It was my turn to smile. ‘Good quote – a fine piece of writing,’ I said. I knew then it was she who had killed the woman in New York and dumped her in a bath of acid.
‘The quote comes from a book called Principles of Modern Investigative Technique by a man called Jude Garrett,’ I continued. ‘And I know where you got that book – you borrowed it from the New York Public Library on a fake Florida driver’s licence. You took it back to Room 89 at the Eastside Inn, where you were living, and used it as a manual to kill someone. How’s that for evidence?’
She looked at me expressionless – my God, it was a triumph of self-control on her part. But her silence told me it had rocked her world, ripped the canvas of her meticulous crime from top to bottom.
She pivoted and walked out. I figured that, within an hour, Cameron would be lawyering up, paying for a regiment of top-flight advisers, but it wouldn’t help them much – I understood what they had done, everything from the day the Twin Towers fell to the real reason why there were lacerations on Dodge’s hands.
I paid no attention, however, to what she had said about not understanding the half of it. I thought it was just boasting, cheap bar-talk, but that was underestimating her. I should have picked up every stitch, I should have listened and thought about every word.
I glanced up and caught Hayrunnisa’s eye. She was staring at me, seriously impressed. ‘Wow!’ she said.
I smiled modestly. ‘Thank you.’
‘Not you,’ she replied. ‘Her. Wow!’
If I was honest, though, I agreed. Ingrid Kohl – or whatever her name was – had done a great job during the interview, better than I had ever expected. Even so, there was plenty of stuff on the camera that I knew would help convict her in court. I picked up the device and I couldn’t help myself – I started laughing.
‘What is it?’ Hayrunnisa asked.
‘You were right,’ I said. ‘Wow! It was no accident she spilled the stuff out of her bag – it was a diversion. She turned the fucking camera off.’
Chapter Seventy-two
I WAS WALKING along the marina, footsore and hungry, but too anxious to eat or to rest. It had been three hours since I had slipped the battery back into my phone and left Cumali’s office and already I had covered the beach, the Old Town and now the waterfront.
Twice I had started to dial Bradley, desperate to hear the results of the DNA tests, but I stopped myself in time. I had stressed to him on the phone how urgent it was and I knew that he and Whisperer would have made arrangements to speed them through the lab. He would call the moment he had them, but it didn’t make it any easier. Come on, I kept saying to myself. Come on.
I was halfway between a group of seafood stands and several rowdy nautical bars when the phone rang. I answered it without even looking at the caller ID. ‘Ben?’ I said.
‘We got the results,’ he replied. ‘No details yet, just a phone summary, but I figured you’d want them as soon as possible.’
‘Go ahead,’ I replied, trying to keep my voice neutral.
‘The little guy is definitely not the woman’s son.’
My response was to exhale – I was so wired I hadn’t even realized I was holding my breath. Why the hell was Cumali raising him as her own then? I asked myself.
‘But the two individuals are closely related,’ Bradley continued. ‘There’s a 99.8 per cent probability that she is the boy’s aunt.’
‘His aunt?’ I said, and repeated it to myself. His aunt?
‘What about the father? Can they tell us anything about that?’ I asked.
‘Yes – the father of the child is the woman’s brother.’
So, I thought, Leyla Cumali was bringing up her brother’s son. I felt a rising tide of excitement – of sudden clarity – but I didn’t say anything.
‘That’s all I can tell you at the moment,’ Bradley said.
‘Okay,’ I said coolly, and hung up.
I stood still, blocking out the sound of the drinkers in the bars. Leyla Cumali’s brother had a little boy and she was raising him – in complete secrecy – as her own child.
Again, I asked myself, why? Why lie about it? What was there to be ashamed of in taking care of your nephew?
I thought of the morning when I had met her at the corner park – of the anger that had greeted my intrusion and the furtive way in which she had gathered up the little guy. I recalled thinking then that I had walked into a secret. It wasn’t normal; none of those things made any sense.
Unless, of course, the father was an outlaw – a soldier in a secret war, for instance. A man always on the move, a man wanted for jihad or terrorism or something worse …