Clinton?”
Rhyme’s taut smile said, Who else?
A few minutes later the man was in the hangar once more. Rhyme looked him over with a curious expression. “We’re just trying to figure out exactly where the plane was parked and hoped you could help us with that. I know there was glare, but you had a sense of the plane’s position, right? Because the sun was bouncing off the windows.”
“Not so much the windows, but the fuselage itself. It was silver, you know. Not white, like most of the private jets.”
“Silver, hmm. Must’ve been some glare.”
“Always happens when the pilots park that way, you know, parallel to the hangar. We oughta put a door in but, being Florida, it’s not worth the expense. We’d use it twice a year. But where those chocks are, yeah, that was pretty much where the aircraft was.”
“All right. Thanks.”
After he’d gone, Rhyme gave a cynical laugh. “Another reflection issue. See why we can’t trust our senses?”
“So he’s innocent... Sorry, Lincoln. What I meant to say was he may be guilty as sin, but we didn’t catch him there.”
Rhyme grunted. The allure of interrogation was wearing off fast. He was reminded of why he believed evidence was the cornerstone of investigations.
“How about the last suspect?”
“The refueler. Joey Wilson.”
Rhyme thought back to that interrogation. “He’s the one who most seemed to be lying. Maybe it’s just an impression, but that was the sense I had. He was rambling. He seemed evasive... Ah, but maybe there is something here. He said he thought he saw that deputy near the airplane, right?”
“Thought so. Couldn’t swear to it.”
“But Cable wasn’t near the plane,” Sachs pointed out.
“Nope. His rounds take him around the buildings and the gas pumps.”
Rhyme was nodding. “And how did he know Nash was going to Brazil? If he didn’t refuel the plane, there’d be no reason to know the flight plan. Let’s get Wilson in here again, talk to him again. Put some more pressure on.” It seemed like a futile idea but Rhyme had no other ideas.