Cut and Run (24 page)

Most of the time, anyway. The downside was that sometimes Wolfe had a hard time seeing the bigger picture; he zeroed in on specifics but failed to notice the more unpredictable elements—like the eventual consequences of his actions. It had gotten him into trouble more than once.

And it was why he had a problem with gambling.

He knew he didn't seem like the type—all of his coworkers had been surprised when they'd found out. Gambling seemed like the kind of problem an on-the-edge rule breaker would have, not a clean-cut, button-down guy like Wolfe. But when you broke it down, it actually made a perverse kind of sense; crime scene science was all about trying to recognize patterns, to impose order on what seemed at first glance to be chaos. That was Wolfe's job, and when he did it well it rewarded him with a sense of satisfaction and accomplishment.

But gambling—gambling was like the dark mirror of science. You were still trying to impose order on chaos, still trying to see the pattern emerge from the random, but the tools you had to use weren't the same. Intellect was still involved, but so was intuition; control was important, but you had to take risks in order to win. It appealed to an aspect of Wolfe that didn't get much exercise, and once he'd started to experiment with it his obsessive-compulsive side took over. That was the trap he'd fallen into: His OCD insisted on total order, total control, and that was never possible with gambling. It had given him an itch that he could never fully scratch, and now he wished he'd never started in the first place. So far, he had it under control.

So far.

He stared down at the fish, trying to get that intuitive part of his mind working, the kind that sometimes spoke to him when he was playing, that told him to take another card or stand pat.

The fish stared back with one dead eye.

It wasn't talking.

H
ORATIO AND
C
ALLEIGH
studied the objects spread out over the surface of the light table, which included Timothy Breakwash's clothes and every item they had recovered from the balloon. The balloon itself was still in the possession of the FAA, but they had extensive photographs of it from every possible angle.

Horatio crossed his arms. “If Timothy Breakwash finally hit the jackpot, it's highly unlikely he'd take his own life. Therefore—impossible as it seems—he was murdered. The question is not only
how,
but
where
and
when
.”

“Right,” said Calleigh. “Because if he were killed earlier or later than we thought, the murder could have taken place on the ground.”

“Let's start with later. The first person on the scene was Joel Greer, and witnesses say he was in an awful hurry to get there.”

“He might just have been concerned for his boss.”

“Yes—or he might have wanted to get there first so he could put a bullet in his head.” Horatio stared down at the items on the table, his expression intent. “Let's say Breakwash is somehow incapacitated in midair. That would lead to a crash, giving Greer the opportunity to shoot an unconscious Breakwash at close range with a silenced weapon. If it was done quickly enough, no one would see or hear a thing.”

“Two problems with that. First, it would have been far easier for Greer to shoot Breakwash at the beginnng of the flight instead of the end. Second, the tox screen for the vic came back negative for any kind of sedative or intoxicant.”

“And if he'd been shot before the balloon launched, our witness with the telescope wouldn't have seen Breakwash moving around while the balloon was in flight.”

“True,” said Calleigh. “But the balloon was too far away for any real identification. Maybe the person he saw wasn't Breakwash at all.”

“A second occupant? Now that's an interesting thought…”

“Let's say Breakwash was shot on the ground, in the basket. A second person flies the balloon and simulates a crash. Breakwash is out of sight on the bottom of the basket, and the pilot crouches down for the landing. Joel Greer is the first to arrive, and helps shield the pilot, who rolls out of the basket and then hides behind it—in all the confusion, he's mistaken for one of the people who rush over from their cars.”

Horatio considered the theory. “It's possible,” he conceded. “Witnesses, after all, are notoriously unreliable. But I know something that isn't.”

Calleigh smiled. “Science?”

“Indeed. Let's give the FAA a call and see what they can tell us.”

 

In the end, it took Tripp, Natalia, and two licensed mental health experts over an hour to corner and wrestle Sheila Smithwick into restraints. She was large, strong, and determined not to be caught—plus, whatever she'd coated her skin with was extremely slippery. While Natalia was taking the blood sample, the naked frog woman made croaking sounds that the CSI would have sworn a human throat was incapable of producing. Smithwick paused after one particularily loud burst and said, “Did you know that the larynx of the European tree frog takes up a fifth of its body?”

“No,” Natalia said through gritted teeth. “I did not.”

After she'd been taken away, Natalia and Tripp took a long look at each other. Both of them were soaking wet, their clothes smeared with mud and algae. Natalia burst out laughing, and Tripp started chuckling, too.

“You know,” said Tripp, “I'm starting to think this whole case is one long practical joke orchestrated by Hiram Davey's ghost.”

“Maybe so,” said Natalia, “but we're going to have the last laugh.”

Natalia ran the sample back to the lab, then headed home for a quick shower and a change of clothes. Sheila Smithwick hadn't been formally charged with anything—not yet—but she was being held for psychiatric evaluation. Natalia wondered what would become of Frog World; would it be just another abandoned roadside attraction, a half-built dream filled with empty terrariums and a dried-out pond? Maybe an ecological society would take it over, finish what Smithwick had started.

Natalia sighed. More likely, it would be torn down and replaced by condos or a hotel. This was Miami, after all.

 

Calleigh called the FAA investigator, William Pinlon. “Hi, Mister Pinlon? This is Calleigh Duquesne, from the Miami-Dade crime lab. I was hoping I could get some information from you regarding the balloon that came down on the highway the other day.”

On the other end of the line, Pinlon sounded exactly as harried as he had at the crash site. “Right, right, the balloon. My people just finished up with that. I've got the report right here, just let me call it up…damn computer…okay, here it is. You want me to fax you a copy?”

“That would be lovely. Can I ask you a few quick questions first?”

“Uh…yeah, sure.”

She only had a few. When he'd finished answering, she gave him the lab's fax number, thanked him, and hung up.

“Well?” asked Horatio.

“According to Mister Pinlon, all the data lined up. They looked at the altitude of the balloon, the distance it traveled, how much gas was consumed, and the prevailing winds for that morning. If there had been an extra person aboard, the additional weight would have forced the balloon to burn more fuel than it did.”

“Which eliminates the second-passenger theory. I think we can safely say Breakwash was alone—which means he had to have been killed in midair.”

“Maybe we're concentrating on the wrong details,” said Calleigh thoughtfully. “Maybe he was shot from a distance, and the close-up GSR was faked?”

“He also had GSR on his hands. Maybe he was shooting back at the killer.”

“But the FAA didn't find any bullet holes in the balloon—I checked. Which means our killer used a low-powered twenty-two rifle—as opposed to the higher caliber a professional shooter would choose—to make a near impossible shot at a moving target, and got it on the first try. And it
still
doesn't explain the GSR around the wound.”

“So we're back where we started from,” said Horatio.

Calleigh sighed. “Yeah, I guess so. What kind of approach do you want to take?”

Horatio looked at everything they'd gathered from the balloon. “We go over everything we have and see what we've missed,” he said. “Whatever answers there are, they're right here. We just have to find them…”

 

Natalia stared at Valera in disbelief. “You're sure, Maxine?”

Valera gave her an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Natalia. The blood isn't a match.”

“So Sheila Smithwick isn't our killer.”

“No. Her blood also tested positive for traces of two antipsychotics, while the first sample was clean.”

“Whatever she's taking, she isn't taking enough of it…thanks, Maxine.”

She broke the bad news to Tripp in the hall. “So she may be crazy,” finished Natalia, “but she's not a killer.”

“Tell that to the crickets,” said Tripp. “Now what? We've eliminated all our female suspects.”

“Not quite. Marssai Guardon had no reason to kill Davey—but what about the
faux
Ms. Guardon?”

“The body double? She did say she'd be in a lot of trouble if her parents found out it was her in the porn video.”

“And Marssai said Davey was going to spill the beans in his book. I think it's enough for a warrant.”

Tripp nodded. “I'll give the judge a call.”

 

“Thought I'd find you out here,” Delko said. He stepped into the reefer truck and closed the door behind him. “I should have known better than to introduce an obsessive-compulsive to a really big fish. Are you going to start calling me Ishmael?”

Wolfe glanced over at his colleague. “You know, when this case started out, I was the one making the jokes.”

“I know. Funny how things can turn around on you, huh?”

“At the moment, I'm not laughing.”

“I know.” Delko walked up to the large metal table the sunfish lay on and poked it with a finger. “If only we could drag it into the interview room and ask it a few questions, right? What's your name? What were you doing on that boat? What's your relationship with Jovan Dragoslav?”

Wolfe grinned despite himself. “At least we don't have to take its prints.”

“There is that.” Delko shook his head. “You know what this case reminds me of? There's this folk tale I read once, about a border guard. Every day, a local merchant carts a wheelbarrow full of sand up to the checkpoint. The border guard sifts through the sand carefully, searches the merchant, but he doesn't find anything. The next day the same thing happens, and the day after that. The guard is sure the merchant is smuggling contraband across the border, but he can't figure out how. Turns out the merchant is smuggling wheelbarrows.”

“Great story—but that can't be the case here. This fish is basically worthless. It's common, not good eating, and riddled with parasites. Unless Dragoslav has tapped into a lucrative black market for shark tapeworms, I don't see what possible value this fish could have.”

“You're right,” Delko admitted. “It can't be the fish itself. And there's nothing hidden in it—we've even X-rayed the damn thing. So why was it on the ship? Is it just supposed to be distracting us from something else?”

“We've gone over the whole boat, too. I'm pretty sure that whatever the shipment was, it's on the bottom of the ocean now. Probably in several large, white plastic buckets that we have no hope of ever finding.”

Delko shrugged. “I could suit up and look—but you're right. We don't know exactly where the boat was when it was hijacked, and we don't know if the buckets floated or sank. I guess we can console ourselves with the fact that whatever they held, Dragoslav can't get his hands on it, either.”

“You know,” said Wolfe, rubbing his hands together to warm them up, “that's just not much consolation at all.”

“All right,” said Horatio. “Let's go over every single item we recovered from the balloon. Flight manual.”

Calleigh nodded. “Check.”

“Water bottle.”

“Right here, and containing approximately half a liter of water. Tested clean.”

“One pair Nomex gloves.”

“Got them. Epithelials inside match the vic.”

“One Zippo lighter.”

“Yes. Prints on it a match to the vic.”

“Brunton wind speed and temperature meter.”

“Got it.”

“One length of nylon rope, approximately one hundred feet, with attached carabiners.”

“Yep.”

“One Suunto aluminum optical sighting compass.”

“Uh-huh.”

“One small instrument pouch with Velcro seal.”

“Yes.”

“And one suicide note, of dubious origin.”

Calleigh nodded. “You know, balloonists are supposed to keep a flight log—but Breakwash's is missing.”

Horatio examined the compass closely. “Yes, I noticed that. I assume that's because the actual location of Rodriguo's plane is in it—which means Breakwash would have kept it someplace safe. Someplace he didn't share with his partner…or his wife.”

Calleigh picked up the photos of the basket she'd taken before the FAA hauled the balloon away. “I've been studying these pictures. Look at the spatter pattern on the edge of the basket and the frame of the gas burner.”

Horatio took the pictures from her. “Consistent with Breakwash being shot in the head while in a standing position.”

“I know—it's frustrating. I'm beginning to think we need to take a second look at the balloon itself.”

“The FAA isn't ready to release it yet. But I still think there's something we're missing here…”