Where the Evidence Lies Page 2

  Where the evidence lies…

  Then his expression grew glum. A fierce downpour started once more. Gusts of wind. Then, insultingly, hail. “Goddammit. I think we’ve found a situation where Locard’s principle doesn’t apply, Sachs.”

  The French criminalist Locard posited that at every crime there was a transfer of evidence from criminal to scene of the crime or victim, and vice versa. If one worked hard enough and was clever enough, a forensic cop could find that connection. Locard, apparently, never had to deal with a Florida fence-raising storm.

  “I need some facts before I start the interview, Detective,” Rhyme said. “What was the orientation of the plane?”

  “The nose was there.” He was pointing. “Tail there.”

  The plane had been parked parallel to the hangar, about thirty feet away. The nose was to the left, tail right.

  The detective continued, “So you’ll tell them you suspect Cable slipped around to the far side of the plane, planted the IED, and then kept on his rounds?”

  “I’ll hint at it.” A flash of light caught his eye. Rhyme looked through the rain and mist across the street.

  “Sachs, while I talk to the employees, you go check out those buildings.” He’d noted some glass-façade structures, an office complex. “A Burger King, too. And a diner. See if there were any witnesses there when the plane was parked on the tarmac—or better yet, video cameras.”

  “Okay. I’ll go see.” Sachs walked out of the hangar, jogged through the rain, and climbed into the van. The vehicle rocked over the tarmac, buffeted by the wind, toward the exit.

  “Where can I talk to them?”

  “There? The corner of the hangar?”

  Rhyme wheeled back into a small, windowless office in the back of the hangar.

  His reaction to handling an evidence-free case had at first been dismay and then amusement, but now something within him was eager to try policing skills he hadn’t used for a long, long time.

  Detective Gillette went to summon the first employee.

  Then, reminding himself he was about to become an interrogator, Lincoln Rhyme decided he better come up with a few questions.

  Anita Sanchez was a businesslike woman in her forties. She had short dark hair and a dark complexion, and wore bright red lipstick. Her suit was conservative, navy blue over a white blouse. On the lapel was a silver pin of eagle wings.

  She sat across from Rhyme at a desk and seemed uneasy, but no more uneasy than he’d expect under these circumstances—especially considering Rhyme’s condition. The wheelchair, a complex, motorized model, was an attention getter. She wanted to look at it but seemed afraid that would be impolite.

  Rhyme asked some neutral questions, then: “Did you notice if Deputy Cable went toward the rear of the airplane at any time on his rounds?”

  “Deputy Cable?”

  “That’s right.”

  “He seems like such a nice guy. Do you suspect him?” She looked down at the digital recorder.

  “We’re just getting facts.” He repeated: “Did you see him around the wings or engines of the airplane at any time?”

  “I’m sorry, Officer ... Mr. Rhyme. I was in my office the whole time, and you can’t see the tarmac from where I was.”

  “The whole time?” He asked this because it seemed she’d emphasized the word.

  Sanchez added quickly, as if Rhyme had known the truth, “Now that I think about it, I did go outside once. But I went to my car in the lot. That’s the other direction from the jet. It was behind me, so even if the deputy was there, I didn’t see it.”

  He asked other questions about Cable and if she’d seen anyone else on the property, other than the two other employees, even if the cameras showed that no one else entered the FBO’s area. The responses were short—she didn’t ramble or volunteer information.

  Rhyme had a friend, Kathryn Dance, who was an agent with the California Bureau of Investigation. She specialized in using kinesics—body language analysis—in interrogating suspects and witnesses, and he’d formed a grudging respect for the art by watching her in action. One thing he’d learned was when suspects rambled and offered details it was more likely that they were nervous, which meant they might be deceptive.

  His take on Sanchez was that she was probably telling the truth and her demeanor didn’t suggest guilt.

  After she left, Detective Gillette brought Mark Clinton into the hangar. In blue jeans and a dusty gray workshirt, the lean man, his beard slightly yellow from chewing tobacco, looked everywhere but at Rhyme as he sat down.

  Rhyme began with some preliminaries. Had he known Nash, did he know anybody who wanted to harm him?

  He answered negative to all of those. He swallowed frequently and his fingers were twitchy, not necessarily signs of being deceptive, but of simple nervousness.

  Finally, Rhyme steered the question around to Cable. Had he seen the deputy near the airplane? Especially the back?

  “When would that have been?”

  “Around nine thirty yesterday.”

  “Oh, I was working in here then, but I didn’t see anything. I mean, I couldn’t. There was too much glare from the sun if you looked out of the hangar door.”

  He asked more questions, but Clinton kept referring to his hampered vision.

  Rhyme had to admit that blindness—whatever the cause—was a pretty good out for a witness, or a suspect.

  Using his good arm, Rhyme reached forward and paused the recorder. “All right. Thanks.”

  The mechanic stood, wiped his hands on his jeans, and followed the officer out of the hangar. Gillette returned a few minutes later with a heavyset man in brown overalls and a baseball cap, under which sprouted masses of curly brown hair flecked with gray.

  More preliminary questions, which Joey Wilson responded to with a helpful attitude.

  Then Rhyme asked if he’d seen Cable near the airplane.

  “Umm, I think I did.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t recall. I was headed to the lunchroom. For some breakfast. Ha. ‘Lunch’ room for breakfast. That’s funny.”

  “You didn’t see him while you were refueling?”

  “Oh, I didn’t tank him up…Mr. Nash, I mean.”

  “You didn’t refuel the plane?”

  Wilson looked up from the floor. “No, see, he wasn’t scheduled for it. That jet of his can go two thousand miles on a tank. The more you carry—the more gas, I mean—the heavier it is and the worse the mileage. Best to fly with as little juice as you can. Mr. Nash’d refuel in Brazil. I remember one guy one time was flying a Cessna Citation—now, that is a fine airplane. You ever been in one? No, well, it’s a superb piece of aviation machinery and he lands with about a hundred gallons left, you believe it? He was trying to save the money on fuel! He’s flying a two-million-dollar aircraft and scrimping on the Shell.”

  “Just to confirm, you saw Deputy Cable near the plane.”

  “I’m pretty sure. Couldn’t swear to it. Say, seventy percent sure. No, fifty-five.”

  “Thanks for your cooperation.”

  The man gave another look at the wheelchair and then headed off.

  Rhyme and Gillette were about to go over the man’s performance when Sachs returned shortly later. “Got some finds, Rhyme.”

  “A picture of somebody with a moustache and a black top hat filling a bowling-ball bomb with gunpowder and sticking a fuse in it?”

  “Not quite so good, but close.”

  “And?”

  “Some video. From one of the office buildings.”

  “You got it that fast?” Rhyme asked.

  “I was persuasive,” Sachs said. “Well, threatening really.”

  “Want to review it?” Gillette asked.

  “Please.”

  He loaded the card into his computer and began playing the video. As they watched, Rhyme told Sachs what he’d learned—a synopsis of the three suspects’ stories.

  You couldn’t—naturally—see the airplan
e, but you could get a good image of the office door of the Southern Flight Services company. There was motion. “Look.”

  The door of the FBO was opening and Anita Sanchez was walking outside.

  She turned and disappeared off camera.

  “Ha,” Gillette said.

  Anita Sanchez was walking to the left. Exactly the opposite of the way she said she’d turned.

  Rhyme said, “So she was lying. She did walk toward the plane.”

  “Was she carrying anything?” Gillette asked.

  It was hard to see, given the bad quality of the image. She might have been holding a purse. Or maybe a small package containing C4 explosive.

  Ah, interesting. Rhyme was beginning to think this interrogation business had something to it.

  Gillette said, “It’s probably not enough to bring her in.”

  “But we could get a warrant to listen in to her conversations. Maybe poke around in her office,” Sachs said.

  “Sure, I’ll put that together.” He pulled out his cell phone.

  Then Rhyme cocked his head. “Dammit.”

  “What, Rhyme?”

  “G-nissap sert on.”

  “What?” Gillette asked, pausing with the phone in his hand.

  Then Sachs was nodding. “Just caught it, Rhyme.”

  He told the detective, “Look at the upper-right-hand corner.”

  “That sign?”

  “Right.”

  “What about—? Oh, it’s backwards.”

  GNISSAPSERT ON ... NO TRESPASSING

  Gillette was chuckling.

  Rhyme, though, was not amused. “That’s why the image was so dim. It was a reflection.”

  Sachs said, “The camera must’ve been pointed at the window of one of the office buildings. The glass façade was like a mirror. It looked like Sanchez turned toward the plane. Actually she turned away from it. Just like she said. She was telling the truth.”

  “Almost as bad as witnesses, goddamn videos. Hell.” He actually felt betrayed by the one forensic clue they had.

  “She’s innocent,” the detective said.

  “Not innocent,” Rhyme corrected. “We just didn’t catch her up with that lie.” He shrugged. “And there’s nothing else in her interview to implicate her.”

  “What about the mechanic?” Sachs asked. “What’s his name again?”

  “Mark Clinton.”

  “Right.”

  “You can’t catch somebody lying if they don’t tell you anything. He was sun blinded.”

  “Was it sunny?” Sachs asked. “There was that terrible storm yesterday.”

  Gillette said, “Clear blue skies until about ten. Then the storm came in. Yep, he’s telling the truth, too.”

  Rhyme, though, said, “Or maybe not.” He was studying the hangar door.

  “How do you mean, Lincoln?”

  “The ocean’s behind us?”

  “That’s right.”

  “East.”

  Gillette said, “Son of a gun. Right. The hangar opens to the west. At nine in the morning, nobody in here would see any sun at all. The light was coming from the opposite direction.”

  “Okay, so he was lying.”

  “But what’s his motive for lying?” the detective asked. “He was just saying he didn’t see anything.”

  “That’s not important,” Rhyme reminded. “All we need to do is find deception and then start wearing him down.”

  “So, should we get that warrant?” Gillette asked.

  “I’d say ...” Rhyme’s voice fell silent. He was looking out on the tarmac. “I’d say wait a minute. Get him back in here.”

  “Clinton?”

  Rhyme’s taut smile said, Who else?

  A few minutes later the man was in the hangar once more. Rhyme looked him over with a curious expression. “We’re just trying to figure out exactly where the plane was parked and hoped you could help us with that. I know there was glare, but you had a sense of the plane’s position, right? Because the sun was bouncing off the windows.”

  “Not so much the windows, but the fuselage itself. It was silver, you know. Not white, like most of the private jets.”

  “Silver, hmm. Must’ve been some glare.”

  “Always happens when the pilots park that way, you know, parallel to the hangar. We oughta put a door in but, being Florida, it’s not worth the expense. We’d use it twice a year. But where those chocks are, yeah, that was pretty much where the aircraft was.”

  “All right. Thanks.”

  After he’d gone, Rhyme gave a cynical laugh. “Another reflection issue. See why we can’t trust our senses?”

  “So he’s innocent.…Sorry, Lincoln. What I meant to say was he may be guilty as sin, but we didn’t catch him there.”

  Rhyme grunted. The allure of interrogation was wearing off fast. He was reminded of why he believed evidence was the cornerstone of investigations.

  “How about the last suspect?”

  “The refueler. Joey Wilson.”

  Rhyme thought back to that interrogation. “He’s the one who most seemed to be lying. Maybe it’s just an impression, but that was the sense I had. He was rambling. He seemed evasive.…Ah, but maybe there is something here. He said he thought he saw that deputy near the airplane, right?”

  “Thought so. Couldn’t swear to it.”

  “But Cable wasn’t near the plane,” Sachs pointed out.

  “Nope. His rounds take him around the buildings and the gas pumps.”

  Rhyme was nodding. “And how did he know Nash was going to Brazil? If he didn’t refuel the plane, there’d be no reason to know the flight plan. Let’s get Wilson in here again, talk to him again. Put some more pressure on.” It seemed like a futile idea but Rhyme had no other ideas.

  “I’ll go get him,” the detective said. And strode through the rain toward where Wilson was parking his fuel truck, which apparently he’d just replenished. Rhyme saw the man glance Gillette’s way and then, pretending he hadn’t seen the detective’s wave, walk fast to a battered Honda Accord, jump in, and speed away.

  “He’s rabbiting,” Sachs said. She instinctively glanced at the only wheels available to her here—the van. Sachs loved cars. She worked on them, rebuilt parts, and drove like lightning. But she wasn’t going to be doing any high-speed chases in an accessible van.

  Not that it mattered. Detective Gillette was pretty good at the wheel himself. He was in the driver’s seat of his car in five seconds and, with the lights and siren going, he sped forward. The big Chrysler skidded once, but he kept it from careening into the fuel truck and instead spun around it. Then he blew through the gate and disappeared onto the main highway.

  An hour later Detective Gillette led a handcuffed Joey Wilson into the hangar.

  He directed the refueling man into an orange fiberglass chair and helped him sit. None too gently, Rhyme observed, thinking it must have been a harrowing, if short, chase.

  “What’s the story?” Rhyme asked.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Please. “Why’d you run?”

  “I wasn’t running. I just wanted to get home and close up my windows. Because of the storm. I forgot about them.”

  Rhyme said, “You were lying to us. You did go out to the plane.”

  “Maybe I did.”

  “When?”

  “Maybe eight thirty, a little later.”

  “To plant a bomb in Nash’s plane.”

  “No!”

  “But you didn’t refuel the plane. We can check the logs.”

  The man grumbled, “I told you no.”

  “Perhaps an attitude is not what we need now. What did you go out to the plane for?”

  But just that moment the answer came via a phone call. Gillette spoke for a few minutes and then hung up. He grinned as he looked over Wilson. “The crime scene people just went over your car.”

  “Oh, hell.”

  “And guess what they found?”

  “I don’t know.�
�

  “A kilo of very high-quality pot.”

  “I don’t know anything about that!”

  “Not even how it ended up in your spare tire?”

  Wilson closed his eyes.

  Rhyme said, “That’s why you were out at the plane, Joey, right? You didn’t plant any bombs; you were getting a delivery.”

  “I swear…I didn’t kill him. But I lied about going to the airplane. I did, sure.”

  “Because you’ve got a network of people who work on planes, right. They smuggle some drugs on board in equipment holds or wheel wells. That’s how you knew his flight plan.”

  The sigh said, Yep, that’s right. He muttered, “It’s not even very good shit. All this trouble and it’s lousy pot.”

  “Was Nash involved?”

  “Naw, none of the people who fly the private planes know. That’s what makes the plan work so well. See, they don’t get nervous talking to Customs.”

  This was undoubtedly true—using businessmen beyond suspicion made sense.

  Rhyme continued, “Where were the drugs?”

  “Port side. Left. An access compartment to the hydraulic system under the engine.”

  Gillette said, “Opposite of the bomb.”

  Rhyme wasn’t pleased. Had the drugs been sitting next to the bomb, there might have been a transfer if the two items had touched. But, no, this case was simply not going to be a forensic one.

  “And you didn’t see anything else?” Rhyme asked.

  “No, sir.”

  Gillette escorted him to his feet. Several other officers from the Dade County East Sheriff’s Department took him away.

  Sachs said, “Well, at least it’s clear he didn’t plant the bomb. We can believe him there.”

  Gillette nodded. “No, he’s not going to kill his golden goose.”

  “Well, on the surface, seems that those three suspects aren’t suspects after all. We’ll have to see what the NTSB says, but my conclusion from these facts is that it was an accident.” Rhyme gazed out over the tarmac. The planes seemed fragile in the wind and rain, as if the smallest of disruptions, let alone a bomb, could bring them down.

  “Can they bring up the plane eventually?” Sachs asked.

  “Five miles down?” Gillette said. “Maybe, for a few million bucks. But no police department in the world’s got that kind of money. Well, I thank you both, Lincoln and Amelia. Especially for coming out to help us on one of our oh-so-pleasant Florida days.”