To the Death am-10 Page 20

  Joe was sitting in the front hall of the hotel as the old grandfather clock struck five times. He waited patiently for five more minutes. Then ten. Then he stood up and walked to the desk and said, “Jim, old buddy, you said she was never late.”

  “Joe, old buddy,” replied the manager, “she never was. Not ’til today.”

  “I’m gonna sit here for another twenty minutes,” said the detective. “Then I have to go find her. This Carla may have been the last person not only to talk to him, but also to see him.

  “His three guys all thought he spoke to her, then drank his beer and left. Said something about going to Washington early in the morning. That was around 10:30. And before eleven o’clock, Miss Martin had packed up and left the hotel. Out the back door, directly into the parking lot where Matt’s body was found.”

  “Is she a suspect?” asked Jim.

  “She sure as hell is. But right now I personally don’t think she did it. And if she’d turned up for work on time, she wouldn’t be. Get me her phone number and address, will you?”

  Jim Caborn flipped through his card index file where he kept details and locations for all of his staff. But he was basically wasting his time. Shakira had long ago removed her card, which bore her passport number, Social Security number, reference details, and the name of her “aunt’s” village, Bowler’s Wharf. She had replaced it with a simplified one, which listed only her address — the Estuary Hotel, Brockhurst.

  Jim Caborn could not believe his eyes. He turned to Joe Segel and said, “I just cannot understand this.”

  “Understand what?”

  “I filled out a detailed card with a lot of stuff about Miss Martin, including her Social and passport numbers. I even wrote down the names, addresses, and phone numbers on her reference letters. I made a note of her aunt’s name in Bowler’s Wharf where she lived.”

  “Did you get her car registration?”

  “She never told me.”

  “Did you ask?”

  “Twice. And both times she said she’d get it and fill the card out for me. I assumed she’d done it.”

  Joe Segel’s hackles were up and bristling. “I’m not being critical, Jim. Believe me. But I want to get this very clear. This girl gets a job here when?”

  “Couple of weeks ago.”

  “Okay, and you’re sure you filled out that card?”

  “’Course I’m sure. I’ve done it for everyone who’s ever worked here. Both her references were from London, England.”

  “Okay. So here we have Little Miss Nobody. She destroys all her records, right here in this hotel. She writes out an address for your file, where she does not live. Someone gets murdered, an obvious sex crime, and Little Miss Nobody vanishes off the face of the earth.

  “How old was she?”

  “Now that I can recall. She was thirty. I remember looking at her birth date on her passport. It was May 1982. You know how I remember?”

  “Lay it on me.”

  “I graduated from college that month. But wait a minute, Joe. wait a minute. She said she was living with this aunt in Bowler’s Wharf. I think she said her name was Leno. Jean Leno. I remember. It reminded me of the Tonight Show.”

  “Jim, let me tell you something. This lady went to a whole hell of a lot of trouble to brush away her footprints. Five dollars gets you a hundred if we find a Jean Leno in Bowler’s Wharf.”

  “That’s a bet I’m not taking. Not now.”

  “Was this Carla good-looking?”

  “She never made much effort, but anyone would consider her really beautiful. Dark-skinned, black hair, slim with amazingly long legs. A lot of the guys could hardly take their eyes off her.”

  “How about Matt?”

  “Especially Matt.”

  Detective Segel looked up. “Did she go out with him?”

  “I don’t think so. I heard a couple of the guys joshing him a few days ago. You know, saying it was sad, a man of his stature getting blown off by the barmaid. So I guess she refused to go out with him.”

  “Look, Jim, I’ve known Matt for years,” said Joe. “So have you. But I’ve learned you never really know everything about a person. You don’t think Matt attacked her, do you? Or tried to? And Miss Martin stabbed him to fend him off.”

  “Matt!” The hotel manager was incredulous. “Hell, no. There wasn’t a shred of malice in him. He was a big soft puppy.”

  “It might seem that way,” said Joe. “But he didn’t get that Porsche by being a big soft puppy.”

  “He probably hadn’t paid for it,” chuckled Jim Caborn.

  “Yes, he had.”

  “How do you know?”

  “We checked. This morning.”

  “So where does that leave us?”

  “It leaves us with one very large missing piece. Because everything any detective could want to find out about Matt Barker is right there on the table. We know his friends, his acquaintances, his customers, his relatives. I doubt there’s a suspect among them. They all live right around here.”

  “And Carla’s the missing piece?”

  “She sure as hell is. And what, Jim Caborn, was said by the greatest detective who ever lived?”

  “You got me.”

  “When you have eliminated the impossible, only the truth remains. Sherlock Holmes.”

  “So what happens now? A nationwide manhunt for my barmaid?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. But we sure as hell need to find her. And I’ve got a real strong feeling the lady ain’t coming to work.”

  2225 (local) Tuesday Shannon, Southern Ireland

  The Aer Lingus Airbus had completed its short stopover in the sprawling international airport of Shannon, which was for many years the first transatlantic refueling stop for every passenger aircraft incoming to Europe from the United States and Canada.

  Even today it’s a favorite departure point for thousands of Americans wishing to visit Ireland’s great southwestern beauty spots — the Ring of Kerry, the Lakes of Killarney, and the coastline of West Cork. Which is why Aer Lingus flights from the United States stop there every day on the way to Dublin. And why an exhausted Shakira Rashood was sitting by the starboard-side window, almost alone, in first class, as the half-empty aircraft taxied to the end of the dark Shannon runway.

  She glanced at her watch, which was still on American time, five hours back. “Twenty-five minutes late for work,” she murmured. “I wonder if they’ve missed me yet.”

  The wind was gusting out of the southwest tonight, directly off the Atlantic, and they took off in that direction. The lightly loaded Airbus climbed steeply away from the airport peninsula at the head of the Shannon estuary and swung hard right over Ireland’s greatest river.

  It was just a short twenty-minute flight to Dublin, straight across the lonely heart of the Emerald Isle. They would scarcely fly over any towns. After crossing Lough Derg, their route would take them only above an endless dark green patchwork of fields.

  Shakira was awakened after perhaps ten minutes of sleep, when the captain told the passengers he was beginning the descent into Dublin airport. Eight minutes later, they were on the ground. And Shakira’s nerves began to tighten.

  As a first-class passenger, she was among the first to disembark from the aircraft, and she walked briskly to the passport control booth. There were only two officers on duty, and both of them gave the impression they could think of better things to do at this late hour on a Tuesday evening.

  She handed over her perfectly forged copy of Maureen Carson’s passport. The officer opened it and put a large green port-of-entry stamp on one of the pages. He looked at her, smiled broadly, and said, “Welcome to Ireland. Have a nice stay here.” Shakira wondered whether he said that to everyone, and decided, on reflection, he probably did. As usual, she tried not to think of these people as part of the Great Satan.

  The baggage area was quiet, and she walked through the green nothing-to-declare area, which was totally deserted. She did think this was str
ange, not being attuned, as yet, to that crystal-clear Irish logic, which reasoned: Now, what would be the point of putting a customs team in there when no one has anything to declare?

  Shakira climbed into a taxi and asked the driver to take her to the Shelbourne Hotel. However, when they arrived in St. Stephen’s Green half an hour later, she realized she had no Irish currency. No euros. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “Please wait. I expect the hotel will change me some American dollars.”

  “Ah, Jesus,” he said, “don’t be worrying yourself. I’ll take ’em — it’s twenty-eight euros. The dollar’s about one and a half. Say forty-two bucks.”

  Shakira gave him a $50 bill and said, “Keep the change, and thank you.”

  “Ah, you’re a Christian,” he replied in the Irish idiom, grinning broadly, delighted with his tip, and certainly not realizing how utterly wrong was his statement.

  The doorman took her bag, and she checked in. The Shelbourne is an innately Irish hotel, its bars the favorite watering holes for generations of Dublin’s scholars, poets, and businessmen, from Brendan Behan on down. They mostly don’t have any nonsense with passports, especially for their American clients.

  And they never even asked for Shakira’s. “Just a quick swipe of your American Express card, and it’s fine,” said the desk clerk. “Niall, over there, will take your bag up, room 250, enjoy your stay. Anything you need, just pick up the phone.”

  No, it couldn’t be possible. These cheerful, welcoming people could not be part of the Great Satan’s world domination. She would forbid Ravi and his men to make any kind of attack on any Irishmen, anywhere.

  She unpacked some of her suitcase and hung a few things up. Then she took a long, luxurious bath in deep fragrant water and climbed gratefully into bed. Shakira had had little sleep, indeed she had not even been in a bed since eight o’clock on Monday morning. And now it was midnight Tuesday.

  She relaxed on her pillow, worked out that it was 7 P.M. in Brockhurst, Virginia. They’ve probably missed me by now, she thought. But I still doubt they’ll connect me with the death of Matt Barker.

  Like the cab driver’s, that was another truly astounding misjudgment.

  1900 Same Day Bowler’s Wharf, Virginia

  Four state police cruisers were parked on the main street of the little village on the banks of the Rappahannock. House by house, the troopers banged on doors, asked if there was a Mrs. Jean Leno in residence, asking if anyone knew of a Jean Leno in residence, finally asking if anyone had ever even heard of a Jean Leno in all of their lives.

  The answer was negative, to all three questions. Jim Caborn’s shrewd decision not to risk his five dollars betting with Joe Segel was looking better by the minute. The troopers’ secondary question was whether a very beautiful woman, in her late twenties, name of Carla Martin, had been living in the village for the past couple of weeks, going to work in a small car in the late afternoon.

  That last one elicited a veritable salvo of completely blank stares. No Jean. No Carla. No luck. The young lady had flown the coop. Detective Segel had a photo-artist identity kit prepared by two police artists, who were guided by Jim Caborn and one of Matt Barker’s buddies. And, in truth, they came up with a pretty fair likeness of Shakira Rashood.

  Segel ordered hundreds of “wanted” posters to be distributed all over the area. Hell, someone must have seen her. No one can just disappear off the face of the earth. And what I really need to know is where did she live. She must have lived somewhere. And somewhere close. And someone must have seen her.

  At 7:30 P.M., he held a press conference at the Brockhurst Police Department, having tempted the broadcasters and journalists by announcing that the police were treating the death of a local man, Mr. Matt Barker, as murder.

  This is not absolutely unusual when a body is found with a dagger jutting out of its chest. But the word “murder” has a shock-value ring to it, particularly when the media does not even realize there has been a death, never mind a homicide.

  Detective Segel had deliberately withheld the announcement all through the day, since he did not want small afternoon newspapers running away with the story. He wanted blanket coverage, big dailies, network newscasts, wall-to-wall radio bulletins. Lights, cameras, music. Detective Segel wanted The Big Show. Because he believed that was the way to nail Miss Carla Martin. He believed someone would come forward with information about the vanishing Estuary Killer.

  His judgment in the first part was excellent. The idea of a middle-class, well-to-do, Porsche-driving proprietor of a garage being stabbed to death in the parking lot of the local hotel was very appealing to those who essentially make a lavish living out of other people’s misfortunes.

  And journalists drew a careful bead on the tiny township of Brockhurst. The first to arrive were the camera crews and presenters from the big 24-hour news networks, CNN and Fox. Both of them have running news programs, all day and night; and a story like this, a classic whodunnit, would keep them topical for at least two days, maybe four.

  Reporters from the three main Washington newspapers, the Post, the Star, and the Journal, came down in a shared helicopter. CBS thought it worthwhile to send a full camera crew down, plus presenters, in a truck the size of the Pentagon.

  NBC thought it was a good story, but was happy to rely on stringers and a local camera crew. ABC sent no one, but E-mailed a local reporter and told him to keep them posted. The newspapers from Richmond and Norfolk, both situated around fifty miles from Brockhurst, sent in reporters and photographers.

  And there were about a dozen representatives from local weeklies based around the Rappahannock River and Chesapeake Bay area. And the same number of radio reporters, five of them local and five down from Washington. It was, without doubt, the biggest assembly of media personnel ever seen in Brockhurst. The whole town was talking about it, and, within a couple of hours, the name Matt Barker would be heard more often than that of the President of the United States. There’s one thing about meeting a violent death. It really gets your name out there.

  Detective Joe Segel started the proceedings by announcing the fact that Mr. Matthew Barker, a well-known member of the local community for many years, had been found dead outside the Estuary Hotel this morning. He was thirty-four. A jeweled dagger was protruding from his chest. It had been driven into his heart, right up to the hilt, and death had occurred at around midnight.

  He added that no one had been arrested, but that a friend of Mr. Barker’s, the barmaid at the Estuary Hotel, Miss Carla Martin, was almost certainly the last person to see him alive, and had mysteriously vanished.

  There was available to the media an excellent identity-kit picture, a very close likeness of Carla, which reporters could pick up from the table at the back of the room. Before taking any questions, Detective Joe Segel said, “We are extremely interested in speaking to this lady, because we believe she may be able to assist us with our inquiries.”

  Does this mean we got a murder hunt right here?

  “Well, not precisely, because we really do not have any evidence whatsoever against Miss Carla Martin. But she was most certainly the last person seen speaking to him before he left the bar. And she may have seen him again in the parking lot of the hotel when she left. Mr. Barker’s body was found at the street end of the parking lot.”

  How long after he left did Carla exit the bar?

  “We believe twenty minutes maximum.”

  Was she in love with him? You know, were they going out together?

  “So far the answer to that is a very definite no. According to his close friends, Mr. Barker had asked her out, but she always refused.”

  Where did Carla live? In the hotel?

  “Good question. She did not live in the hotel, and it appears that she removed her identity card from the manager’s file. We thus have absolutely no idea where she lived. But it must have been quite near. She came to work every day, right?”

  When did she quit her job?

  “She ne
ver did. She just failed to show up today. She was due to start at 5 P.M. What is it now? Eight o’clock? And she’s never been late before. Don’t hold your breath.”

  Pretty suspicious, right?

  “Pretty suspicious,” agreed Joe Segel. “But that does not mean she murdered him.”

  A lot of people wouldn’t agree with that. This is a murder hunt, sir. You must know that.

  “No, it’s not. She may have just fled because of something she saw out there in the parking lot and did not wish to get involved, for whatever reason. And even if she did kill him, it may have been self-defense. We don’t know that he didn’t attack her. He was a big man, and his fly was undone.”

  Jesus Christ, Joe. You mean the whole world could see his pecker?

  “Well, only the members of the world who happened to be walking past the western end of the Estuary Hotel parking lot, right after first light today.”

  You think he had tried to sexually assault Carla?

  “Well, I wouldn’t rule it out. But this entire case rests on us finding Carla Martin. And I want you to help us get that done.”

  A few members of the press corps nodded their assent and asked for more details about Matt Barker’s home and relatives. A couple of them wanted to know a lot more about the sex side of the case. And Joe told them he would be happy to see members of the media privately in his office any time during the next hour.

  He knew the value of the publicity the case would receive from this. And he knew the value of that kind of exposure. Not Matt’s kind. And he was not about to discuss the Barker Pecker again, not in front of a mixed audience.

  As it happened, there were enough journalists asking questions to keep Detective Segel busy for another hour and a half, at which point he called an end to the evening’s proceedings. He turned out his office light, locked the door, and walked briskly up the road to the Estuary Hotel for a nightcap, as he often did.

  But when he opened the front door, the journalists were packed in there, most of them staying, all of them trying to obtain interviews from locals, as they prepared to hit the world with: