Too Many Murders(115)
“Delia’s right,” said Abe.
“What if this is his dream job?” Silvestri asked. “What if he’s got a family somewhere, and Ulysses offered him so much money that they’d be comfortable for the rest of their lives? Like, multimillions? If he’s not a political idealist, then that’s the only other reason I can think of that would tempt him to burn his boats and take the job. It must be part of his pact with Ulysses not to be taken alive, otherwise the whole fee wouldn’t be paid.”
“That’s brilliant, sir!” Corey cried, the lieutenancy rising to the forefront of his mind. Not that his compliment was meant insincerely, just that under ordinary circumstances he would have said nothing. “A man might do it for his family.”
“Snipers,” said Carmine, “are in a special category. They don’t see their prey close up after they’ve made a kill. All they see is a two-dimensional effigy in their sights, then a heap on the ground. Like a fighter pilot. It’s clean killing, in that you shouldn’t ever see the mess you’ve made. So I can understand how a man might become a professional sniper, yet still retain a part at least of his humanity.”
“Well, the chaos never happened beyond whatever Channel Six can make of it,” Silvestri said, sighing. “Between now and two this afternoon I have to fabricate a convincing story for my interview with dear old Di of the Post and whatever lady shark is anchoring Six’s News at Six on Six. After Di, I have to face the out-of-town journalists. A crazy, huh?”
“Someone with a grudge against Town and Gown,” Carmine said with a grin. “We’ll have to hope that we can put a name to him from his prints, but somehow I doubt his prints are on file with anyone. He’s a foreign national, probably from East Germany via Brazil or Argentina. I’d pull all the stops out, sir, give him any background you like, and say we’re not releasing his actual identity to protect the innocent.”
The Commissioner got up, wincing. “I’m getting too old to play chasings across the Green,” he said with a grimace. “And I fired my sidearm at last! What a bummer.”
“What happens now, Carmine?” Abe asked.
“We go to Judge Thwaites and we ask for search warrants for the homes, other properties, and offices of Mr. Philip Smith, Mr. Gus Purvey, Mr. Fred Collins, Mr. Wal Grierson, and Mr. Lancelot Sterling,” Carmine said. “They have the money to pay five or ten million to a sniper. In one respect this morning’s fracas was a godsend—Doubting Doug will be so fired up he’d give us warrants for anyone except M.M. and Delia’s Uncle John.”
“We don’t have the manpower,” Corey said, frowning. “If it’s to work, we have to hit them all at once. Why chickenfeed like Sterling, Carmine? He’s not a billionaire or anything like.”
“By the pricking of my thumbs,” Carmine said. “He’s a sadist, which makes him interesting. As to the manpower, name me a better time to pull cops off ordinary duty than in the aftermath of a sniper attack. Various substances are being flushed down toilets, arsenals buried inside mattresses and walls, and every hood in Holloman has his head in the sand. That will go for Mohammed el Nesr and the Black Brigade too. We’ll fill the air with the sound of sirens, and everyone will think we’re on the trail of assassins.”
“Offices first?” Abe asked.
“No, homes first.”
Face downcast, Delia started clearing the chairs away.
“Delia, you get Wallace Grierson,” Carmine said. “You’ve already taken the Oath, now I hereby depute you as a detective sergeant in the Holloman Police Department. Grierson’s a waste of time, so you’ll be safe even if I can’t issue you with a sidearm. But the search has to be thorough. I don’t want any of the Cornucopia Board imagining that I’ve played favorites. Most of them have cabins in Maine—the Maine Staties can deal with them, with particular attention to barns, sheds and bear traps. I’ll call them while Tasco assembles the troops, who don’t have to know ahead of time what we’re up to.”
Delia was in ecstasy, so much so that she didn’t even mind being palmed off on Wallace Grierson. “What do we look for, Carmine?” she asked, brown eyes as bright as a bird dog’s at the sight of the master’s shotgun.
“Hobbies that don’t fit,” Carmine said instantly. “Most important, home darkrooms capable of color film development, enlarging, diminishing. A peculiar taste in books, such as Nazi Germany, Communism, Russia in all ideological guises, Mainland China. Also sciences at a higher level than we might expect. Abe, you get Lancelot Sterling because you have a knack for finding secret doors and compartments. I’m putting Larry Pisano on Gus Purvey. And you, Corey, get Fred Collins.”