LITMIR.BIZ

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evidence against him. Or exonerate him, for that matter.”

      “And you’ll keep me informed?”

      Hating it, he nodded. She leaped to her feet, moved behind her desk and reached for her phone. “Fine. We’ll go see the Chief and hammer out what we’re going to say when the media come calling—”

      Green’s cellphone rang, startling them both. It was Gibbs, stuttering with excitement. “S-sorry to interrupt, sir. I didn’t know i-if I should, but I thought you’d want to know this.”

      “Where are you, Bob?”

      “D-downstairs in the squad room, sir.”

      Green considered the alternatives. Devine was already looking at him questioningly, and he knew she would demand an update, which meant he would waste precious time playing middleman. Instead he told Gibbs to come upstairs. When he’d hung up, Devine slowly put her own phone down.

      “I think Detective Gibbs has found out something important,” he said.

      “That would be a first,” she replied as she sat down behind her desk, her shoulders squared and her hands folded, the picture of authority. Green bit back a retort. As usual, Devine never saw behind appearances.

      Less than a minute later Gibbs arrived, flushed and sweaty. The same suit had hung on his lanky frame for the past two days, and it looked as weary and bedraggled as he did. But despite his exhaustion, his eyes shone.

      “The canvass, sir! It finally paid off.”

      “Which canvass?”

      “L-looking for the man Patricia Ross had a drink with? One of the uniformed officers finally hit paydirt. And you were right, sir, it was an upscale bar in the Delta Hotel.”

      Green scanned his memory of the city quickly. The Delta Hotel was a boutique hotel at the western edge of the downtown business district—discreet, elegant and most importantly only a few minutes’ walk from the aqueduct where Patricia Ross was murdered.

      “Someone remembered her and her companion?”

      Gibbs bobbed his head up and down. “The bartender. It’s a s-small bar, sir, mostly business people having a quiet drink. It doesn’t really get many girls in the game—that’s what the bartender thought she was, although she wasn’t really highpriced enough for a place like that. But he remembered her sitting with a man at a corner table, talking quietly for at least an hour.”

      “Did he hear any of the conversation?”

      “A bit, sir, but mostly the woman’s. He said sometimes she’d get angry and raise her voice, and he heard things like ‘I have needs, you know’ and ‘It hasn’t been a picnic’. That’s when he wondered if maybe she was a girlfriend instead of a hooker.”

      “What about the man? Did the bartender hear any of his answers?”

      “No. He says the man never raised his voice. He kept checking around him, and it looked like he was trying to calm her down.”

      Green tried to visualize the interaction. It did not sound like an angry confrontation or a demand for vengeance, but rather a quiet discussion punctuated by Patricia’s occasional flare-ups. ‘I have needs too’, she’d said. Blackmail? Could that be what she’d been after all along?

      “Good work,” he exclaimed. “Did the bartender get a good look at this man?”

      “Mediocre, sir. He’d chosen the darkest table.”

      “Well, I suggest you get over there and show the bartender a photo line-up. Maybe it will help jog his memory.”

      Bob Gibbs broke into a broad grin. “I already did that, sir. I took the photos of all our suspects, plus some neutrals. I just got back.”

      Green took in the big grin and the dancing eyes. He felt his own pulse begin to race. “You got a hit.”

      “I did, sir. Colonel John Blakeley.”

      TWENTY-FOUR

      Sept. 10, 1993. Serb village in Sector South, Croatia.

      Dear Kit... A wild day yesterday! Just as our section was getting dug in at this little village near the new ceasefire line, the Croats suddenly went nuts and started firing on the village. Our section house is in this solid stone hall, and we’re just getting the coffee on when kaboom! A shell blows a hole in the street right outside. And then kaboom, kaboom, right down main street. We hunker down under the stairs and between each shell we take turns going outside to see where it hit and we write it down. When I go, I see this woman running towards us, screaming, and she grabs my hand to pull me towards this house on fire. I finally figure out that her family is inside, so I go back in the section house and grab some guys, and we go out in the APC and get four people out of the house.

      I knew the safest place in town was our house, so I brought them back. Danny yelled at me a bit before he agreed to stash them in the basement. I guess what I did was a little crazy, but it didn’t seem right that they were out there while we were nice and safe. That was the beginning. By the time the arty stopped at nightfall, I’d been out ten times, sometimes in the APC and other times just running out to grab people, and now we have forty-two Serbs in the basement, chattering up a storm. There are fifteen little kids all chasing each other around the basement like it was a church picnic. I guess people can get used to anything.

      * * *

      “It’s not enough, Mike.”

      “What are you talking about, Barbara!” Green couldn’t believe his ears. Devine was standing by the door, having just ushered Gibbs out and shut it again. Now she was shaking her head stubbornly. What would it take to convince this woman that Blakeley was implicated up to his eyeballs? “He was the last person to see her alive!”

      “He could have been meeting her as an old friend, or a friend of her fiancé’s. For that matter, you have absolutely no proof that she came up here looking for Oliver’s killer in the first place. Your entire case is a house of cards. She could have been coming up to reconnect with his old friends.”

      “Then why did she end up dead?”

      She drew her peach lips in a stubborn line. “That could have been random misfortune.”

      “And the attack on Peters? Come on, Barbara!” He almost added “Where’s your brain?” but he stopped himself.

      “I’m not saying I believe it, Mike. I’m saying that’s how Blakeley’s lawyers could play it, so I’m not authorizing a move on this guy till we have him nailed down six ways to Sunday.”

      He thought of the precious time running through his fingers, time when Weiss could get further away, Twiggy could be slipping closer towards death, and Blakeley could be booking a flight to some Caribbean island without an extradition treaty. He didn’t have time to nail things down six ways to Sunday, even if he had the leads. Speaking of which...!

      He glanced at his watch. Fuck! Unless he broke all the speed limits between here and the airport, he was going to be late for Kate McGrath’s flight. He jumped to his feet.

      “Fine, we’ll do it your way,” he said as he dived out the door. “But can you keep Professional Standards apprised? I won’t have time.”

      “As long as you keep me apprised!” he heard her yell at his retreating back just before he reached the stairs. I’ll try, he muttered to himself. With any luck, Professional Standards will keep you too busy to answer your phone.

      He hit every red light going down Bronson Avenue and screamed into the airport fifteen minutes late. He nipped the car into the front taxi space, put a police sticker on the dash and ignored the chorus of objections from the cabbies in the queue as he ducked inside. He nearly ran straight by Kate McGrath, who was standing by the exit door with a compact suitcase in tow and a garment bag slung over her arm. Her blue eyes twinkled as she grabbed his arm.

      “Whoa,

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