Chapter Five
I woke up suddenly in a
cold sweat, the razor sharp image of a nightmare still pounding around inside
my head. A nightmare about Bosnia. Graphic memories of indiscriminate carnage
and killing, streets turned red with blood and gore. And then I found myself
staring into the huge face of a hideous monster. It was the large, out-of-focus
image of an alien being, and it was staring down at me. Its mouth was moving
but no sound emanated from it. Sweat continued to drain down my face as I
fought to control myself and focus my eyes. Seconds passed before I realised it
was the benevolent face of Mr Spock.
The
flight from Belfast to Heathrow had run late. As if that was not enough, I had
to wait for a bus to take me from Terminal One in the Heathrow central area to
Terminal Four which is located across the other side of the airfield. The
check-in desk for the flight to LA had been about to close when I got there and
they allocated me the last available seat on the 747, in the middle of the main
cabin and right in front of the film screen.
Mr
Spock moved back out of scene, making way for Captain Kirk. I figured it was
time I did the same so I went back to the cabin services area and got myself a
strong black coffee. My mind was still spinning with the nightmare images of
Bosnia. Images of carnage that just wouldn’t lie down. Hell! As if I didn’t
have enough horrors in my mind with thoughts of what happened to Marie in
Belfast.
Why
Bosnia? Why in heavens name had I been dreaming of Bosnia now? How many months
was it since I had been there? Not many. The memories were recent enough to be
still pin-sharp. Acid-sharp. I took a mouthful of coffee and wiped my free hand
down my damp face, but nothing could wipe away what was inside my skull.
What
was it about flying as a passenger that brought out such intense nightmares?
I’d had one when I arrived in Northern Ireland and now I’d had another on
leaving. The first was centred on the death of Marie. This one was all about
the genocide of a nation. Was there some connection?
*
They sent me into Bosnia
to work with George Quinlon. Not many people have heard of Quinlon, but he
played an important role in the US involvement in Bosnia. He ran a medical aid
project in Sarajevo and lived very close to the UN forward headquarters in the
city.
Technically
he was a civilian working for the International Rescue Committee but few things
in Bosnia were as they seemed, and that included George Quinlon. A tall,
shadowy figure working on the fringes of the UN presence, he had his finger on
the pulse of most of the political and military activities. He had been a US
Marine Corps officer and he knew what to look out for and who to talk to when
things got tough. Unusually for a civilian working for an aid organisation, he
had a reliable line of communication with Capitol Hill in Washington and that
was a whole story in itself.
I was
dragged into the story shortly after Madeleine Albright and General John
Shalikashvili, the Chairman of the US Joint Chiefs of Staff, were both left
embarrassed on their arrival at Sarajevo Airport. It was one of those important
liaison visits to Bosnia made from time to time by international leaders.
Officials from the US State Department had flown in ahead of them to arrange
the schedule, but they goofed. Transport was a foul-up, clearance to cross the
line of conflict was a foul-up, even the meetings with the various players on
the ground was badly organised. The State Department people had been badly
briefed, they had poor intelligence information and they didn’t understand the
situation on the ground so was it any wonder they made one whole mess of the
arrangements. Fortunately the Brits stepped in and sorted it out, but not
before the American presence had been severely and publicly embarrassed.
Madeleine Albright wasn’t too impressed and General Shalikashvili was pretty
chewed up about it, to put it mildly.
At
about that time, I was just coming to the end of a pretty hectic tour on B52s
and I was waiting to hear news of a posting to Europe. I guess it must have
been my name at the top of the list for a posting that made them select me for
Bosnia. Just a run-of-the-mill major, I was summoned to the Pentagon, given a
hasty sketch of what was going on and then ushered into the office of a four
star general.
General
Linus Baltimore was in a foul mood that day and he sure didn’t mince his words.
A look of prickly anger permanently painted across his face, he glared at me
from behind his polished oak desk and snapped, “They told you what happened to
the Secretary of State in Bosnia?”
“Yes,
sir.”
“Well,
son, we’ve been made fools of. And the President is kinda pissed off about it.
He don’t take kindly to his people looking like fools. And we don’t aim for
that sort of unholy foul-up to happen again. You hear me?”
“I
hear you, General.” Unwisely, I added, “Sounds like we should hand over the
organising to the Brits next time.”
“Hell,
no!” He half rose from his seat, thought better of it and sat down again,
heavily. “You think the State Department is gonna give the Limeys control over
arrangements for a visit by an American ambassador? The State Department is
handing it over to us, son. And no Limey’s gonna get the better of the US military.”
I gave
him a moment to calm down before I replied. “I hear you, general.”
“You’d
better, son. We aim to boost our intelligence out there. We’re putting a lot
more into Bosnia but we gotta be careful how we go about it. We don’t have US
military on the ground out there so we gotta go easy with this one.”
By now
I was getting bad vibes about why I was being dragged into this. “How does that
involve me, sir?”
He
compressed his lips for a few seconds. “You heard of George Quinlon?”
“No,
sir.”
“You
will have by the time you leave this building. You go and get yourself fully
briefed on Quinlon. Then get yourself some civilian clothes suitable for Europe
at this time of the year. Warm clothes. Then get yourself out there to Sarajevo
and make contact with Quinlon. He knows you’re coming. You’ll be there to help
him beef up his network. We promised him all the support he needs.”
It
didn’t sound like the sort of job I’d been expecting. I quashed a quiet shiver.
“Anything specific you want from me, sir?”
“Yeah.
We want intelligence and we want accurate intelligence.”
“Are
you sure you got the right man, General? That sounds kinda CIA-ish to me.” I looked
him in the eye, as confrontational as a mere major can with a general.
“We
know all about you, son. You’re the man we want for this job.”
“And
the CIA don’t mind?”
“Quinlon
reports directly to the Secretary of State, not the CIA. He don’t want any of
them spooks involved in his show. He aims to get to the real truth of what’s
going on, not the CIA’s version of the truth.” General Baltimore leaned back in
his seat and put the tips of his fingers together into a steeple formation. “Qinlon’s
asked us for a pilot who’s… reliable.” I got the impression he meant
expendable. If any doubts showed in my face he sure did stare me down. “You fly
transports, Bodine?”
“No,
sir.”
“You
do now, son. You’ve done the political awareness update course?”
“Yes,
sir.”
“You’ve
done the covert activities program?”
“Yes,
sir.”
“You’re
due for a posting?”
“Yes,
sir.”
“You
just got it, son.”
So,
just a few days later, I flew across to Europe and then on to Sarajevo as pilot
of a civilian aircraft ferrying aid supplies. Like Quinlon, I was technically
working as part of the international aid programme but, like I said, things
weren’t all that they seemed out there.
By the
time I arrived in Sarajevo, the city had been under siege for almost two years,
and it looked like a place that was mortally wounded but hadn’t quite decided
to lie down and die. Every day around twelve hundred shells fell on it, adding
to the destruction of property that was already beyond repair and adding to a
horrific death toll. And that was in addition to the callous snipers who picked
out individual civilians at random for no other reason than that they were civilians.
In the
previous two years around ten thousand civilians had died, about three thousand
of them were children. For the ones who survived, life was harsh in the
extreme. It was still winter when I got there and the night-time temperature
would sometimes fall to minus thirty. In a city that had no electricity or
running water, the added discomfort of severe cold would often bring people to
the limits of endurance. All-in-all, it was a war in which civilians were the
principal target and the destruction of humanity was a prime aim.
I
hated it right from the start.
*
I went back to my seat in
front of the film screen and saw that Mr Spock and Captain Kirk had got along
just dandy without me. But then, life was so much easier for them. At the end
of the film they could relax. My nightmares just carried on… and on.
*
On the day of Marie’s
funeral it rained like someone up there sure knew what was going on and was
aiming to make us suffer even more. We stood around the open grave, thoroughly
drowned by the downpour, peering into a hole that was in danger of collapsing
in on itself. In the end the priest cut short the service and we all ran for
the cover of the church. Even at her last public moment, Marie didn’t have the
respect of a dignified burial. Deep inside, I was paining like I’d rarely felt
private emotional pain before.
The
priest came to speak to me but he never did get the knack of saying the right
thing at the right time. “Just like old times, Henry. You and your parents back
in church together. Nice to see it. Good times again, eh?”
Good
times? I pictured the mess that was Marie when I saw her in that Belfast morgue
and I could have stuck one on him. Instead I replied, “We Bodines stick
together, Father.”
“Sure,
Henry. Sure. Nice to see a family that sticks together. Gives a kinda
continuity to life, eh? How far do you Bodines go back in LA?”
“Long
enough, Father. Long enough.” Then I walked away because I was in no mood to
talk about the history of the Bodine family and in no mood to be friendly with
a man who had snubbed God by refusing to experience the pure communion that
comes when the right man meets the right woman.
Like
me and Penny Hamilton.
The
Bodines were another matter entirely. It was my grandmother who told me about
Pierre Boudine, a Frenchman who had spent many years trapping fur in the
Canadian Rocky Mountains up around the Bow River. That was before he travelled
south into America in 1801. In 1802, Pierre met and married Mary O’Callaghan,
the daughter of penniless Irish Catholic immigrants. They settled somewhere
near Lake Michigan although I never found out exactly where. Except for their
early origins, all I know about Pierre and Mary Boudine is that they raised a
large family who, presumably, must have descendants still living in Michigan.
Grandmother
told me that in 1858 their grandson Abel Boudine headed off to Colorado in
search of gold. He found nothing of value, but somewhere along the way his name
changed to Bodine. Alterations to names were pretty common in those times when
little or nothing was written down about family histories. By the time Abel
Bodine arrived in California in 1861, the civil war was just beginning. That
was how we Bodines came to be here in LA. I never found out what part of
Ireland Mary O’Callaghan came from and, up to then, I hadn’t really been
interested. Now the thought began to intrigue me.
One
day I would take the trouble to find out.
I
decided to stay on with mom and dad at their house, more to help them than to
help myself. They lived out of town, in a residential area where the desert was
so close and the air so hot you’d swear the devil himself was a neighbour. I
had an empty apartment closer in to the town and I could have gone back to it,
but that would have left my parents alone with their misery. I couldn’t do that
to them.
I
didn’t tell them everything I’d learned in Belfast, they’d been hurt too much
already. But I sure didn’t put the matter out of my mind.
The
next day, when the formalities were mostly over, I went down to see Chief
Hanson at the police department building, tucked in behind the local drug
store. He was busy when I walked in off the street, a stack of files heaped on
his desk. He looked up but couldn’t bring himself to meet my gaze.
Hanson
was the epitome of a local small-town policeman, a guy who had turned down
promotion in the big city in order to work out here in this quiet suburb. He
was a stocky man with wide, muscular hands and projecting ears. Like the rest
of his extremities, his nose was a touch too big which gave the impression he
was sniffing the air when he started at you. His eyes were dark and deeply set
and on most occasions they held an expression which could have been misinterpreted
as tenderness. Maybe that was why Marie had been so fond of him.
“Howdy,
Henry. What can I do for you?” As he spoke, one brawny arm scooped out a space
on his desk and the other waved me into a seat. He sighed and then leaned both
elbows on the desk top.
“You
got time to talk, Chief?”
“No,
but what the hell. Suppose you’re ready to tell me all about what happened over
there in Ireland?”
“Sort
of.” I rubbed my chin thoughtfully and changed the subject. “You still mad at
me, Chief?”
“Course
I am. You screwed up a damn good career, and for what? But you didn’t come here
to talk about your adventures with the Air Force, did you?”
“Nope.
That’s none o’ your business anyway.” Almost before the words were out I could have
kicked myself. Hanson didn’t deserve that sort of rejection just because I was
bound by the law to keep the truth to myself. I added, lamely, “Just don’t ask
me to tell you about that business, Chief. Please.”
“So,
why do you need to ask if I’m mad at you?”
“Figure
I could do with a sympathetic ear. Not sure if you’re ready to offer it.”
“Christ,
you should know me better’n that, Henry. What the hell have you come here for?”
“Chew
over a few things, I guess. About Ireland. I reckon I need some sort of help
and it was you that set things up for me with the RUC in Belfast. I figured you
might be able to throw a bit of light in some dark corners.”
“Who
did you see over there?”
“A guy
called Rourke. Chief Inspector.” I decided I’d keep Penny Hamilton and Pat
Mulholland out of the picture to start with.
“Oh
yeah? I didn’t get any names, but they promised someone with influence.”
“Influence,
maybe. But I have this hunch the bastard gave me some bum steers. Told me it
was a straightforward terrorist killing. But I’m not totally stupid, Chief, you
know that. I figure things different.”
“Oh,
yeah. How come?” Chief Hanson let out a long breath and then leaned back and
put his feet up on his old, battered desk. His unease was melting away. Hell,
it was difficult to stay mad with this guy for long.
We’d
known Chief Hanson since we moved to this part of LA. That was twenty years
before, when I was just a kid and he was still a rookie cop. He’d been a sort
of stabilising influence most of our lives, always there in the background
while Marie and me were growing up in our small-town community. When I was a
brash young tear-away at Junior High, he’d more than once caught me out
swimming in the creek when I should’ve been at class. Each time, he’d marched
me straight home to my folks with dire warnings of what he ought to do to me… but
never did. Marie had a mild sort of crush on him at one time, but he never
seemed to notice let alone take advantage of it, which got Marie kind of upset,
I seem to recall. When I got my commission in the Air Force, Chief Hanson was
the first to come round to the house to wish me well. When I was discharged he
said nothing and kept away.
I
decided to give him as much as I’d learned. Not the whole shooting match about
Northern Ireland because even I didn’t know that, but enough to tackle his
interest.
“It
looked like the bomb was deliberately triggered to blow up that particular car;
the one Marie was riding in. Now that just don’t make sense for a mindless
terrorist killing. I mean, it takes some time and effort to set up that sort of
killing. It’s not like picking up a rifle and taking a random pot-shot at whoever
happens to be in the way. No, I figure that someone was out to get either Marie
or the driver.”
“So
what’ve you got on the driver?”
I
shrugged. “Just a cabbie. Looked like he was taking Marie to work.”
“Uh-huh.”
Hanson screwed up his nose thoughtfully. “What sort of explosive did they use?”
“Rourke
told me they filled a trash can with Anfo.”
Hanson
grimaced. “Amateurs. If they were
professional terrorists, they’d have used Semtex or, failing that, a mixture
the Brits call Co-op. Anfo is for the amateurs. Fertiliser and fuel oil. A high
school kid could make it up.”
“It
needed Semtex to initiate the explosion.”
“Just
a small amount.”
“The
whole damned thing was enough to blow Marie to Kingdom Come.”
“Yeah.”
Hanson shook his head sadly. “You got any motive in mind?”
I
shrugged once again. “Marie was a Catholic.”
“So
she was a Catholic? They breed them over there, you know. Most American Catholics
can take their history back to Ireland.”
“Cut
the shit, Chief.” I could see I needed to turn on the heat a bit. “Religion is
different over there. They kill each other just because they’re Protestants or
Catholics and they don’t think twice about it. I mean, they get nothing else
out of it except seeing a dead body lying in the street. Just like in…” I’d
been about to equate Belfast with Sarajevo but caught myself in time. Hanson
didn’t appear to notice.
“Pretty
speech,” he grunted disapprovingly. “Sounds like something you heard on a
television feature.”
“It’s
true, Chief! God save us, don’t you read what they write in the newspapers?”
“Yeah.
Read it, don’t always believe it. But let’s suppose that all you tell me is
true. It still don’t sound like a plausible motive for what happened. Hot shit,
Henry! Marie was a good kid, a real peach. Those terrorist gangs might kill
each other’s murdering thugs, but surely they don’t deliberately kill innocent
kids like her. Not without some damn good reason.”
“There’s
no such thing as a good reason when
it comes to killing people like Marie.” I paused to let the words sink in.
“There’s another thing that bugs me. Marie was earning money dancing in this
club.”
“So
she was dancing? You know she always reckoned she’d make it as a dancer. She
went over there just to make it as a dancer.”
“It
wasn’t that sort of dancing.” I saw no reason to mention the striptease side of
it so I hurried into the nub of the matter, “The thing is I discovered this
club where she did her dancing is where fanatical loyalists get together. Well,
I figure if someone there discovered she was a Catholic, they might have…”
“You’re
just getting paranoid, Henry. Look, I know it’s hit you real hard but if you
want my advice you’ll dump the whole thing.” He brought his feet back to the
floor and made to pick up his pen—an un-subtle hint that he had a job to get on
with. “Any other reason someone might want to do her in?”
“She
had a boyfriend. I met him and he’s a user and he was living off her earnings.”
His
face turned sour. “Ah shit. Now, that’s bad. That smells more like the sort of
business that leads to folks getting killed.”
“Yeah…and
Marie was pregnant.” There, I’d let him into something I wanted kept quiet.
“Jeez!
That sure is a bummer.” His face dropped and he twiddled his pen frantically
between his fingers.
“Mom
and dad don’t know.”
“They
won’t find out from me, Henry. Look, it ain’t really none of my business, but
if Marie had a boyfriend who was into narcotics it could be she got mixed up in
something real dirty. Let the local police work on it, don’t go treading on
their toes.”
“That’s
your best advice?”
He
dropped the pen and leaned back, heavy faced. “Sure is. So, what you gonna do
now?”
I
thought for a moment. “I don’t know for sure. There’s too many loose ends. Too
many things just don’t tie up. I figure I ought to go back over there.”
“Don’t.”
He stared at me hard, his deep-set eyes unblinking. “You can’t do any good by
it. You’ll only get your ass blown off.”
“Like Marie?”
“Just
don’t do it, Henry,” he repeated.
“I
could try to find out more about what happened. What really happened.”
“You’re
a dumb idiot, you hear me? It ain’t your war. You just take care you don’t get
your ass caught up in something unpleasant, Henry. Don’t want to see you
brought home in a body bag.”
“Sure,
Chief, I hear you.” Ironically, if I was going to be brought home in a body bag
it would have happened before now. But I wasn’t going to raise that subject
again. “I’m telling you, Chief, I aim to go back there and I ain’t coming home
until I find out exactly what happened to Marie and who the hell killed her.”
That
was it.
In
that instant, my mind was made up and I knew that I was destined to go back to
Belfast. With the decision made, all that remained was to break the news to mom
and dad. They lived the pain of Marie’s death day after day and I didn’t want
to add to that pain. Didn’t want to, but had to.
I went
home to brood over things and was still agonising over it two days later when
Hanson called me.
“I got
to figuring what you were saying, Henry. Made a few enquiries of my own. You
wanna come over and talk about it?”
“You
found out something?”
“Could
be.”
“On my
way.” I put down the receiver and I was down there at the police department in
minutes.
Hanson
was slouched back behind his desk, eyes like ice and mouth set in a firm grim
line. I slammed the door shut behind me so that no one would overhear us.
“What
you got, Chief?”
He
nodded towards a seat and reached for a desk drawer. “The thing is, I don’t like
the idea of you shootin’ off on your own, trying to be some sort of Mike
Hammer. Don’t want you gettin’ yourself mixed up in things you don’t
understand. Now, I know I can’t exactly stop you, but I figured I could cut
across some of the formalities. Dig up some of the dirt before you go makin’ a
fool of yourself. So I’ve been making some enquiries. Got to figuring that it
might have been the narcotics side of things that got Marie killed.”
“And
you found out something?”
“Maybe.”
He silently handed me a photograph across the desk. It was a large blow-up in
full colour and it showed a rather fuzzy picture of a red-headed girl in what
appeared to be an airport terminal. She wore blue denims and carried a large
shoulder bag. It looked like the picture might have been taken covertly.
“Marie?”
I asked.
“Dunno.
Looks like her, don’t it?” He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “But they tell
me it ain’t. They say this broad goes by the name of Christine Fisher.”
“Where
did you get the picture?”
“Los
Angeles Police Department. I was asking for anything they had on narcotics
linked to Northern Ireland. It’s an international trade and the LAPD get to see
intelligence from European sources. Anyhow, they got this picture from NYPD.
The girl is a narcotics courier. Carries coke, crack, that sort o’ shit between
the U.S. and Europe. They say they were going to pick her up on her next trip
but they were warned off.”
“Warned
off? By who?”
“They
wouldn’t say.”
“Why
didn’t they pick her up before now?”
“She’s
small fish. They wanted her contacts far more than they wanted her. Leastways,
that’s what they told me.”
“And
you think this girl is something to do with Marie?”
“It
sure looks a lot like her,” he said flatly. “Maybe someone got ’em mixed up.
Killed the wrong girl.”
“Oh,
come off it, Chief. This is the real world, not some television drama. Besides,
this looks like a good many red-headed girls.” I dropped the photograph back on
his desk.
Hanson
picked up the photograph and studied it again. “Then again, maybe they’re
wrong. Maybe this is Marie.”
“No!”
I wasn’t going to listen to that sort of accusation, whoever it came from. “Marie
wouldn’t do anything as stupid as carrying narcotics. This can’t be her.”
“You
think I feel happy with the idea, Henry? You think I like the thought that Marie
was into narcotics running? You know better than that. But if this is her it
might explain why someone wanted to wipe her out.”
“It
ain’t her, I tell you. There must be ten thousand red-headed girls out there
who look like that.”
Hanson
shook his head. “All involved with Northern Ireland? All living with a junkie?”
He continued to study the picture like he was becoming convinced this was Marie.
Half a minute passed before he threw it down again. “It was you who told me Marie
was involved with a junkie, remember? That’s a dirty business, Henry. People
get killed when they get mixed up in this sort of business.”
“I
said it isn’t her! Hell, you should know Marie better’n that. By God, I’ll find
out what really happened to her.”
“Maybe
you will. Maybe not. Like I said, I made enquiries and this is what I come up
with.” He lowered his voice. “You wanna learn more?”
“More?”
“I
talked to NYPD. Told them about Marie. Told them what you told me, and they say
they wanna talk to you.”
“Why?”
“They
got their reasons. All to do with smuggling narcotics. So they say.”
I felt
angry. I wanted to find answers, but not this sort of answer. Logic told me
that the right answers might not taste so good, but I didn’t want logic. I
wanted to find out a truth which wouldn’t tarnish Marie’s memory.
“You
shouldn’t have told them about what Marie was doing. You had no business to do
that, Chief.”
Hanson
stood up suddenly. “Wise up, Henry! If you wanna learn what really happened to Marie
you better start gettin’ your brains in gear. There’s a lieutenant in NYPD
comin’ out here in a couple of days. Wants to talk to you. So, wise up and talk
to him. You might learn somethin’. Eh?”
“He’s
coming here to see me?”
“Don’t
get ideas above your station. He’s comin’ out here to talk to bigger fish than
some guy who throws up his Air Force career and won’t tell me why.”
“You
bastard.”
“You’ll
be second billing on his agenda, if that. Will you see him?”
I
considered it. “I might.”
“I’ll
take that as a yes.”
*
The NYPD lieutenant was
called Bray. He was in his mid-fifties, bald and paunchy with dull, dark eyes.
All round, he had one of those faces that gives away nothing but asks a hell of
a lot of questions. You could sure tell he was a cop, though. The signs were
there, inbred and developed to a point where any switched-on observer could
spot them without too much trouble. A hood could see it a mile off but that was
Bray’s problem, not mine.
He sat
behind Hanson’s desk, leaned back and sipped from a paper coffee cup. “Tell me
about your sister,” he said after the briefest of introductions. His voice was
gruff, insistent.
I
sniffed. Despite a growing sense of annoyance, I’d already decided to go along
with it. After all, as Hanson told me, I might actually learn something.
“What’s to tell? I reckon Chief Hanson filled you in on all you need to know
already. Marie wasn’t into narcotics, that’s all there is to it.”
“You
saw the photograph that’s supposed to be Christine Fisher. Does it look like
your sister?”
“I saw
it. It ain’t Marie.”
“How
do you know? Hanson reckons it looks a lot like her. Could have been her.” He
scratched at his chin, slowly and a mite too carefully to be spontaneous. “Maybe
she and Fisher were one and the same person.”
“Bullshit.
You don’t believe that.”
“Maybe
I do. Maybe not.”
“Marie
wouldn’t do anything as dumb as carry narcotics.”
Bray
just shrugged, but that single gesture implied that he thought otherwise. “This
girl, Fisher, disappeared about the same time your sister was killed. We had men
watching her, but she just vanished off the face of the earth.”
“That
don’t prove anything.”
“No.
But it’s a lead.” He crushed the paper cup and tossed it into the waste paper
basket. “If Fisher was your sister, you wanna find out for sure. If she wasn’t,
you still wanna find out. So, help us. Tell us what you know.”
It cut
against the grain to accept even the possibility that Marie was this missing
girl, but it made sense to keep talking. I pondered over it for a second or
two. “Marie had a boyfriend called Pat Mulholland. He was a junkie. My sister
gave him money.”
“To
buy narcotics?”
I
nodded. “But that don’t prove anything.”
“How
did she get the money? How did she earn it?”
“She
was a dancer.”
“What
sort of dancer.”
“Small
time. Look, Lieutenant, I keep telling you, you’re barking up the wrong tree.
Maybe Marie does look like this girl, but that’s just because they’re both red
heads.” I warmed to the argument. “Maybe someone mistook Marie for Fisher and
killed her by mistake.”
“Maybe.
But unlikely.”
“Anything’s
likely.”
He
leaned forward in his seat and clasped his hands together. “Fisher was American
and the Brits have been asking for intelligence on her. Funny thing is I get
the impression they already know more than we do. That pisses me off, really pisses me off. And we can’t even
find the broad! It leaves us looking damn stupid. I don’t like looking stupid
in front of anyone. You want to know more?”
“Go
on.”
“She
was a dancer.” He leaned right across the desk and hissed at me. “A stripper.”
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