and neighbors were concerned, they were Americans. Had to be—they wore Nike sweatshirts and baseball caps.
To reduce suspicion, the “Arabs” had not used ammonium nitrate, the oxidizing agent of choice in most truck bombs. Instead, they'd purchased potassium nitrate for use in glass-making—glass making being their stated business and occupation. Basically, the bomb makers knew exactly what they were doing. Potassium nitrate is every bit as potent as ammonium nitrate, especially when combined with diesel oil, rubber, and sand in what the FBI's forensics team determined to have been “ideal proportions.” Meanwhile, over at the Four Winds, the gas had burned so fiercely that no items of forensic interest had been recovered from that scene.
The body count at the scene had risen since I was there. Far too many of the critically injured had failed to respond to treatment. I noted that the numbers of people missing as a result of the bombing had shrunk to twelve.
I put in a call to Arlen on his cell. “Hey,” I said when he picked up.
“Vin. How's it going down there.” He was instantly suspicious. “You are still down in Florida, aren't you?”
“Of course.”
He relaxed a little. “So how's the tan coming along?”
“Coming along great. Haven't left the hotel pool since I got here.”
“Really? I looked at the weather channel this morning and I saw it'd been raining.”
“Raining sunshine, buddy.”
“Well, whatever, you're lucky you're down there and not in D.C. Round here, sleep is a dirty word at the moment.”
“It's pretty frantic here, too, you know. You have to remember to flip over on the hour to avoid sunburn.”
“Yeah, yeah. Something I can do for you, Vin?”
“As a matter of fact, no.”
“That's a nice change.”
“Just rang to say hello and ask if the tests on Boyle's wallet have come through, and whether he's still on the missing list.”
“I class that as something—and you're not in the loop on that one anymore, Vin,” Arlen said, after a pause.
“C'mon, Arlen.”
“I'm not in it, either.”
“I know, but you're like the girl in reception. You know everything going on.”
“You really know how to stroke my ego, Vin.”
“I read Freddie Spears resigned shortly after I spoke to her.”
“Really? What did you say to her?”
“To make her resign? I told her I believed Boyle got Tanaka drunk and then threw him to that shark. She liked Tanaka and, from what I could tell, didn't think much of Boyle. Anything on that DVD, by the way?”
“Vin, c'mon. You promised to let this one go, to concentrate on the case you're working down there …”
“I know, and I haven't broken that promise. I just got an automated e-mail from the Chronicle about Spears's resignation. Got me thinking, is all.”
Arlen let this sink in before answering. “I know you're not going to believe me, but I don't know anything. I've heard nothing further about either the DVD or the wallet recovered there, or the case in general. And I'm not asking questions, either.”
He was right; I didn't believe him. “Can you just find out one small thing for me?”
“No.”
“I just want to know whether Boyle's body has been positively identified.”
“No.”
“It hasn't been IDed?”
I heard Arlen sigh. “So how is it going down there?” he asked again.
“You know what Florida's like?”
“Actually, I've never been there.”
“Lots of women in bikinis,” I said.
“Lucky you.”
“Who're mostly pushing seventy.”
“Thanks for that image,” he said. “So, you going to answer my question?”
“You going to answer mine?”
“Vin, Jesus…”
“OK, OK,” I said. “So far, from what I can see, it looks like a homicide.”
“Seems there's a lot of that going around at the moment. I gotta go, Vin. Got a world to save here. Keep fighting the good fight, buddy.”
“Talk later,” I said.
“Yeah, later…”
I heard dial tone. He was right about one thing. The Boyle/Tanaka case was no longer mine, and I was completely out of the loop, but I had my own theory about Boyle and I had my doubts about Chalmers being able to successfully muddle his way to the truth.
I made a supreme effort to do as Arlen requested and put that case out of my head. I opened the refrigerator door and noticed a small triangle of paper poking out from under the appliance. I bent and picked it up. It was a photograph. I flipped it over and saw a picture of Ruben Wright smiling back at me. It had been taken at night. He had a beer in one hand and barbecue tongs in the other, which was draped around the shoulders of a