The car had stopped on the wharf, a broad, empty paved lot between a row of warehouses and the many piers that jutted out into the river. All of them were out of use, mostly abandoned, so the long half-circle of police tape seemed mostly unnecessary. There was no one in sight but cops.
The body had been found yesterday morning, and she'd seen the crime scene swarming with officers at the time, looking for evidence, but Marshall had them all out again. Katie was glad to see it. He knew better than to go on Orman's analysis.
She expected to find Marshall out on the pier, where the body had fallen—she knew that was the first place she wanted to go, to see things as the gunman had—but Marshall was away across the lot, standing at the mouth of an alley between two warehouses. He was watching her car, though, and as soon as she pushed the door open he headed her way.
She glanced back to Ghoster, while Marshall was still out of earshot, and said, "You behave. Got it?" He just nodded.
Marshall reached her at a trot and greeted her with a nod. That was the extent of his affection, after nine months away. She wouldn't have expected anything different. She nodded back and asked him briskly, "What have you found?"
"Thirteen recorders, all with a good read on this spot. Not a bit of good feed, though. I spotted some fresh tire tracks over there, and I think that's how our dude made his way in and out. Motorcycle. That's all I see. Maybe had his vic on the bike with him, maybe met the vic here, but if it's that I ain't seen anything to tell me how LeClerc got here."
"So we'll assume he was a passenger on the motorcycle," Katie said. "We can review video feed in the area—"
"I've got two guys on it," Marshall said, "but I don't have a good feeling about that."
"What about the SpectreShield?" Ghoster asked. "Can I see it?"
Marshall turned to Katie with a laugh in his eyes. "Who's the old guy?"
She ducked her head to hide her smile then looked back up with a straight face. "Marshall, this is Jeremy Gustaud, of Database Archive Management, Inc. They call him Ghoster. Ghoster, this is Marshall Dunham. My old partner."
"Ghoster," Marshall said, testing the name out. He nodded. "I like that." He jabbed out a hand to shake Ghoster's enthusiastically. Katie bit her lip against another smile when Ghoster winced at Marshall's grip. He said, "You can call me whatever you like."
"Officer Dunham," Ghoster said, retrieving his hand. "Pleased to meet you."
"Now," Marshall said, suddenly businesslike. "No."
Ghoster frowned. "I beg your pardon?"
"You asked if you could see the SpectreShield. Answer is no. That thing's dangerous."
"You're not wrong," Ghoster said earnestly. "But I happen to be an expert on Hathor database manipulation—"
Marshall chuckled, "Yeah, you are. Your name says it all."
Ghoster shrugged. "And as such," he continued, "I'm in a unique position to analyze—"
"No," Marshall said flatly. "No way. I'll turn that bad boy over to Ghost Targets, but nobody else is getting near it."
Katie took half a step closer to Marshall, which caught all his attention. She said softly, as though she hadn't noticed their argument, "Did you learn anything from the body?"
Marshall shook his head, clearly frustrated. "That bastard pulled the corpse before they shut off this bastard's little toy, so I don't have a lot to go on. Coroner's looking for something useful, but bullets were in and out, and they're in the river somewhere. We've got the gun, we've got Orman's account of the staging, and we've got photos thanks to one of the God-blessed techs who was smart enough to at least do that. But there's no modeling, there's no strong scene. I don't know what I can tell you."
"Well," Katie said with a sigh, "that's not your fault. If you put the photos in the system, we can get a crude model—"
"Yeah, yeah. Done that, and it's about as good as looking at the pictures. Coroner thinks we might be able to make it a little better once we get someone out here to analyze blood spatter—"
"Ugh," Katie said. "Not a lot."
"Not a lot," Marshall said, nodding. "This how all your cases go?"
She laughed at that. She looked back at Ghoster, who was watching their conversation with affronted frustration clear on his face, and she laughed harder. "You have no idea, Marshall. I shoulda stayed here."
"I told you," Marshall said, clapping her on the shoulder. "You always wanted to make it big, though."
She laughed at that, then pointed out to the pier. Marshall turned with her motion. She said, "Mind if I take a moment?"
"Knock yourself out," he said. "I want to make some notes." He pulled out his handheld and got to work, and Ghoster threw up his hands in frustration. Katie turned her back on both of them and ducked under the tape.
Out on the pier, the breeze was cool. The water danced not far below, splishing and plunking in little waves against the pier's pilings. The river wind always made her think of her childhood, back when New York's rivers smelled like filth and she didn't care. Her dad hadn't, either, and she couldn't count the number of Saturdays they'd spent walking the riversides, listening to people talk, enjoying the cool breeze.
These days the rivers were clean, and she was thankful for that. It helped keep the memory sacred. She indulged it for a heartbeat—she owed her dad that much—and then put it away and got to work.
It had been nighttime, they knew that much. The dead zone on the recorders had begun at quarter past eleven. "Hey, Marshall," she called over her shoulder. "Your boys are looking for tape around eleven, right?"
"I've been doing this almost as long as you have," he called back. "Yeah, they're starting there."
She nodded, and before she lost his attention, yelled, "What do you know about the gun?"
He didn't answer right away. She turned to look his way, and just then he said, "On your handheld!"
She checked and found a firearms profile from one of Marshall's techs. A nine millimeter, refitted with an old-fashioned firing mechanism so it had no identity lock. No silencer, either, which was what she'd wanted to check on. She frowned at that, trying to imagine the scene as it happened, and then something on the report caught her attention.
"Did you see this?" she yelled, and turned away. She darted back to the car, where Marshall was waiting. "This gun was registered to LeClerc."
"Eleven days ago," Marshall said, without looking up from his handheld. "Had to cross state lines to buy one without a lock on it, and it ends up killing him on my beat."
"Not exactly your beat," Katie said. "Ghoster, get over here."
He looked like he meant to argue, but he hadn't moved from the spot since Marshall had refused his request to see the SpectreShield. She knew it was irking him, but she could also tell he hadn't worked up the nerve to confront Marshall yet. He would, if she left him alone, and the Ghoster that emerged from that confrontation wouldn't be any use to her at all.
So she set off at a brisk pace back up the pier, and after a moment Ghoster darted after her. "What?" he said, as he caught up. "What's so important?"
She caught his eyes before she answered and held his gaze. "I need to know where LeClerc has been," she said. She waited until a heartbeat before he started to argue, and then shook her head. "I don't need to hear your objections, I need to know where LeClerc has been. He's been spotty for two months now and totally invisible for three days. Somewhere in there he found the opportunity to buy the gun that killed him. Somewhere in there he ran across the man who murdered him. Last I know, though, he was a quiet, happy professor living in Walnut Hill and working on his lesson plans for the fall semester."
Ghoster shook his head. "The man was a mess, Katie—"
"Then show me," she said. "Do what you do, dig through his garbage, and put together a clean picture. I need to know what happened."
"I'll...." He was going to object. She could feel it in the shape of their conversation, but something changed his mind. He ducked his head. "I'll see what I can do. No promises, but...."
"Yeah," she said. "That's good enough for me. Tell Marshall to have them bring the SpectreShield out here. And tell him I won't have time for lunch."
Ghoster frowned, clearly out of his depth. "What are you talking about?"
"We're going to Atlanta," she said. "Book us a flight, would you? I need some time to think."
She waited until he was gone, listening to the tunk tunk of his designer shoes on the rough wood pier. When she couldn't hear that anymore over the churning water below, she turned her back on the two men and the bright yellow tape and closed her eyes.
It had been night, streetlights spaced wide along the waterfront and security lamps on the distant warehouses throwing a mottled glow on the scene, ripe with shadows in the wide gaps. She'd read in the report that the victim was found slumped over, on his knees. His watch and handheld had been spread before him in a neat row. She shook her head at that. He'd been executed.
It hadn't been clean, though. Four shots center mass, and it had taken him a while to die. This close, she could see the bloodstains still, even against the dark wood—even after the cleaning crew had done their work. There had been a lot of blood. She could imagine the killer standing just here, his motorcycle parked across the pavement, in the alley. Why? She shook her head. The victim had knelt over there. Was he pleading? Maybe not at first, but he would have been before it was over. She thought of what she'd seen in her research that morning.
She knew LeClerc. She'd spent hours watching footage of him, his daily routine. She'd seen him at work, and he was a careful man. He caught details, and he tended to become a little sympathetic toward his clients—she'd seen that—but he didn't let that interfere with his reports. She'd watched him turn in two reports to different clients that contradicted the cases he'd been hired to make, but neither of those had gotten him killed.
He didn't strike her as a particularly brave man, and certainly not a heroic one. He'd probably cried, but he probably hadn't struggled much. She was surprised he hadn't tried to jump into the river, though. It seemed an obvious escape.
She wanted to see the footage. At the very least, she wanted to see the crime scene. Damn Orman for letting it go. She turned back to the wharf, ready to ask Marshall for the shoddy reconstruction he'd been able to build, and found her old partner standing half a pace away. He didn't look happy.
"Marshall," she said lightly. He didn't smile.
"You're friggin' kidding me," he said, his voice a quiet growl so only she could hear it. "You put me on this unsolvable case, you drive all the way up from DC, you stand around just long enough to learn how unsolvable it really is, and now you're leaving? Nuh uh."
She raised her chin and caught his eyes. "It's not that bad," she said. For a moment she heard Ghoster and Phillips lecturing her again. She winced but went on. "This is the kind of work I do, Marshall. All the time. It's not as easy as Jurisprudence, but that's why we don't let someone like Orman do it."
"Yeah. Right. And that's why you're here. That's why you need to be here, Katie—"
"No." She said it sharply, and he cut off. She'd never had that power over him before. "There are other players in this. Bigger fish. You know how that goes. I need to check in on them, see what they know, but I can promise you they're not going to tell me the whole story. For that I need you."
"What am I supposed to do? What can I do that Orman couldn't?"
"Police work," she said with a frustrated sigh. "Ask questions. Listen. Marshall, I know you know this city, as well as I ever did. I'm out of it, now, and that's killing me. I have some guesses who might be involved, but I have no clue what actually happened here. I have no clue how LeClerc ended up here, or why, and Hathor can't tell me. You can figure it out, though. Someone saw something. Someone knows what's going on, and I need you to track them down for me."
"I've got some techs on it—"
"And they do great work," she said. "I know they will. But we need someone with a good instinct to put together the fragmented pieces they come up with. That's you. You're a natural."
Marshall shrugged one shoulder—he'd always been uncomfortable with praise—and then pointed a threatening finger at her. "You better not be rushing off into danger. I remember how you work, too. Bring backup and take it slow. Got it? Wherever it is you're going, you be careful. It'd cost way too much to train up a replacement."
"Thanks, Marshall." She smiled for him and took a short step back. She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. "I need you to get me whatever you can about the crime scene, okay? I've read through Orman's description, but it's worthless."
"Yeah."
"And track that gun. Okay? LeClerc was off the record when he bought it, but the guy who sold it to him filed the registration form a couple days later. Get in touch with him and see if he can tell us anything about LeClerc. The main thing I want to know is why he bought the gun. That man is the last person in the world who needed one."
"You're telling me."
She gave a rueful smile, but it didn't last long. "Oh, and get us the SpectreShield. I appreciate your caution, and frankly I appreciate your putting Ghoster in his place." She gave a more genuine smile at that. "But he really does know his stuff. I'd like to let him look it over before I ship it off to our techs."
"No problem," Marshall said. "It's on its way. I don't know how much good it'll really do you, though."
Something in his voice made her frown. "Why's that?"
"Y'know Orman's report says they shut it off?" She nodded, and a bitter grin spread on his face. "Yeah. They used a hammer."
Her eyes slowly grew wide. "No."
"The thing's in pieces. Maybe they can learn something useful from it, but...."
She slapped a hand over her eyes. "No." She took a deep breath, and it escaped her as a laugh. "Okay," she said. She forced a smile. "I'll be interested to see what Ghoster can do with that. Has anyone told you how much those things cost?"
Marshall nodded slowly, and Katie laughed again. "Okay," she said. "We'll just...this should be fun." She stepped around him and dragged Marshall with her back toward Ghoster. "I'll keep you posted—"
"You bet you will," he said, playful, then let that slip away in favor of a more serious tone. "I do have a question. Before you go." She looked up at him, still walking, and found him looking for the right words.
"Spill it," she said.
"Why are you leaving? Why...why do you think it's a big mystery? I know we can't see the crime scene, but Orman's crappy description still seems good enough to make it pretty clear what happened. I know our guy had no good reason to be in New York, but a fellow turns up dead in New York—dead like that—and there's a pretty obvious reason why."
She didn't say anything. Just walked alongside him, and after a moment he nodded. "You think it's a set-up. Those transactions Orman caught seemed pretty fishy—"
"Totally bogus," Katie said. "Our analyst is certain."
Marshall nodded. "Still, could be another family. That was no easy way to go. And out here, in the open like this? It was a message."
"Or it was made to look like a message," Katie said. "Or it was a message but made to look like the mafia was the one who wanted to send it." She chuckled. "Remember what I said about instincts? This murder took place on a much larger stage than New York City. There's something going on, something big, and in the scheme of things, that smashed SpectreShield could be as important as the dead professor."
"That's a dark thought," he said, but he wasn't disagreeing. He'd been a cop for too long.
She nodded. "I could be overthinking this all," she said. "I don't really believe that, but it's always possible. That's part of what I need you for. If we'd left Orman as lead when the FBI took over, he would have just sat back and enjoyed the publicity. I know you'll still do your job. Investigate the case. If you think there's merit to the idea it was a local job, follow up on that. I don't want an obvious killer going free just because I'm convinced he's a patsy. Got it?"
He smiled and shook his head. "Yeah, I got it. I'll do your work for you, while you go party in Atlanta."
She couldn't help thinking of Phillips at that. She smiled. "Thanks, Marshall."
"One thing. Before you go." He reached in his pocket and pulled out a small package, poorly wrapped in cheap paper. It had a little folded note taped on top, and when she opened that it just said "Katie" in Marshall's scrawl.
"What's this?" she asked. He nodded impatiently for her to open it.
"I was gonna give it to you at lunch."
She smiled up at him for a moment then tore the paper free. Inside was a shiny paper box, with a glossy photo of an old electronic device and the words "Digital Voice Recorder" stamped in block red letters under the Sony logo. It was the sort of thing they might sell at run down electronics stores in the ugly part of town, alongside ancient handhelds and digital cameras and ham radios. There was a market for things like this, albeit a small one.
Marshall grinned, proud of his purchase, and Katie met his eyes with a bemused smile. "What's it for?"
"What's it for? Read the name. You just talk into it, and it records what you say. It only does like 600 hours before you have to start erasing stuff, though, so you've got to pick carefully when you want it on. In your line of work, though...."
He trailed off, clearly disappointed, but it struck her then. She thought about her useless headset in Eric Barnes's private clinic, about the eerie deadness inside Shadow Mountain. She remembered Martin Door tossing her a pad of paper and a cheap pen, and she laughed. "It's perfect," she said softly. "I don't know why no one thought of it before."
Marshall shrugged. "It's not exactly easy to get working. It used those little baby batteries, you know? The round ones?" He held up a hand, finger and thumb two inches apart. "I was able to get one of our techs to build a custom receiver to fit in the battery compartment, though, so it works on broadcast power now."
She turned it over in her hands, admiring. "They can do that?"
Marshall chuckled. "Yeah. Who knew?"
She looked up at him, eyes shining, and after a moment she threw her arms around him in a big hug. "Thank you, Marshall. It's perfect."
"Hey, whatever. I just don't want you getting killed 'cause you forgot some minor detail." She held on for a moment, smiling against his chest, then let him go. He bumped a fist against her shoulder. "Go save the world, Katie. I'll poke my nose into things here."
They walked the last few paces in silence, side-by-side, and as they approached Katie's car Ghoster pushed himself to his feet. He'd been leaning at-his-ease against the hood, but he straightened now—not for Katie and Marshall, but for the police tech just pulling up in a cruiser. Marshall went to talk to him, while Ghoster stepped up to Katie.
He lowered his voice, but said softly, "You know, of course, someone did think of that before. There's all kinds of software out there to let you use your handheld as a local recording device."
"Shut up," Katie said, still smiling. Her grin only got wider when the technician came over to them, carrying a clear plastic bag full of bits of plastic and printed circuits. "You're just jealous," she said quietly.
Ghoster sneered. "Of him? No."
"No," she said. "You're jealous that my toy is so much cooler than yours." She nodded to the bag full of parts as the tech handed it over to Ghoster, and it took a moment before he realized what it was.
When he did, the look on his face was one of perfect horror. Eyes wide, mouth twisted with revulsion. "No!"
She laughed. "You've got some work ahead of you. You can get started on the plane."
She met Marshall's eyes across the top of her car, and held them for a moment. He waved, a short gesture, and then turned back to his tech, all business. That was the way to do things. She got in the car and asked the driver to take them to the airport. She had important work to attend to, anyway. She pulled out her handheld and got started, all the while ignoring Ghoster's outraged noises.