Cyclops One - Страница 51

Fisher hated murder scenes, not because he didn’t like looking at dead bodies, but because the forensics people went ape shit if you disturbed something, which in their eyes you did simply by breathing in the air. Poke your head inside wearing anything less than a hermetically sealed body bootie, and they ran out to their vans to plunge pins into their voodoo dolls.

Fisher put little stock in voodoo, and cared even less who he pissed off, but he did nonetheless strain to put himself on his best behavior, since getting a report without the usual red tape depended on it. The crime scene guys — state police, though he wouldn’t hold that against them — working Bonham’s condo were relatively low key, once he put out his cigarette. Still, they said flat out they wouldn’t let him in the bathroom where Bonham had died until they finished their work there; at the rate they were going, that seemed likely to happen sometime next winter.

Fisher contented himself with booting the general’s computer in the den, examining its browser and E-mail programs for anything of note.

The history folder was completely clean, and Fisher couldn’t find anything in the trash folder, either. Bonham obviously had an industrial-strength scrubber program loaded. Fisher looked over the program list; there were two different baseball games, but otherwise nothing that didn’t come stock on the machine, a relatively new Dell.

“What are you doing?” demanded one of the investigators as she walked in behind him.

“What the FBI always does,” said Fisher, keying up the hidden directories. “Screwing up the crime scene.”

“Well, I’m glad you admit it.”

“Got a scrubber program in here I can’t find. Probably want to send it over to our lab.” Fisher leaned away from the machine, pointing to the screen.

“Who exactly are you?” asked the woman detective.

“Andy Fisher, FBI.”

“Why are you here?”

“Oh.” Fisher leaned back from his chair. “One of the uniform guys figured out who Bonham was and called us, and for some inexplicable reason the person who got the call actually knew how to follow the right procedure and tell me about it. Lightning has to strike somewhere, as improbable as it sounds.”

“You’re a wiseass.”

“Yeah, actually, the guys in the field office are usually pretty sharp. It’s when you get to headquarters that you get the lobotomy.”

“I’m Susan Doar,” said the woman, holding her hand out to him. She was in her mid-thirties, with just enough of a cynical smile to hint that this wasn’t her first murder case, nor the first time she’d dealt with the FBI.

“Andy Fisher. Mind if I smoke?”

“You can’t smoke in here.”

“Everybody says that.” Fisher got up. “Seriously, we want the computer. If you send it to the Secret Service or, God forbid, the NSA, you’ll never find out what’s on it. Those guys are close to unbribable.”

“Someone from the Defense Department is on his way over,” said Doar.

“They’re not so bad,” said Fisher. “Except they tend to lose stuff. I think they actually end up using it for target practice.”

“I’ll use my own lab, thanks,” said Doar.

“You got a time of death?”

“Autopsy hasn’t been done.”

“I never trusted those doctor types.”

“Neighbor heard the TV blaring last night about eleven, called over to complain, banged on the door, got worried,” said Doar.

“Nosy-neighbor type?”

“I think he was pissed off because he couldn’t get to sleep,” said Doar. “Left a nasty message. Then maybe he felt guilty.”

“How did our hero die?” asked Fisher.

“Hit the back of his head in the bathroom. Slipped getting out of the tub.”

“Can I take a look?”

“If they’re done with the pictures. He’s not wearing anything.”

“I knew there was some reason I came.”

“That’s what I said.”

The downstairs bathroom was bigger than Fisher’s apartment. The general lay sprawled faceup on the floor, a trickle of blood coming from his ear. He seemed to have slipped coming out of the whirlpool bath, smacked his head on the side of the marble wall where the bath was recessed, then pirouetted down and smacked the back of his head again.

“We took hair and some skin off the wall,” said Doar pointing. “Probably open and shut.”

“Bathrooms are very dangerous places,” said Fisher.

“Yeah.”

Fisher knelt near the door. The scene was laid out perfectly, the distances precise, soap in the bottom of the tub, water almost but not quite turned off, a towel pulled cock-eyed off the corner of the rack as if Bonham had started to grab for it.

He rose and went back into the den. They’d hit the mute on the TV, but otherwise had left it on, just as they’d found it. Fisher looked around, re-creating the scene from the other night when he and Howe had come over, comparing it to now. Bonham had thrown his jacket down, as though he’d just come in.

“Was he drinking?” Fisher asked.

“It’s not obvious,” said the investigator. “No glass or anything.”

Fisher walked back to the bathroom. There was a small TV in the corner. It was off.

“What?” asked Doar as he started to leave.

“Open and shut,” said Fisher.

Chapter 10

Howe heard about Bonham’s death just as he was suiting up to fly out to Alaska. The lieutenant who brought the information had it third- or fourthhand and couldn’t add anything beyond the simple fact that the general had died in an accident.

Howe didn’t know what to feel or even think. Away from Fisher, he’d started to doubt the FBI agent’s theory, though he couldn’t really dismiss it. He nodded to the lieutenant, then continued getting ready; he had to be in Alaska by nightfall to help prepare the monitoring mission. He went out to the planes with Timmy feeling a little numb; he could focus on the plane and his job well enough, but could only manage a grunt or two as his wingman made his usual jokes about anything and everything.

They were finished with the preflights and about to strap in when a Humvee flew around the corner and nearly crashed into one of the small tractors standing on the apron. The lieutenant who had told Howe about Bonham jumped from the truck, running toward the planes and waving his arms like a madman. Howe leaned over the side of the aircraft; the lieutenant spotted him and began gesturing madly that he should come down. He produced a cell phone from his pocket, holding it up toward Howe.

“FBI wants you,” said the lieutenant when he reached the tarmac.

“FBI?” asked Howe as he took the phone. “Fisher?”

“Last time I checked,” answered the agent.

“This better be important.”

“Tell me something: How big a sports fan was Bonham?”

Chapter 11

“The whole idea of offshore banks, Andy, is that they make it almost impossible to get access.”

“Yeah, but not for you, Betty.” Fisher fed another cigarette into the forensic accountant’s fat fingers.

Betty lit the new cigarette off the one in her other hand. “You’re right about that condo. Worth a hell of a lot more than he said. But the transactions are there to back up the price.”

“Have to be offshore accounts.”

“I need account numbers. At least banks.”

“They’re not on the computer, not according to the state police lab guys. I sent Bartolomo over to help them.”

“Oh, that was smart.”

“Hey, for a computer geek, he’s almost human,” said Fisher. “I had this other brainstorm while I was talking to him.”

“Spare me.”

“He says you can track whether inquiries are made on bank accounts from ATMs and phones and things, because their networks log all the contacts.”

“What’s the point?”

“Well, see, if the four people who were supposed to have died in Cyclops One aren’t dead, then they’re probably checking their bank accounts. We just look at the statements, right?”

“I don’t know if we can come up with those kinds of records,” said Betty. “Besides, not everybody’s as paranoid about their money as you, Andy.”

“I’m not paranoid about money.”

“Excuse me.Cheap was the word I was looking for. You have the companies laid out.” Betty suddenly put on her motherly voice, the one she usually used before telling Fisher to hit the road. “Put some pressure on the officers and board members, things will start to open up.”

“Or maybe a few more people will slip in their bathrooms,” said Fisher. He rose.

“We’ll do what we can,” she told him. “No promises.”

“Thanks, babe. Get ahold of me if you think of something else, okay? I’m counting on you to break this sucker open.”

“Where you going?”

“Alaska. I hear it’s almost warm this time of year.”

* * *

Fisher got about halfway to Dulles Airport when he realized he was being followed. It was the sort of break you couldn’t pray for, but the agent managed to contain his glee, unholstering his revolver — the two hideaways were small automatics — and putting it on his lap. He got off the highway and drove a bit farther; when he was sure he hadn’t succumbed to wishful thinking, he started hunting for a bank. Finally he spotted one on the wrong side of the highway; he veered across traffic and pulled into the ATM lane around the back.