Head Shot (17 page)

'She's been eliminated as a possibility, I take it?'

'Yes she has, completely. We did consider that possibility, don't worry, but the autopsy ruled that out straight away. The knife wound in the victim's head was five inches deep. It went clear through his brain; if the blade had been any longer it would have come out the other side of the skul . That was a hellish powerful blow, Mr Skinner. She couldn't have done it.'

'Did the pathologist give you a picture of the person who did?'

'Yes. A right-handed man, he said; probably as tall as the victim, and he was six one. Mrs Wilkins is five two; we're looking for a big guy, not a little woman.'

'Granted,' the DCC agreed. 'How about location? Where did the attack happen?'

'In the victim's den; his study, I suppose you'd call it in England.'

Skinner smiled. 'I wouldn't cal it anything in England, Chief; I'm a Scot, remember. I know what a den is; I know also from my father-in law that quite often it's in converted cellar space. Was that the case here?'

'Yes, it was. It's accessed by a door off the hall leading to a flight of stairs.'

'Apart from the items you described, what else was taken from the house?'

Skinner saw the frown gather on Polhaus' broad face. 'Nothing, according to Mrs Wilkins.'

'What else was disturbed?'

'Nothing, but so what? Our theory is that the guy broke in, started his search in the den and was disturbed by the victim. He kil ed him, grabbed what he could, and ran for it. There was a home gym next door and a shower-room beyond that. Maybe Wilkins was taking a leak and came back in.'

'I don't deal in maybes. When you found him, were his pants wet?'

'Excuse me?'

'Did he void his bladder when he was stabbed?'

'I dunno. Gordon?'

Sumner nodded. 'Yes, sir, as I recal he did.'

'In that case he hadn't just taken a piss.'

The visiting detective looked from one of his hosts to the other. 'What forensic samples have you recovered from the scene?'

'None that have significance,' the Lieutenant answered. 'We've identified every print we found in the house; no wild ones left.'

'Fibres?'

'Nothing out of place.'

'Dirt from footwear?'

'None that we found.'

Skinner's right eyebrow rose, almost theatrically. 'Come on, gentlemen,'

he exclaimed. 'The intruder comes through a door, which Mrs Wilkins said she locked, without leaving a trace. He comes straight down here and kills his victim, then leaves without disturbing anything in the house, without leaving a single print, or shedding a single body hair.

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'Fine, he takes the dead man's wallet and jewellery, his laptop, and a clock off his desk. But none of the credit cards ... I don't even bother asking the question because I know the answer . . . have been used, and none of the other items have been offered for sale to any pawnshop or known fence in the massive and great state of Montana. You guys have been close up to this investigation; I understand that and I respect it. But now, take a step back from it, look at those circumstances and tel me what you see.'

Polhaus looked at Sumner, then back at Skinner. He sighed, heavily.

'I'll admit it; there was something about this investigation that didn't sit right, almost from the start, but out here we don't have much experience of burglary homicides. Like I said back then, we welcome your input.'

'No one has much experience of burglary homicide, Chief,' said Doherty, gently. 'Even in the cities it's a relatively unusual type of felony. We're here because of three incidents within a two-week period, and this is one of them: three retired lawyers, with career histories going

back to Washington in the sixties.

'Tell me, was Mr Wilkins active in Democrat politics in Helena?'

Polhaus laughed, unexpectedly. 'Sir, this is Montana. There ain't too many active Democrats out here. Sure, I knew that Bart was on that side, but it was in his past. You're not suggesting that's what got him killed, are you?'

'To be frank, Chief, we don't know for sure, but at this point we are not ruling out any connection. Past involvement in Democrat politics is one of the factors linking the three homicide victims. But let's go back there; you said you knew Mr Wilkins.'

The big investigator nodded. 'Sure I did, and so did Gordon here. We both have kids in junior high school; they have a football team . . . touch footbal only at their age, you understand . . . and Bart was one of the coaches. Football was his main interest in life, apart from politics and the law. I guess he was a pretty good player in his youth; you have to be, if you're a first-string line-backer for Notre Dame.'

Doherty was impressed, instantly. 'He played for the Fighting Irish?'

'Yes, sir; class of fifty-three. He had pro offers, he said, but he turned them down, and went on to Yale law school instead.'

'Mr Grace was at Yale, wasn't he?' the FBI man asked the Scot.

'Yes, but before fifty-three. He was back from Korea by then and starting out in practice.'

Skinner looked at Polhaus. 'Did you play at col ege?'

'I wish. I was good enough for high school, but I didn't make the team when I stepped up; too slow, the coaches said . . ; and they were right.'

'Did Mr Wilkins talk much about those days?'

'College?'

'Well, yes, but afterwards too. Did he ever talk about his early career; his Washington days?'

'Not much. He told me once that his father sent him there to gain work experience outside Chicago. His law firm was founded by his grandfather and his great-uncle; Wilkins, Schwartz, Wilkins, it was called, at the beginning at least. There never was a Schwartz, though; the two

brothers added the name on for, let's say, commercial reasons. They wanted the Jewish business as wel as the Irish.'

The DCC nodded. 'I've come across that one before.'

'For the last eighty years, though,' Polhaus continued, 'itybeen Wilkins, Schwartz, Wilkins and Fellini. The Italian bit was for real; Bart said that the original Mr Fellini was made a partner in the early twenties, when they saw the way things were going in Chicago. They couldn't pul the same trick with the Italians; for one thing, a lot of them would only speak their native language when doing business.'

'Are you saying the practice was Mob-connected?'

'No, and Bart never did either. But you're a smart man, Mr Skinner; you'll realise that back in the Roaring Twenties, in Chicago, it was bound to be.'

'And is it still?'

It was Joe Doherty who answered. 'No,' he said, emphatical y. 'That was one of the first things I checked out when we became aware of the possible link between these three killings. The Bureau maintains a continuous investigation of organised crime in this country. We know just about al of the law firms who deal with the Mob, knowingly; Mr Wilkins' firm isn't on that list, nor is Grace, McLean, Wylie, Whyte and Oakdale, Mr Grace's firm, nor Gregory, Mozlowski and Harold, the former practice of Sander Garrett. These days, at least, they're all clean. . . although so much hot money is re-invested these days in legitimate business that it's possible to be connected without even knowing it.'

'That's true in Europe as well,' Skinner admitted. 'The Mafia investigations in Italy have thrown up plenty of names in other countries, the UK among them, who connect up to other things.'

'I guess we're best off out here in the wilderness. Tad,' said Sumner.

'There is no wilderness any more, pal. I know a man, an American, 116

who owns a large piece of Scotland, where few people, even tourists, ever go. He's officially legitimate, but still, his FBI file reads like a novel; I know in my heart that he was behind a major crime on my patch, but I'll never prove it because we killed the people who carried it out.

'You've got a nice little city here, in the heart of a spectacular state, but make no mistake ... the world is coming to get you. Now,' he said

sharply 'Back to the crime scene. Did Mr Wilkins keep any business papers?'

'There was a filing cabinet in his den,' said the State Bureau Chief.

'But we didn't check its contents. I reckon we better had now.'

'I reckon,' agreed Skinner. 'Come on, let's do it now.'

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He could see as soon as he walked through the door that she was having a bad day; frown lines showed on her forehead, and her hair, which was normal y perfectly arranged, was ruffled.

Mario braced himself for the outburst. 'You would think that in this day and age, cash payrol s would be a thing of the past; but no such Honest to God, some of our employers are still stuck in a time-warp.

'We advise them, we warn them, we plead with them, and do they take a blind bit of notice? Do they hell as like!'

Maggie frowned at him. 'And you can wipe the daft bloody smile off your face. You won't be grinning when you have an armed hold-up in the

middle of your division ... as you wil , sooner or later.'

'Anyone hurt?' he asked at once.

'No, thank goodness. They waved shotguns around, but no shots were fired.'

'Where was it?'

'At that massive private housing development up near Myreside; three guys sat round the corner in a battered old Ford, watched the cash drop off, then just moved in and picked it up. They drove off with twenty-two thousand pounds. We found the car a mile away.'

'Who were they this time?'

She caught his meaning at once. 'Tony Blair, George Dubya Bush and Lennox Lewis.'

'Check the toyshops; maybe whoever bought them used a credit card.'

'Teach Nana Viareggio, McGuire; that's already being done. As it happens, we found a school-patrol woman who saw them change cars; she told us that they headed east in a dark blue Peugeot saloon, plus she gave us a pretty good description of one of them. He's medium height, she said, with grey hair, a broken nose, and a birthmark on his cheek.'

'Bluey Scott to the life.'

'That's what I reckoned; I've sent Ray Wilding and a DC round to his house, with an armed response team because there were firearms involved.'

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'I wonder which one he was?'

'Lennox Lewis, I'll bet. He used to be a heavyweight boxer, after all.'

'No, dear, he used to be an opponent. They took his licence away in the end. I saw him in the ring, twice; the two fights lasted a total of five rounds and Bluey was knocked down a total of seven times.'

'That could happen again, if he's stil got the shotgun.'

'Nah,' McGuire drawled, 'Bluey won't give them any trouble. He might be punchy, but he's not suicidal. I lifted him once myself, and he came along quietly enough.'

'You're more scary than Wilding.'

'I'm not more scary than a Heckler and Koch carbine, though.'

'Let's hope so. There's always hell to pay when a police officer shoots a suspect.'

'Especially if he's carrying a table leg at the time, and he's on his way home from hospital.'

'Let's not go into that,' she said, ending the discussion. 'Now, get to the point. What's brought you here? If you thought you'd pick me up so I could get ready for Andy's do, I'l be a while yet. It's barely gone five.'

Her husband shook his head. 'No, it isn't that. Sit down for a minute, will you.'

'Why?' She threw him a puzzled look, but did as he said.

'It's about your father.'

'I told you, Mario,' she blurted out, urgently. 'I don't want to know.'

'Yes, but you have to; as a police officer.'

'What do you mean? Has he been up to ... Has he committed a crime?'

'Not lately, not one that I know of, at any rate. But he may just be a victim of one.' He told her about his discovery of her father's new identity and of his fruitless search for him.

'You're saying that my father's a missing person?' she asked. 'If you are, he can bloody well stay lost. That would be best all round, in fact.

Jesus Christ, what sort of background checks does the education authority run on the people it employs to work with children?'

'Very careful checks,' he answered quietly. 'And in this case, what could it possibly have thrown up? Your father might be the worst sort of beast, but the fact is, he's never even been charged with anything, far less prosecuted, far less convicted. To everyone but you and your sister, he's clean.'

'There's been no trouble at the school?'

'None to speak of; certainly none of the sort you mean.'

'And you say he's just vanished?'

'That's how it looks.' He told her again about the scraps of supper and the Sunday newspaper that he had found in his flat. 'He's a missing person, love. You have to treat him as such.'

'But who's missing him?'

'His employer, for a start. And I am too. I want to find this man, to make bloody sure that he stays out of your life; our lives.'

'Mario, he probably has no idea where I am, or what I am.'

'Don't you kid yourself. He reads the tabloids.' He told her about the press cutting in Rosewell's sideboard; reading surprise and pain in her face.

'All right,' she conceded at last. 'I'll circulate his details roiAall the divisions and enter him on the national register.'

'In that case, you'l need this.' He took the photograph from his pocket and handed it to her.

It took a great effort of will by Maggie before she could look at the likeness of her father. Yet when she did, to her great surprise she felt nothing; his was just another face, just another of the many that had lain on the same desk. Some of those had been missing, as he was now, others had been dead, victims ... as she had been, and in her mind, stil was ... while others had been criminals. George Rosewell fitted two of those categories; and for all she knew, perhaps he belonged in the third as well.

She looked at the photograph again. There was a familiarity about it... on occasion, the man still appeared in her nightmares . .. but that was al . She laid it on the desk, face down. 'Okay,' she said. 'I'l see about having it circulated. If he turns up ... well, let's just hope it's after Manny English comes back.'

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If Doherty and Skinner had driven around eight hundred miles down Interstate Fifteen from Helena, Montana, down across Idaho and on south, through Salt Lake City, and St George, Utah, skirting Arizona and into southern Nevada, they would have come to Las Vegas.