Bone Rattle by Marc Cameron (best ereader for pdf .TXT) 📕

spot, at this time – far enough in advance to set up a shooting position. That means there was a plan – either to lure him here, or to kill him and the person he was supposed to meet. It’s highly likely that Tyler told someone who that person was.”

“Maybe we’ll find something on his cell phone,” Lola offered.

“Maybe so,” Cutter said. “In any case, this gives the Bureau something to work on.”

A woman spoke from somewhere below, out of sight from the balcony. Detective Van Dyke’s head snapped up as if she recognized it immediately and she leaned over the balcony. Major Terry saw who it was and shook his head, making his way down the stairs to call the AST colonel on his cell.

Van Dyke barked to the woman below. “You need to wait by the parking lot with the rest of the media.”

Lori Maycomb, the Native woman from the beach, stepped into view, both hands open, palms out.

“Come on, Rockie,” she said, just short of a plea – like she knew it was fruitless, but had to ask anyway. “Gimme something broad for the six o’clock news.”

“JPD isn’t in charge here, you know that,” Van Dyke said. “Trooper public affairs office will put out a statement. Get your ass back to the parking lot before you get me in trouble.”

Maycomb stuffed her tape recorder in the pocket of her jeans and ducked out the door.

“Aren’t you afraid she’ll stop and talk to Roy?” Lola asked.

Van Dyke shook her head in disgust. “Serve her right if she reported his theory.”

“She seems harmless enough,” Lola said.

“Don’t let her little act fool you,” Van Dyke said. “Oh, she’s all goodness and virtue at first – but that little bitch is just one lie after another when you get to know her.”

Lola shot Cutter a look, startled at the sudden vehemence in the detective’s voice. “You’ve arrested her before?”

“Don’t I wish,” Van Dyke said. “No, my maiden name is Maycomb. Lori was married to my brother. I’m pretty sure she killed him.”

Chapter 22

“Your guy had one job!” Harold Grimsson pounded his fist on the top of his desk. “One simple job.”

Dollarhyde was accustomed to the shouting, especially when they were on the island, away from listening ears. Screaming was the way Grimsson conducted business. If he was happy with your performance, he slapped your back and yelled his praises. If he was upset, he pounded whatever he had at hand – and screamed his displeasure until spit dribbled down his skunky beard. He might even stab you with the end of his damned pipe.

“I want him to take care of the leaker,” Grimsson went on. “Is that hard to comprehend? The informant. The person selling information. The one who can bring this whole operation down around my ass if they connect me with that heroin. But, oh no, your expert marksman and his magic rifle didn’t shoot the one person I wanted shot. He had to murder the US attorney and, for God knows what reason, some secretary.”

“In his defense,” Dollarhyde said, “the secretary came up the road after the attorney. The spotter naturally assumed she was the informant. When Childers saw her talking with the attorney, he assumed she’d passed on sensitive information and did what he believed was necessary to protect you. It was an unfortunate, but understandable error.”

“See!” Grimsson railed. “Right there. That’s a shitload of assuming going on. Your guy’s error might have been understandable if the leaker wasn’t still in play, and as yet still unidentified. Do I need to remind you that an avalanche of federal agents is about to fall down on top of us – because your man killed one of their own? That gives dozens more ears for our unidentified leaker to whisper into. You understand me here?”

“I do, sir,” Dollarhyde said.

Grimsson put his tirade on pause for a moment, heaving to catch his breath, wiping froth from his beard. “Tell me you have some idea who the leaker is? My money’s on your man, shizzle or schnitzel or whatever the hell his name is.”

“Schimmel.”

“Whatever,” Grimsson said. “He was the one who identified the assistant as our leaker. That makes him likely.”

“Kind of a reach,” Dollarhyde said. “Don’t you think, sir?”

Grimsson’s eyes narrowed, obviously working hard to rationalize his conspiracy theory. “The man’s awfully jumpy. Seems like he’s carrying around an ore car full of guilt.”

Dollarhyde grunted, nodding to show he was still personally engaged in his ass chewing, no matter how misguided. Grimsson jumped through a lot of hoops to ensure that the lion’s share of his business was legal – hence all the extra effort for the archeologist on the road project to the new dig. The cadre of people who knew about the rest of it was relatively small – maybe a dozen. All of those reported directly to Dollarhyde, and each of them knew too well what would happen if they flipped.

The tone and pitch of Grimsson’s voice changed, causing Dollarhyde to grunt out of habit, though he’d not been paying attention.

“Are you even listening to me?”

“I am,” Dollarhyde said. “While at the same time trying to solve our problem.”

“Tell me what you are going to do about Schnitzel.”

“I don’t think Schimmel is our rat.”

“It’s someone who works for me.” Grimsson pounded the desk again, knocking a pencil to the floor. “I can feel it. Hell, for all I know, it could be you.”

“Also doubtful,” Dollarhyde said.

“Your swift denial inspires buckets of confidence.”

“You can be sure I’m not the informant, sir,” Dollarhyde said. “I’ve done too much of your… heavy lifting, shall we say. If your ship sinks, I go down as well.”

“That may be true. But someone in my organization is making deals. I’ve gotta tell you, I don’t like that Schnitzel kid very much. He smells… wrong to me.”

Dollarhyde leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers together, professor-like. “Childers is pissed, too, sir. He feels like Schimmel made him look bad, let him down.”

Grimsson