Coincidence - Alan May [67]
And in the back of one, the pickup, was dried blood. A lot of dried blood, as if the truck had been used to transport multiple bleeding bodies.
“But here’s the part we haven’t been able to piece together yet, Elizabeth,” Rob told his supervisor.
As happy as he was to have something solid to report to the Dragon Lady, as her subordinates fondly referred to her, he was frustrated that the pieces of the puzzle still refused to fall into place.
“Jim Oliver says one of the hijackers of the BWA boat took a bullet, but this is a whole lot more than just one injury. There was enough blood in the bed of the pickup to fill a wading pool.
“And if our theory that the guards made off with the coke is correct, who would they need to gun down? They’d clearly been planning the operation for quite a while; the barn’s ideal for concealing the trucks, and it’s just across the road from this secluded cove where they must have met up with the boat. They drove right past every other week; they’d have had it down to a science. Now, could be somebody came along and surprised them, but there’ve been no reports of any missing persons in the area. No shoot-outs. Nothing. And where the devil did those other two vehicles come from?”
“So, it looks like your theory needs a little tweaking,” Elizabeth said in her fast-clip New York accent.
Elizabeth Talliaferro had worked her way up the ranks of the male-dominated DEA by cultivating a brusque approach.
“Call Sanchez at Buenaventura PD,” she said. “Get his forensic guys on the scene with the mutt, and see if anything turns up. And dust the house.”
“The mutt” was Oscar, a canine member of the Buenaventura force specially trained to sniff out cadavers. Oscar wasted no time. Within five minutes he was standing, as triumphant as a mountain climber at the summit, over the grave site behind the house. Sanchez’s men began to dig.
In the house, two more officers swept through the rooms, dusting for fingerprints and putting into plastic bags an assortment of items abandoned by the last occupants: a half package of unfiltered Camels, a roll of Tums, an oily comb, and the entire contents of the kitchen waste basket, reeking of rotten eggs.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Elizabeth said when Rob called her with the results of the new search. “Call a meeting for ten A.M. tomorrow with someone with some clout from the State Department—Vogler if you can get him; if not, one of his underlings—and our friend Flipper Markman from the Coast Guard. See you then.”
26
The meeting with Phillip had gone well, to Anika’s great relief. He’d been tight-lipped and gruff but had kept his hands to himself and made no mention of their last encounter. He had okayed the coffee night, and said he didn’t care where it took place. He would be on the bridge, in any case, keeping watch.
Perfect, Anika thought. She’d been hoping he wouldn’t have a preference. It would suit their purposes much better to stage the entertainment in the mess rather than out on the bow, but she had not wanted to seem as if it made any difference. And she greatly preferred gruff to overly friendly.
Now, after the dinner cleanup, the kids and teachers were assembling for the show. As Anika had predicted, the Floaties had thrown themselves into the project. They set out coffee, soft drinks, and Jarred’s famous butterscotch chocolate-chip brownies, rigged up an old sail against one wall as a backdrop, and arranged themselves around the mess tables, surrounded by musical instruments, hastily contrived costumes, and an odd assortments of make-do props. A couple of small groups remained out on deck, polishing their acts.
Juan had said he had no interest in kiddie shows and stayed in the first-aid room with Stefano, but Polo, Esteban, and Severo were lined up expectantly along the walls of the mess. They seemed unsure about the propriety