Stuart Woods - Shoot Him If He Runs

His laptop beside him emitted a small chime. “Excuse me a moment,” he said, turning the instrument so that he could see the screen. He looked back at his office. “Any other questions?”

“What about vacations already scheduled?” a woman asked.

“Keep them scheduled,” Lance said, “subject only to the sort of last-minute emergencies I’m sure you’re all accustomed to. Anyone else? No? Well, thank you all, and I look forward to working with each of you. By the way, as we speak, all stations are being notified of the personnel changes, so there won’t be any surprises in your contacts with those in the field.” Lance ran a finger down his list of names and photographs, looked around the room and settled on an attractive woman in her forties near the back of the room. “Mona Barry? Will you stay a moment, please?”

The others ambled out of the room, and Mona Barry rose and walked forward. “Yes, sir?”

“No ‘sirs’ are necessary; Lance will do,” he said.

“Yes, Lance?”

“I’m told that you are our best photo analyst, Mona.”

“That’s very flattering.”

“I expect you know how good you are.” He turned the laptop so that she could see the screen. “I’ve just received these photos from our station in St. Marks, in the Caribbean.” He pressed a button, and his printer began to work. “I’d like you to give them your closest attention, and at the earliest possible moment.” He also copied them onto a DVD and handed it to her.

Mona picked up the printout, set her reading glasses on her nose and began examining the three photographs. “What do you want to know about them?”

“These are photographs submitted by three men to the government of St. Marks on applications to buy houses on the island. All three are British subjects and the photos appear to be the sort used on British passports.”

“Are they wanted for something? Either by us or by the law somewhere?”

“It’s suspected that one of them may be a fugitive from justice in Britain, and another may be-and this is on a strictly need-to-know basis, Mona-Teddy Fay.”

She looked up at Lance. “So he’s alive?”

“That’s what we’re trying to determine.”

“Well, I never worked with Teddy, and since there are no known photos of him on record, the best I can do is clean them up, rid them of facial hair and show them to people who knew Teddy better than I did.”

“That’s exactly what I want you to do,” Lance said, “and as quickly as humanly possible.”

“I’ll call you when I have something,” Mona said, then left the office.

Lance went back to reading operations files.

Dino and Genevieve were lunching on the terrace of the beach cottage when the phone rang inside. Dino got up and went to answer it. “Hello?”

“Dino, it’s Thomas; you’re about to have visitors.”

“Who?”

“The local police and a Colonel duBois, who is Croft’s replacement. Be careful in dealing with him.”

“I will,” Dino said. He looked up to see a car stopping outside. “They’re here; thanks, Thomas.” Dino got his and Genevieve’s passports and his NYPD ID from their room and went outside. Genevieve was looking up with big eyes at two uniformed policemen and a civilian. “Gosh,” she said. “Are you the police?”

Dino walked to the table. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said. “May I help you?” He gave them a little smile.

“Yes, indeed, you may,” said the civilian, who was wearing a sharply cut tan suit that set off his cafe-au-lait coloring. “What is your name?”

“I am Lieutenant Dino Bacchetti, of the New York City Police Department,” he said, handing the man his badge wallet.

The man inspected the badge and ID card closely.

“May I know your name?” Dino asked pleasantly.

The man looked up at him. “I am Colonel Marcel duBois, of the Home Office.”

Dino offered his hand. “How do you do?”

DuBois shook it hastily. “May I see your passports.” It wasn’t a question.

“Of course,” Dino replied, handing them over. He waved a hand at the table. “Would you like some lunch or a glass of iced tea? It’s always interesting to meet a colleague.”

DuBois looked at him sharply. “Colleague?”

“We are both police officers, are we not?”

DuBois ignored the question. “What is your business on St. Marks?”

“We are here on vacation.”

“For how long?”

“We had planned to leave tomorrow, but I understand travel has been interrupted because of a murder.”

“What do you know of this murder, Lieutenant Bacchetti?”

“Only that it occurred and that the victim was Colonel Croft. I assume you are his replacement?”

“That is so. What other details do you have of this murder?”

“None whatever, I’m afraid. In my work in New York I have specialized in homicides for many years. If I can be of any assistance, I would be happy to do so.”

“Thank you, that will not be necessary. We have the required skills and experience in our own department.”

“I’m sure you do; I just thought that an outside opinion might be helpful.”

“Opinion of what?”

“Interpretation of the evidence.”

“We do not share evidence of crimes with outsiders.”

“As you wish.”

Now duBois seemed intrigued. “What would you say of this, Lieutenant? Colonel Croft was shot while sitting in the central courtyard of the St. Marks Police Station.”

“From inside the station?”

“From outside.”

“A rifle shot, then.”

“That is our assumption.”

“Then the shooter would have needed elevation.”

“Quite.”

“And a rifle with sufficient muzzle velocity to be accurate at a distance.”

“Quite.”

“I would first look for the shooter’s location, and when I found it I would isolate the scene and look for evidence, such as cartridge casings and fibers from the shooter’s clothing. I would also look for fingerprints.”

“Of course; that will be done.”

Dino waved duBois to a chair and sat down himself. “Someone loading a rifle would leave fingerprints on the cartridge casings, unless he was careful to wear gloves or wipe them clean.”

“Yes,” duBois said. “Go on.”

Dino was beginning to get the impression that duBois had never investigated a homicide. Probably, with his Haitian police background, he was more accustomed to committing than solving them.

“Have you located the shooter’s firing point?”

“We believe it to be an abandoned fire tower on a hill not far from the police station.”

“Then I would also look for tire tracks and footprints, and if the tower is accessed by a ladder or stairs, I would look for prints on the rungs or banisters. I would also look for DNA evidence, if the shooter, perhaps, spat or left a coffee cup or cut himself while climbing the tower. Hairs would be helpful, too.”

“All of that will be sought, of course,” duBois replied.

Dino was surprised he wasn’t taking notes. “Do you have the facility for DNA analysis available on St. Marks?”

“Not as yet,” duBois replied. “That will be one of my first requests of my government.”

“I would be very happy to have any evidence you find tested in our labs in New York, if that would be helpful.”

“Thank you; I will let you know.” DuBois consulted a list from his pocket. “Where are your companions, Mr. Barrington and Ms. Heller?” he asked.

“I believe they are touring the island,” Dino said. “They told us not to wait lunch for them.”

“When will they return?”

“I’m not sure, but certainly in time for cocktails; they never miss cocktails.” Dino smiled.