J. Bertrand - Pattern of Wounds

“I assume you don’t know who she was talking to.”

“No idea,” she says. “You’ll just have to trace the call.”

After thanking Dr. Hill for her cooperation and escorting her out, I walk a billing statement from Agnieszka’s phone down to the same non-sworn officer who helped me with Simone’s phone records, asking her to find out who the girl called on Saturday afternoon.

“Leave it with me,” she says, adding my scrap of paper to the growing pile beside her keyboard. “I’ll get to it ASAP.”

From the opposite side of a barred glass door, Sam Dearborn of Dearborn Gun and Blade inspects my badge a bit too long to be polite, then cranks the key, unbolting the lock with a dull thunk . Bells chime overhead as I enter. He’s a portly black-haired man with a goatee and dark hair on his forearms, who wears a gold Rolex, a gold neck chain, and a thin copper bracelet around his wrist. He smells of hair spray and musky cologne.

“You didn’t call me back, so here I am.”

“Come on in,” he says, beckoning me deeper into his shop. “You want some coffee? I was just making a pot.”

“What I want is the name of your buyer.”

“Ah.” He raises a finger, then goes around a glass counter where a stack of papers and receipts is spread out. “Hold on just a second and I’ll find what you need. I was just looking.”

“You said you’d get this for me last night.”

“Yeah,” he says, running a thick finger down a column of figures without looking up. “Sorry about that. I had the best of intentions, but something came up. I wasn’t in the office when you called.”

I’m tempted to let him have it, but I’d rather save the energy. The quicker I can get a name, the quicker I can get out of here.

“Just look it up, okay?”

Through the back office door I can hear a coffee machine burbling, the smell wafting through the air. The small shop reminds me of my uncle’s, the same glass cases, the same racks along the back walls for long arms. But instead of blued, workmanlike weapons-tools of metal and wood-Dearborn presides over an Aladdin’s Cave of collectibles: ornate flame-bladed knives with exotic handles, even a few impractical-looking swords, along with high-end custom handguns and coveted black tactical rifles. There are no price tags on display, but I imagine most anything in the shop would be too expensive for actual use. He told me as much over the phone. His clientele collects weapons; they don’t use them.

“Yep,” Dearborn says, tapping his finger on the glass. “I was afraid of this.”

“Of what?” I ask. “Was it a cash transaction?”

“That’s not it.” He shakes his head thoughtfully, then hands me a credit card slip. “The knife you’re looking for was part of a lot I sold to a local collector. I know for a fact he’s been divesting himself of some nice pieces, because I bought some things off him just last month.”

I study the receipt. The customer’s name is printed DAVID R. BAYARD, with an address I recognize as a downtown office building.

“Tell me about this guy,” I say.

“Dave’s some kind of oil consultant. I don’t know exactly what he does, but he travels a lot to Africa and Scandinavia, places like that. Brings back some interesting stuff, too. I’ve been doing business with him maybe ten years. He collects blades. I’ve tried to get him into firearms, but he’s not interested.”

“You said he’s been selling things?”

“I bought a couple off him for less than he paid, including a couple of Scharfs-but not the one you’re looking for. And I know for a fact he gave some things to another dealer on consignment for sale on the Internet. I can give you that guy’s card.” He goes into the back office and returns with a pair of cards, one for Bayard and another for the consignment seller. “You sure you don’t want any coffee?”

“I’ll be in touch if I need anything else. And next time a homicide detective asks for a favor, don’t let anything distract you.”

“My apologies,” he says. “If it makes any difference, there was a woman involved.”

“It doesn’t.” The door jingles as I exit.

Outside, I can still smell Dearborn’s cologne on my clothes.

From a distance, the skyscrapers of downtown Houston look like so many glass needles aimed at the clouds. Reflecting the sky above and one another, they seem weightless and ethereal. Down on the street, though, walking the long stretch of sidewalk from the brainchild of one famous architect to the next, passing one, two, three abstract sculptures nestled in among the corporate logos, I feel like an ant in a redwood forest, awed by the imbalance of scale.

I badge my way through security in the lobby of Bayard’s building, riding a mirrored elevator up to the twenty-third floor to the offices of something called ENERGY SOLUTIONS GROUP. Waiting in the lobby for Bayard, I browse through the corporate literature, learning that whatever these people do-the particulars are vague-they do it synergistically and on a global scale, innovating on behalf of a bright tomorrow.

A smartly dressed and unattractive woman in her early thirties clicks across the glossy floor, showing off chalk stripes and a lot of eye shadow. She blinks her very white, very black-rimmed eyes at me several times, like maybe I’ll disappear if she keeps it up.

“You’re here to see David?” she says finally. “I’m his personal assistant.”

I rise from my chair and introduce myself.

“I’m afraid he’s not in the office.”

“Where can I reach him, then?”

“I don’t know that you can.”

Behind her, a flax-haired middle-aged man in shirt-sleeves walks up, adjusting his metal-framed glasses like they haven’t refocused from whatever fine print he was reading a few moments before. His button-down collar bulges out at the sides. He introduces himself as ESG’s corporate attorney.

“I already told this gentleman that Mr. Bayard isn’t here,” the assistant says.

“Detective, you have to understand-”

“If Bayard isn’t here,” I say, “then where can I find him?”

He clears his throat. “I’m afraid Dave is still in Nigeria. Lagos.”

“Since when?”

“Since. .” His eyes search the ceiling. “Last week. Monday the seventh.”

The Monday after Simone’s murder.

“And how do you get in touch with him?” I ask.

“We don’t. Excuse me, Detective, but. . Could you come into my office please?”

The lawyer guides me down a hallway into a small room with a breathtaking view of the opposite skyscraper, inviting me to sit in one of his guest chairs. He pulls the door shut behind us. There’s a low hum in the room, probably ventilation or electricity, but gazing over the cityscape, the sound reinforces the feeling of flight.

We sit across from each other. He studies the lines in his palm.

“The thing is,” he says, “I’m afraid that ESG recently ended its relationship with Dave. This hasn’t been made public yet, which is why your questions are a bit awkward for us. We’re not intentionally giving you the runaround, it’s just-”

“I need to speak to Mr. Bayard in connection with a murder investigation.”

A pause. “I can appreciate that. Unfortunately, I’m not sure we can be of much help. We haven’t been in touch with Dave for a number of days, not since the termination.”

“So let me get this straight. The man’s somewhere in Africa-”

“Lagos,” he says. “That’s in Nigeria.”

“You said that already.” Something clicks in my mind. He’s not the first person to mention Nigeria to me. “He’s in Africa,” I say, “and that’s when you decide to fire him?”

“To be frank, I’m not sure how much latitude I have in discussing the matter. I think I can say that this situation goes back several months. There was a reorganization, which Dave chose to interpret as a demotion. There may have been some financial trouble at home.”