Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [59]
My mood suffers further deflation. “Then how did you pick these over the other twenty?”
“Money. These are the only ones with access to the kind of money you mentioned.”
“That sounds reasonable, I guess.”
There’s a pause on the other end, and it occurs to me that I’m not exhibiting the level of appreciation Duckey probably expects.
“Jack, it’s not like in the movies, where some computer spook pulls up a nice picture of a single suspect with the push of a button. Travis says if this was a domestic case they were working on, they would assign a few agents to it, watch these guys for a while, and see what gives.”
“You’re right, Ducks. Sorry.”
“Not a problem. I’m just the messenger.” He clears his throat. “Look, I’m not going to pretend to know what you’re doing. But this just doesn’t seem smart. What am I supposed to tell everyone when you wind up dead?”
“You’ll have to tell them to cover my classes. And watch out for my second-year Asian Archaeology course. I’ve got a couple of sleepers in that one.”
“Funny.”
“I’ll be careful, Ducks. And clear your conscience. You didn’t force me to look for adventure over my break. It just sort of found me.”
“You better be careful. I’m too old to break in someone new for breakfast.”
“That’s my own personal penance. Can you email those names to me?”
“Soon as I hang up.”
Within sixty seconds of ending the call I have my laptop open and am booting up. True to Duckey’s word, a new mail icon pops into place in the task bar once the screen clears. Espy leans close as I move the cursor over the message. I hesitate, feeling distaste like bile in the back of my throat. I’m fond of personal privacy, and so it bothers me that when I open this message, I’ll see neatly compiled information about five men I’ve never met. It’s likely that four of these people are innocent of any wrongdoing, yet I’ll have a dossier on each. Their only collective crime is that they share some common physical characteristics: about six feet tall, brown hair, somewhere between one hundred eighty and two hundred twenty pounds. If I had been on the same plane with these men, it’s likely I would have made the list according to those criteria. That is, until one accounted for my financial situation. Having only 132 dollars in the bank generally eliminates one from suspicion in a high-stakes murder scheme. Pushing aside my discomfort, I continue on, telling myself that one of these men may well have been responsible for the attempt on my life.
I open the message. It’s a list of names, along with addresses, short bios, and pictures. “Thanks, Duckey,” I say.
“He looks mean.” Espy points at the first picture, one Bruce Burney. His face is thick and he has heavy jowls, with a monochrome tattoo on the loose flesh of his neck. His bio says he owns a chain of clothing stores. Espy’s right; he does look mean. But he’s not our mystery man.
“That’s not him,” I say. “Besides, even if I didn’t already know what our guy looks like, this would be too obvious.”
“Sometimes what you’re looking for is right under your nose.”
I’m afraid to, but I glance over to see if that statement has any hidden meaning. If it does, she’s keeping it to herself. Her eyes never leave the screen.
There are three pictures visible in the window, yet none of them match the image in my head. I scroll down and, as the fourth suspect comes into view, I feel my body tense as anger rises to the surface. The Aussie’s name is Victor Manheim. In an instant I am back in the Egyptian desert, looking up at him from the bottom of the RV’s stairs. Minutes later, Will was dead.
Espy sees the change and says nothing, but she reads his bio along with me. Victor’s a political attaché to the undersecretary of agriculture. His parents own a great deal of land in Australia’s southwest region. He matriculated in the States—Harvard— where he received a law degree. As Esperanza said of poor Bruce, Victor looks mean, but it’s an aristocratic meanness.
“Is that him?”
I nod and close the window. There’s a sick feeling in my stomach, and I know that it