Tolliver glances back. Or a dozen disco boys.
Jack hazards a raised eyebrow. Is that the word on Bing?
Word is Jonny wasnt 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 lovers 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. Bings left eye looks wrong.
Shot to the head took him down, Tolliver explains. We think small caliber because theres 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, its 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.
Shell 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, hes 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 Jacks guess, but he could be off ten years in either direction, on account of the fire damage, or whatever made the mans flesh start to slough off.
Youll notice the human barbecue has a gun in its hand. The big trooper crouches, pointing. See the fingers? They look broken to me. Well 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.
Jacks eyes are watering from the smell. Frozen? What are you talking about?
This guy here. Hes 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? Were 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? Thats 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 Ill bet my next pulled-pork sandwich that Mr. Baked Alaska will turn out to be connected to one of the local Asian gangs.
So its supposed to look like a gang hit that went wrong somehow?
Yeah. Might have worked, too, but the genius who set this up didnt know about the fire suppression system on board. He got ignition but no liftoff.
Surveillance?
No cameras in the bedroom, which is a surprise. Wouldnt have surprised me if that little horn-dog Jonny Bing wanted to keep mementos of his conquests, but apparently not. There is a pretty elaborate surveillance system in place elsewhere, covering the hallways, engine room, bridge, decks and so on. The bad boy who did this was smart enough to figure that out, and yanked the hard drive. Im assuming he got to the surveillance DVR after he killed the victims, but before he attempted to torch the place. So he had a plan. Messed up with the fire part, but he got away undetected. Which is a genuine mystery. And you know how I hate mysteries.
Jack frowns. Wait. You clocked me on the marina surveillance but not the shooter?
Not so far. Were assuming the shooter approached from the water, using the ship as a screen from the marina surveillance cameras, which cover the floating dock system, but obviously cant see through the ship. Were checking any and all surveillance systems all along the bay, from Boston Harbor to Hull, but that will take a while.
Jack has had enough of the smell. He carefully wades out to the companionway, trying to keep his trouser cuffs dry, and failing. This sucks, he mutters.
Whats the big deal? Tolliver responds impatiently. Take your fancy threads to the dry cleaner. Bill it as an expense.
No, its not that, Jack says. Im just thinking, if I hadnt dropped in on Jonny Bing, hed probably still be alive.
The big trooper shrugs. Maybe. Or maybe he was already scheduled for demolition.
Yeah.
Id be curious to know what your boss thinks.
Me, too, says Jack.
Chapter Seventeen
Kidder has to force himself to drive just below the speed limit. What he wants to do is put the pedal to the metal, open the windows and dry the goo out of his hair. Hed attempted to rinse away the gunk with seawater, once hed managed to get clear of the marina, but it still feels like hes been basted with a sticky white sauce that makes his skin itch. Some kind of foamy stuff jetting from a system of tiny nozzles hed never even noticed, and certainly hadnt been notified about.
When it happened hed been madder than a wet hen-more like psychotic rooster pumped for a cockfight-and his heart had been pounding because he knew the sudden discharge of foam would be triggering a remote fire alarm. So hed been fleeing the scene from the moment the crap drenched him, and a good thing, too. The local fire trucks were at the marina in less than ten minutes, way ahead of the slow-moving fire tugs, and if the freakin outboard hadnt started on the first try hed have been nabbed for sure. But it had started-hurray Yamaha! and he had managed to ease away from the marina and put a half mile or so between himself and Lady Luck before the flashing lights and sirens arrived. Flooded with the adrenaline thrill of a narrow escape, and of having freshly killed, he eventually worked his way down the busy coastline of Quincy Bay, to the place on shore where hed left his vehicle, and made his getaway.
Luck: you had to have it in this business. No matter what your skill level-and his own was high-you still needed luck, he knew that in his bones, and so far his luck was holding.
Rather than risk heading north through the city, getting stuck in Boston traffic while under possible pursuit, hed opted to head west onto good old 128, loop all the way around and back up to the north. Cost him an extra hour of discomfort, longing for a hot soapy shower, while forcing himself to leave it on cruise control, keep to the right-hand lane like a good little citizen.
Finally, back to base without further incident. Thats how hed report it. Target terminated. Keep it simple. The gooksicle had been his own idea and it hadnt worked out, but so what? It would definitely add to the confusion, and that was a good thing. Nothing to apologize for, no excuses that needed making.
The man who calls himself Kidder punches in the code, causing the paneled door of the cedar-shingled garage to lift. Once inside, garage door sealed, he slips out of the vehicle, strips off his soggy clothing and pads barefoot to the shower located in the first-floor exercise room. Six, count em, six showerheads, steaming and clean. He luxuriates in the stinging warmth, cleansing away the loathsome goo, using plenty of soap and body lotion. The place may be referred to as a guest cottage, but it has all the amenities. An excellent, if rather small, gym furnished with top-flight equipment, a nicely appointed entertainment center-love that Bose! a superb kitchen, a casual-at-first-glance-but-really-formal dining room and three upstairs guest suites, each with a distant view of the sea.
Oh yeah, and the basement safe room, disguised for the pleasure of the guests as a rumpus room, complete with a top-grade billiard table, every kind of game controller, plus bath, bar, kitchenette-even spare beds concealed in the puffy sofas. Very handy and, indeed, the reason why this particular residence had been selected for the operation. Simple enough to swap around the dead-bolt system, clip the phone and alarm lines and make the safe room into a very well-appointed cage. Whenever Kidder has to leave the premises, whether on a particular assignment or just to stretch his legs, he simply puts New Mommy and the Chinese brat into the basement and locks the impregnable door for their own protection.
As he dries himself, puffing his skin to a healthy pink, he thinks about the present situation, anticipating the inevitability of change. So far the female, who can sometimes be troublesome or mouthy, has acquiesced in the name of Shane, whom she appears to worship on some level that Kidder doesnt get. The big guy was about as infallible as your average pope, from what Kidder can gather, but so far invoking his name has worked, kept her in line, as well as deeply in the dark. Eventually shell rebel, they always do, and when that happens hell require further instruction.