Ли Чайлд - Этаж смерти with W_cat

[ 300] “Two things,” I said. “The guy is shot in the head close up with a silenced automatic weapon. First shot drops him. Second shot is insurance. The shell cases are missing. What does that say to you? Professionally?”

[ 301] Finlay said nothing. His prime suspect was discussing the case with him like a colleague. As the investigator, he shouldn’t allow that. He should cut me down. But he wanted to hear me out. I could see him arguing with himself. He was totally still, but his mind was struggling like kittens in a sack.

[ 302] “Go on,” he said eventually. Gravely, like it was a big deal.

[ 303] “That’s an execution, Finlay,” I said. “Not a robbery or a squabble. That’s a cold and clinical hit. No evidence left behind. That’s a smart guy with a flashlight scrabbling around afterward for two small-caliber shell cases.”

[ 304] “Go on,” Finlay said again.

[ 305] “Close range shot into the left temple,” I said. “Could be the victim was in a car. Shooter is talking to him through the window and raises his gun. Bang. He leans in and fires the second shot. Then he picks up his shell cases and he leaves.”

[ 306] “He leaves?” Finlay said. “What about the rest of the stuff that went down? You’re suggesting a second man?”

[ 307] I shook my head.

[ 308] “There were three men,” I said. “That’s clear, right?”

[ 309] “Why three?” he said.

[ 310] “Practical minimum of two, right?” I said. “How did the victim get out there to the warehouses? He drove, right? Too far from anywhere to walk. So where’s his car now? The shooter didn’t walk there, either. So the practical minimum would be a team of two. They drove up there together and they drove away separately, one of them in the victim’s car.”

[ 311] “But?” Finlay said.

[ 312] “But the actual evidence points to a minimum of three,” I said. “Think about it psychologically. That’s the key to this thing. A guy who uses a silenced small-caliber automatic for a neat head shot and an insurance shot is not the type of guy who then suddenly goes berserk and kicks the shit out of a corpse, right? And the type of guy who does get in a frenzy like that doesn’t then suddenly calm down and hide the body under some old cardboard. You’re looking at three completely separate things there, Finlay. So there were three guys involved.”

[ 313] Finlay shrugged at me.

[ 314] “Two, maybe,” he said. “Shooter could have tidied up afterward.”

[ 315] “No way,” I said. “He wouldn’t have waited around. He wouldn’t like that kind of frenzy. It would embarrass him. And it would worry him because it adds visibility and danger to the whole thing. And a guy like that, if he had tidied up afterward, he’d have done it right. He wouldn’t have left the body where the first guy who came along was going to find it. So you’re looking at three guys.”

[ 316] Finlay thought hard.

[ 317] “So?” he said.

[ 318] “So which one am I supposed to be?” I said. “The shooter, the maniac or the idiot who hid the body?”

[ 319] Finlay and Baker looked at each other. Didn’t answer me.

[ 320] “So whichever one, what are you saying?” I asked them. “I drive up there with my two buddies and we hit this guy at midnight, and then my two buddies drive away and I choose to stay there? Why would I do that? It’s crap, Finlay.”

[ 321] He didn’t reply. He was thinking.

[ 322] “I haven’t got two buddies,” I said. “Or a car. So the very best you can do is to say the victim walked there, and I walked there. I met him, and I very carefully shot him, like a pro, then recovered my shell cases and took his wallet and emptied his pockets, but forgot to search his shoes. Then I stashed my weapon, silencer, flashlight, mobile phone, the shell cases, the wallet and all. Then I completely changed my whole personality and kicked the corpse to pieces like a maniac. Then I completely changed my whole personality again and made a useless attempt to hide the body. And then I waited eight hours in the rain and then I walked down into town. That’s the very best you can do. And it’s total crap, Finlay. Because why the hell would I wait eight hours, in the rain, until daylight, to walk away from a homicide?”

[ 323] He looked at me for a long moment.

[ 324] “I don’t know why,” he said.

[ 325] A GUY LIKE FINLAY DOESN’T SAY A THING LIKE THAT UNLESS he’s struggling. He looked deflated. His case was crap and he knew it. But he had a severe problem with the chief’s new evidence. He couldn’t walk up to his boss and say: you’re full of shit, Morrison. He couldn’t actively pursue an alternative when his boss had handed him a suspect on a plate. He could follow up my alibi. That he could do. Nobody would criticize him for being thorough. Then he could start again on Monday. So he was miserable because seventy-two hours were going to get wasted. And he could foresee a big problem. He had to tell his boss that actually I could not have been there at midnight. He would have to politely coax a retraction out of the guy. Difficult to do when you’re a new subordinate who’s been there six months. And when the person you’re dealing with is a complete asshole. And your boss. Difficulties were all over him, and the guy was miserable as hell about it. He sat there, breathing hard. In trouble. Time to help him out.

[ 326] “The phone number,” I said. “You’ve identified it as a mobile?”

[ 327] “By the code,” he said. “Instead of an area code, they have a prefix which accesses the mobile network.”

[ 328] “OK,” I said. “But you can’t identify who it belongs to because you have no reverse directories for mobiles and their office won’t tell you, right?”

[ 329] “They want a warrant,” he said.

[ 330] “But you need to know whose number it is, right?” I said.

[ 331] “You know some way of doing that without a warrant?” he asked.

[ 332] “Maybe,” I said. “Why don’t you just call it up and see who answers?”

[ 333] They hadn’t thought of that. There was another silence. They were embarrassed. They didn’t want to look at each other. Or me. Silence.

[ 334] Baker bailed out of the situation. Left Finlay holding the ball. He collected the files and mimed going outside to work on them. Finlay nodded and waved him away. Baker got up and went out. Closed the door very quietly indeed. Finlay opened his mouth. And closed it. He needed to save some face. Badly.

[ 335] “It’s a mobile,” he said. “If I call it up I can’t tell whose it is or where it is.”

[ 336] “Listen, Finlay,” I said. “I don’t care whose it is. All I care is whose it isn’t. Understand? It isn’t my phone. So you call it up and John Doe in Atlanta or Jane Doe in Charleston answers it. Then you know it isn’t mine.”

[ 337] Finlay gazed at me. Drummed his fingers on the desk. Kept quiet.

[ 338] “You know how to do this,” I said. “Call the number, some bullshit story about a technical fault or an unpaid bill, some computer thing, get the person to confirm name and address. Do it, Finlay, you’re supposed to be a damn detective.”

[ 339] He leaned forward to where he had left the number. Slid the paper back with his long brown fingers. Reversed it so he could read it and picked up the phone. Dialed the number. Hit the speakerphone button. The ring tone filled the air. Not a sonorous long tone like a home phone. A high, urgent electronic sound. It stopped. The phone was answered.

[ 340] “Paul Hubble,” a voice said. “How may I help you?”

[ 341] A southern accent. A confident manner. Accustomed to telephones.

[ 342] “Mr. Hubble?” Finlay said. He was looking at the desk, writing down the name. “Good afternoon. This is the phone company, mobile division. Engineering manager. We’ve had a fault reported on your number.”