Call to Treason - Tom Clancy [105]
"You mean, could it be a man dressed as a woman?"
"Yes."
"That was one of the first things I considered. I asked Detective Superintendent Daily whether Wilson's interests went in that direction.
The Yard keeps track of such things about prominent citizens because potential blackmail could adversely impact the national economy. They also do not want the crown to be embarrassed by announcing a knighthood for someone who is trafficking pornography. They insist that Wilson is heterosexual."
"Wilson may not have known his date was a man," Maria replied. "Some of the 'women' who party at Los Pantalones Para Vestir a Club, in Madrid, are extremely convincing."
"That is a possibility," her husband agreed as he glanced into the hall. Detective Howell was hovering there like a buoy in rough seas.
"Come on," he said, still holding his wife's hands. "Let's get coffee and think about a next step."
"I already have one, if you'll consider it," she said.
"I'm listening," he said as they left the office. He thanked Detective Howell and said he would be in touch.
Maria stopped before Howell returned to his office. "Detective, would we have access to your laboratory if we need it?"
"Of course." He went back to his office, wrote the number on a pad, and handed it to her.
"Thank" you," she said. She put the paper in her back pocket. "I am not sure it will be necessary, but this is good to have."
The McCaskeys walked toward the stairwell.
"What was that about?" her husband asked.
"The dress is the key," Maria said as they started down the concrete stairs to the first floor.
"I agree. That's why I sent the security camera images to designers in the area, asked if they recognized it "
"We will not learn the identity of whoever bought it," she said, shaking her head. "You said that yourself about the nail polish. What I am saying is that we need to find the dress itself."
"I have one man on that full-time. He had trash bins searched, fountains, and even a duck pond near the Hay-Adams dragged," McCaskey told her.
"It would not have been discarded," Maria said.
"How can you be sure?"
"Those were the first places you searched," Maria said. "Our assassin
"
"Is experienced," McCaskey said. "Fair assumption. Still, it might have been burned in a fireplace or stuffed in an incinerator."
"An incinerator is not a guarantee of total destruction," she said.
"But I agree that it might have been consigned to a fireplace. Who among your potential suspects has one?"
"I don't know," he said. "Even if we find out, we would need a reason to get a warrant. "They have a fireplace' is just not good enough."
"A warrant may not be necessary," she said. "We may not even have to go inside. Not yet."
"I don't follow."
"I know," she smiled. "You should learn."
"Ouch," he said.
"Let's go home," Maria said. "We will need to do a little research before going out again."
McCaskey agreed to the plan, but not just because debate would have been pointless and not because his wife was a sharp field op something exhaustion and frustration had caused him to forget. It was simple math. A woman had sent the men of Scotland Yard, Op-Center, and the Metro Police into a dark alley with no discernable exit.
Maybe a woman was what they needed to get out.
* * *
THIRTY-SEVEN
San Diego, California Wednesday, 7:01 a.m.
Short, stocky Eric Stone had always been ambivalent about history. He could not affect it, and whatever impact it was going to have had already occurred. Moreover, he did not believe people could learn from it or, failing that, were doomed to repeat it. There were always nuances that made events different. Caesar was not Napoleon who was not Hitler who was not Stalin. Anyway, what was important in one era did not matter now. How many people, old and young, could name one thing Calvin Coolidge had done? Or who he was, for that matter.
While tourists and visitors to the convention center gathered around the time line of San Diego, Stone went about his business. He checked booths where attendees received