P Deutermann - The Cat Dancers

Kenny was shaking his head. “It might have been money,” he said. “But I don’t think scientist Marlor is the kind of guy who could do this by himself. Fry a guy and then get him into an oil tank? He had to have help.”

The cherry picker’s engine revved up as the basket went high over the tank. A tank diver in a white plastic suit with an air-tank respirator was riding in the bucket with the operator.

“Yeah, maybe,” Cam said, watching the bucket as it jerked its way toward the access plate. “But how many hit men come equipped with an electric chair? Three-tap with a silenced twenty-two Mag’s more like it.”

“But how would Marlor get a commercial dry-cleaning bag?” Kenny asked. “And how would he get the body into that tank? You saying he rented a cherry picker? Came down here in the dead of night, unbolted that dome cover and then the access hatch, and dumped a hundred-plus-pound bag into an operational fuel tank?”

“You see any surveillance on this place?” Cam asked, looking around. “Cameras? Random vehicle patrols? A fence, even?”

They both looked around, and Kenny had to admit Cam was right. There were lights, but the tanks were huge, maybe a hundred feet in diameter and at least fifty feet high. The tops of the tanks were above the sodium vapor lights standards, so somebody climbing around up top would not be in the cone of light. There were wide gravel lanes between the rows of tanks, and a circular raised berm around each one, big enough to contain a small to moderate leak. But neither of them saw any video cameras, not one, and there was no fence around the tanks, either. There was a railroad siding on one side of the complex and a highway on the other. A string of tank cars was parked on the siding. The only fence was on the other side of the railroad tracks. Cam didn’t know how easy it would be for a pickup truck simply to drive into the tank farm, but if there was a checkpoint, it might not be a twenty-four-hour-a-day checkpoint.

“Okay,” Cam said. “Those are all strings to be pulled.” The medical examiner walked over to where they were standing. “When can we get an autopsy report?” Cam asked him.

“When it’s done,” Herman said amiably.

“We think this individual was electrocuted intentionally,” Cam said. “As in executed in an electric chair. I’d like an opinion on what kind of current did this-AC or DC-and how much, if that’s possible.”

The ME scratched his head with his ungloved hand. “I’ll have to do some research on that,” he said. “Not sure there’s a difference. Cooked meat is cooked meat. You say there’s a video of this?”

Cam told him there was.

“I’d need to see that, then,” he said. “AC and DC produce a slightly different arc color. This video in color?”

“Oh yes,” Cam said. “Vivid color.”

“Okay, then. Since this isn’t really the murder scene, I’m releasing him to transport.”

Since Kenny was technically in charge of the scene, Cam looked at him for approval and he nodded. He already had a crew line-walking the area around the tank, and of course the thing lying on the ground was now of interest to only the forensic pathologists. Cam spied a white TV van being stopped beyond the perimeter by a deputy.

“Time for me to boogie,” he told Kenny. “I’ll get the word to Bobby Lee.” He looked back at the body and sighed. “I was really hoping these two humps were out in LA somewhere, where they belong.”

“He’s exactly where he belongs,” Kenny said. “In hell. Precooked even.” Cam definitely heard a note of triumph in his voice. I’d also better tell Annie, Cam thought.

Annie was sitting at her office conference table with her clerk when Cam knocked on the open door and went in. They finished up and the clerk closed the door behind him. Annie pointed to the liquor cabinet secreted in the bookshelf and Cam fixed them each a scotch. They sat together on the couch. The light outside was beginning to fade toward evening, and the lingering glare through the windows revealed some lines and shadows Cam normally didn’t see on her pretty face.

“So how’s the house arrest going?” he asked.

“Long,” she said. “Especially now that this chair thing is real.”

He nodded. “Seems so,” he said. “The pathologists may have a different opinion, of course, but I saw the body.”

“Great,” she said, and stared out the window. “So now what?”

He moved closer to her and rubbed the back of his hand across her cheek. Her skin felt faintly powdery, but the small bones of her face were tangible, which meant she’d lost some weight. “I wish I could go over there and just let you sleep in my arms,” he said.

She folded her face into his hand and nodded. “I’m being the big brave judge,” she said, “But I’m also scared.” She turned to look at him. “Was that a cop who fired that cannon at my house?”

“I don’t know,” Cam said. “And Bobby Lee doesn’t care much for my theories along that line.”

“You’ve talked to him?”

“He’s the Man in this outfit. He’s not anybody’s friend, but I believe he’s honest. I can’t see him condoning vigilantes in his bailiwick, but just the whisper of an accusation like that would tear the place apart, so I’ve talked to him and only him.” As he said it, Cam realized that wasn’t entirely true. He’d also talked to Jaspreet Kaur Bawa. As usual, Annie read his feeble mind. “What?” she said.

He told her in greater detail about his dinner with Jaspreet and the vibes bouncing around the FBI’s Charlotte field office. He also told her about their teleconference with McLain, and that the sheriff was talking quietly with the SBI.

“Too many people talking,” she said. Your secret won’t be a secret for very long. Look-I have to get home. The FBI is sending your fancy computer expert friend to take a look at my computer. Apparently they think I compromised the judicial intranet and that’s how bad E-mails are getting through.”

“You do access it from home?”

“Of course-we all do. It’s supposed to be secure. How ’bout an escort?”

Cam went to get his car while she closed up chambers and retrieved her car. He followed her back to the house and they continued the conversation in her study. “What’s really worrying me,” he said, “is the fact that we can’t find this Marlor guy.”

“What’s worrying me is that someone might be trying to kill me,” she said, matter-of-factly, ever the judge. “Either some guy the whole world can’t find or some cops who are right now just biding their time, waiting for the heat to dissipate or the budget people to pull off the watchers.”

“Can’t you take a vacation? Go to Europe or something?”

“And what-postpone the inevitable? Whoever killed those two men went to extraordinary lengths to do it-an electric chair, for God’s sake! And then put at least one of the bodies in a place where it had to be found, instead of burying it up in the mountains somewhere.”

“I don’t know, Annie,” Cam said. “Say it is cops. They’ve iced the two perps who did the crime, not to mention putting the fear of God into you. Sent you a threatening E-mail via a supposedly safe circuit. Fired a big rifle into your house. They’d have to know you’re scared-the deputies stationed here have to be talking about it at the district office, in the cop bars.”

“Wonderful,” she said.

“But here’s what I’m saying: it’s a huge step to go from harassing a judge to killing a judge. If it is cops, they’d have to know that the entire federal and local law-enforcement machine would turn on them, find them, and execute them, in this state. If they do nothing else, they’ve achieved their warped sense of justice already. I just can’t see it going past harassment.”