“Hardly,” Gregor said.
Frank Margiotti looked back at the building again. He was a short man, no more than five foot eight, and thin the way some Italian-American men are thin, wiry and hard. Gregor did not think he was normally a nervous man, but he was nervous now, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, making and unmaking fists.
“It’s always a pain in the ass—excuse me, Miss Hannaford—it’s always a pain when we’ve got a crime with one of these people involved. Even people a lot less important than Tony Ross. We had the United States Secret Service out here the other day, did you know that? He did something or the other with the International Monetary Fund. Tony Ross did. I’m not even sure what the International Monetary Fund is.”
“It loans money to poor countries,” Bennis said. “I think.”
“Christ,” Frank Margiotti said.
Gregor cleared his throat. “Maybe we ought to get inside and talk to whoever we’re supposed to be talking to.”
“We should,” Frank said. “We should.” He didn’t move. “Did John Jackman tell you that we won’t be able to officially use you as a consultant? Technically, you’re a suspect in the case. Because you were there, you know.”
“I know,” Gregor said. “It’s all right. It’s quite proper, really.”
“Yes, well. Nobody really takes you seriously as a suspect. Not just because you’re you but because you were in at that buffet table when the shots were fired, so obviously you weren’t firing them. And, uh, we did check with the FBI about your marksmanship record.”
“Oh, God,” Gregor said.
“It’s freezing out here,” Bennis said.
Frank Margiotti balled his hands into fists and then unballed them. He looked at the sky. He looked at his feet. He did not move in the direction of the building. “The thing is,” he said. “Marty and I were talking. It does look like a professional hit. Everything the papers have been saying in that direction is true. And the FBI guy is insisting on it. Go after the professionals. And that makes sense.”
“But?” Gregor said.
“For some reason, to me, it doesn’t make sense,” Frank said. “It just feels like bullshit. Sorry, Miss Hannaford.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Bennis said. “I can swear like a pimp in Elvish.”
“Do you have a reason for why it feels like bullshit?” Gregor asked.
“No,” Frank Margiotti said.
“You want me to give you one?” Gregor asked.
Frank brightened. “Is there one? Marty feels the same way, but the FBI guy keeps telling us we’re both acting like assholes. Excuse me, Miss Hannaford.”
“I give up,” Bennis said.
“Look at it this way,” Gregor said. “Tony Ross was a very important man. An internationally important man. You hire a mercenary to kill him, you’ve got a man out there who knows who you are and who’s got about as much compunction about committing another murder as you’ve got about having a second cup of coffee at breakfast. Which puts you in an extremely sticky situation, long-term.”
“All right,” Frank said. “That’s good. But—it doesn’t seem like the kind of thing that one of the guests could do, does it?”
“No,” Gregor said. “If I were you, I’d be looking for some kind of organization. Something with a high commitment factor where the members have access to professional training. Islamic fundamentalists. One of the separatist groups, Basques, that kind of thing. Maybe the militias, but only maybe. They like to think of themselves as professionals, but they’re mostly good ol’ boys with delusions of grandeur.”
“Timothy McVeigh’s delusions of grandeur killed a hundred sixty-eight people,” Frank said.
“With a fertilizer bomb,” Gregor said, “not a high-powered rifle with a silencer fired at a distance in the dark at a target standing in a group of people, all of them both moving and standing close enough to him to turn into collateral damage at the least mistake in aim. Has any group tried to take credit for this?”
“Oh, hell, yes. Dozens of them. We’re checking them out, but—” Frank shrugged.
“I’m going inside before I freeze to death,” Bennis said. “Or he starts apologizing to me for saying hell.”
She walked off. Gregor looked after her. Frank Margiotti looked after her too.
“Beautiful woman,” Frank said. “Something of a handful and a half, I’d think.”
Gregor thought about agreeing with him, but under the circumstances he thought it would be redundant.