March 8, 12.30 p.m.
Harper arrived back at the precinct. He had news about the barbed wire to give Lafayette. What he had was good but he needed something more. He approached Eddie. ‘I got your message. Where are they?’
‘In the interview room.’
‘How sure are you?’
‘It’s good, Harps.’
They headed straight for a small interview room that had been set up with three phones. Three Chinese cops were on the phones, speaking in Mandarin.
‘They traced the number, like I asked?’ said Harper.
‘Just like you asked.’
‘And they got something?’
‘They did. Harps, you were right.’
‘I don’t care about right, I care about catching this guy. Let’s see what they got.’
‘The purple serial number you found on the spool was our only lead,’ said Eddie. ‘We’ve been chasing that number all morning. We reckon the barbed wire is a Chinese import, and the serial number had an import number next to it. We traced the import number through shipping number via customs. We’re tracking down manufacturers.’
Harper looked around him. ‘In China?’
‘There aren’t too many barbed-wire manufacturers importing to the US, so we’re down to the last one. But I don’t know that the number will give us anything. Even if we find where it came from, we might not see where it went to.’
Harper put his hand on the shoulder of one of the guys. ‘Anything?’
Detective William Hong nodded. ‘We think we’ve got the manufacturer. They’re tracing that batch number, might be able to tell us where it was sent.’
‘Call me the second you know,’ said Harper.
He walked back into the investigation room and sat down by Denise, on an old plastic chair. ‘How’s it been?’ he asked.
‘Okay.’
‘No progress?’
‘Not yet. I’m just absorbing all the details. It’s not nice.’
‘No,’ said Harper.
‘There’s nothing on the bullet. You anywhere with that?’
‘They can’t ID the bullet. It’s so mangled. It’s just a lump of metal. I’m going to get it looked at. There’s something more to it. Why, what are you thinking?’
‘I need to know what kind of gun he used. It might tell us something.’
‘Like what?’
‘Confidence with a gun, military background, who knows.’
‘They say it was a 9mm bullet.’
Denise nodded. ‘I went through the sequence of events, the witness statements, the confession letters, the forensic details, the autopsy protocol. Then I went through it all again.’
‘And?’
‘He’s not a political animal. He’s a sociopath. I agree with you – I think there’s something else, too. Something . . .’
William Hong emerged from the interview room and called across. ‘Harper, we’ve got it. This consignment was headed for Washington. Then headed for a commercial supplier.’
Harper turned. ‘And where did they send it?’
‘It’s been a ride. The commercial supplier sent it to a local state wholesaler. They found the order. We know the shop this spool was bought from.’
Eddie Kasper took the faxed copy of the import order. Chinese letters across the top of the paper. ‘If he’s a right-wing pro-America freak, Harper, do you think he knew he was buying Chinese barbed wire?’
Harper felt the release in the tension with the breakthrough. ‘We got to get up there, have a look at the layout. See if they have CCTV. But first, I’ve got to tell Lafayette that we have a lead. It’ll buy us a few more hours.’
In the background, Denise looked through Harper’s murder book. A sketch of a wind-ruffled falcon graced one page. She turned over and saw the strange sketch of dots and scratches that they’d seen at the morgue.
‘Sorry, Denise, you were about to say something?’
‘No, nothing really. Hey, you thought any more about this?’ she asked.
‘No, why?’
‘Another strange sense I get. I think I half recognize these marks, but I don’t know why or how.’
‘Well, give it time – it’ll come.’
Levene drifted into thought. An image from her childhood emerged deep from within her memory, but it was so vague she couldn’t capture it. Perhaps it was some picturebook her father had showed her. If so, it was before he went to prison, when she was nine years old. She didn’t remember the book. She remembered black and white photographs, her father not speaking, just turning the pages in silence, then when she turned, seeing her father’s tears. His large leathery hand stroked her hair. She could taste his pipe smoke in her throat and hear the accent that never left him.
Her hand reached out and moved across the scratches. Something appeared, a pattern of some sort, but she couldn’t read it. Not yet.