Chris Jordan - Measure of Darkness

“My best recollection.”

“Ace interrogator like you, there’s still no clear indication as to who might have killed Professor Keener, or why? Assuming, for the sake of argument, it wasn’t your pal Shane.”

“It wasn’t, and no. Bing seems genuinely puzzled. Convincing on the subject of how the sudden death of his partner might wreck the company and ruin his investment. If he’s lying, he’s damn good at it. Which he might be, for all I know.”

Tolliver studies the back of his meaty hand. “Maybe.”

“My gut says the only thing he was holding back concerns Keener’s missing kid.”

“Holding back what?”

Jack shrugs. “Claimed he never heard of Keener having a child, in or out of wedlock. But he knows something. I’m going to have another go at him.”

“No,” Tolliver says. “You’re not.”

“I’m not?”

“Not unless you can commune with the dead.”

The news doesn’t exactly shock Jack, given the general mood, not to mention the overwhelming response from law enforcement. “Well, that sucks,” he says, lightly drumming his well-manicured fingers on the tabletop. “How’d it go down?”

“You know I can’t share details of an ongoing investigation.”

“Walk me through it, maybe something will pop. Something he said that I couldn’t recall at first. I’ll share.”

Tolliver favors him with a sour look. “You neglected to tell me something, in your exhaustive recollection of the interview?”

“I’m just saying.”

The big man considers. “Walk with me,” he says.

Lady Luck has had a bath, mostly seawater from the fireboats. Jack can smell the tang of salt, and under that a lingering odor of gasoline and smoke, and something worse than smoke. He’s not keen about getting the drips on his shoes-fine leather doesn’t like salt-but knows better than to complain as Tolliver stomps through the slop in his highly polished knee-high dress boots, heading along a companionway. They haven’t bothered with crime scene tape because the entire yacht is a crime scene.

As the big state cop leads the way, he says, “Surveillance cameras show you boarding this tub at 10:20 a.m., exiting by the same route at 11:10 a.m. Sound about right?”

“Yup.”

“Silly question, but was Bing alive when you left him?”

“Not a silly question, and yes, he was. Alive and more or less relaxed. Certainly unaware that something bad was about to happen.”

“No security on board, you said. Or staff.”

“Yeah, and I thought that was a little odd. But then Jonny Bing is-I mean was -more than a little odd. Wealthy enough to be eccentric, I guess. He apologized for the lack of fawning servants-his words-and said the crew had a few days off because the boat would soon be leaving for Bermuda. So, far as I could tell, he was alone. But then he could have had a dozen blondes stashed in his master bedroom, for all I know.”

Tolliver glances back. “Or a dozen disco boys.”

Jack hazards a raised eyebrow. “Is that the word on Bing?”

“Word is Jonny wasn’t particular as to gender. But you got the blond part right, apparently. And it was only one. Maybe he was cutting down.”

“So it was a lover’s tiff?”

“Nah,” Tolliver says, gesturing for Jack to step ahead of him. “Go through that door or hatch or whatever they call it, then turn left.”

“Door, I think,” says Jack, lifting his cuffs as he steps into about an inch of standing water flecked with suds of chemical foam.

Unlike Jack and Tolliver, the on-site crime team members are wearing white rubber boots and white disposable overalls. They have digital cameras set up on tripods, laser measuring devices, a chemical sniffer, all the toys. The objects of forensic interest lie on a partially melted bed-a giant round mattress, like something out of an old Hugh Hefner fantasy-set up on a hardwood pedestal. Behind the thronelike bed, the curving wall is mirrored. Narrow, vertical mirrors joined together like some giant diamond. More like cubic zirconia. Because to Jack the whole setup looks cheesy, very unlike the elegant salon where Bing had made him welcome, or the rest of the luxuriously appointed yacht. Maybe the sleaze of the playboy bedroom made it appealing, a retro thing. Different strokes.

Jonny Bing, still recognizable even in sudden, violent death, lies on his side among the pink satin sheets. Pink from the blood that was washed away before it had time to soak in. In the strobe flash of the cameras, the glittery wetness makes him seem almost alive. Almost. Bing’s left eye looks wrong.

“Shot to the head took him down,” Tolliver explains. “We think small caliber because there’s no apparent exit wound. Same with the shot to the heart-no exit. So, a classic double tap. Same deal with the boyfriend, except he got it in the forehead instead of the eye. Small entry wound, no apparent exit. Bullet bounces around, it’s like an instant Cuisinart for the brain.” The trooper gives Jack a look, almost friendly, like the old days when they were professional colleagues of a sort. “Tell that to Naomi Nantz the next time she dices up sweetmeats, what a bullet does when it rattles around inside a skull.”

“She’ll appreciate that,” Jack says, smiling but not feeling it. Feeling instead the slosh of contaminated water soaking into his Italian leather shoes.

“The precision of this, both vics hit exactly the same way, makes me favor the lone gunman theory.”

“Looks that way,” Jack agrees.

The second victim, assumed to be the sexual partner because, like Bing, he’s naked, tangled in satin sheets, is a Caucasian youth with shoulder-length bleached-blond hair. In life the victim had been lithe and athletic, at least a foot taller than his partner. On the floor a few yards from the giant bed is the real puzzle. Lying on its side like a partially charred log is the fully clothed body of an Asian male. Thirtysomething, is Jack’s guess, but he could be off ten years in either direction, on account of the fire damage, or whatever made the man’s flesh start to slough off.

“You’ll notice the human barbecue has a gun in its hand.” The big trooper crouches, pointing. “See the fingers? They look broken to me. We’ll know for sure after the autopsy, but the M.E., who hates getting his feet wet just like you, he concurs: fingers busted. Like somebody put the gun in his hand, had to force it.”

“Made this guy fire the weapon?”

Tolliver stands up, snorts. “Are you serious? A double, double tap? No extra shots fired? Whoever did this is a genuine marksman, a skilled assassin. Not some frozen corpse with a busted hand.”

Jack’s eyes are watering from the smell. “Frozen? What are you talking about?”

“This guy here. He’s charred on the outside, frozen underneath. M.E. tried for a liver temp, said it was like bumping up against a stone. Pretty neat trick, eh? We’re calling him Baked Alaska.”

Jack takes a step back, letting his eyes drift over the scene, putting it all together. “Okay. Bing and his buddy are shot in bed. The shooter then drags in a frozen corpse, plants the gun, douses the place with gasoline? That’s your theory of the crime? The assassin was creating a particular scenario, or attempting to?”

Tolliver nods approvingly. “Pretty quick for a retired dude. Yeah, and I’ll bet my next pulled-pork sandwich that Mr. Baked Alaska will turn out to be connected to one of the local Asian gangs.”

“So it’s supposed to look like a gang hit that went wrong somehow?”

“Yeah. Might have worked, too, but the genius who set this up didn’t know about the fire suppression system on board. He got ignition but no liftoff.”

“Surveillance?”