Two down - By Nero Blanc Page 0,67
at Rosco. For the first time he seemed worried about his answer. “Last week, why?”
“I can always check with the airlines, but I was hoping you’d cooperate and supply something more specific—such as what day and hour? Was it before or after the Orion blaze?”
Again Flack turned evasive. “Come on, dude, what difference does that make?”
“As I said, it’s easy enough to check with the airlines . . .” Rosco stood as if to leave. “Mr. Pepper doesn’t like leaving loose ends—especially when it involves finding his wife—”
“Hold on.” Flack swung off the cot and hurried across to the cell’s bars. “I arrived last Saturday night—nine, ten o’clock . . . As soon as I heard Jamaica had lit out of L.A., I booked a flight.”
“Who told you she’d ‘lit out’?”
“Sources, dude, sources . . .” Flack started to sneer, then reconsidered the remark. His tone and body language grew wary. “Okay . . . the same guy she sailed to Catalina with. It’s worth his while to keep her name in the papers.”
“So you were here Sunday . . . You could have followed the Orion into Buzzards Bay.”
“Hey, hey . . . back up there . . . What are you saying? That I torched the boat?”
“Who said it was torched?”
Flack forced an unsteady laugh. “Torched . . . accident . . . who cares? Listen, if I’d been there when those babes bit it, I would have gotten photographs of the whole damn shooting match.”
“Who’s to say you don’t have them already?” Rosco stood for a moment, regarding Flack while the photographer mimicked unconcern. “Do you know what W. R. Hearst wired to his illustrator Frederic Remington after sending him to Cuba in 1898?”
Flack shrugged. “That’s what you cowboys talk about around here? Ancient history? Sorry, dude, that was a little before my time.”
“ ‘You furnish the pictures; I’ll furnish the war.’ Some folks will stoop pretty low to sell a few newspapers . . . Or jump-start a career.”
The photographer opened his mouth to speak, but Rosco cut him off. “Don’t waste brain cells on a response, ‘dude.’ Like you said, before your time . . . And possibly beyond your acumen.”
Then he turned and walked to the corridor. In the greenish glare from a line of fluorescent overheads, he saw Abe Jones leaving the forensics lab, a dark brown file folder in his left hand. Rosco trotted to catch up. “It looks like NPD has everyone working today.”
Abe let out an elongated groan. “Overworked, is more like it . . . What happened to your eye?”
“Cut myself shaving . . . Did you get the DNA tests on the blood samples I turned in?”
“They won’t be ready till Tuesday.” Jones tapped the file folder. “I’m finished with the rest of it though—taking the results to Al now.”
“Any surprises?”
Jones thought for a minute. “The fire was started by the two oil lamps—as I’d figured during my initial examination. Fingerprints were scarce. The few I lifted belonged to the women or to Colberg, but I also found a couple that didn’t match. They’ve been sent to the FBI for analysis . . . I’ll stay with my original theory that the propane tank blew and knocked out most of the existing fire. But someone definitely appeared at the scene later and finished the job with CO2 extinguishers.”
“Fogram, the guy who leased the Dixie-Jack, admitted he and his buddies doused it,” Rosco said, then added a slow, “So, that’s it, huh?”
“Not completely, no. The most intriguing data isn’t from the Orion or the Dixie-Jack. It’s from the inflatable.”
“Oh?”
“First: the remaining portion of the Orion’s towline had been singed, but cut clean—not untied. The rope ending that was still attached to the inflatable isn’t singed, although the sever marks cleanly match those on board. I’d say the women escaped in the dinghy rather than jumping overboard. The fact that it was cut points to a hasty escape, probably panic; even experienced sailors can run afoul of a well-tied knot—especially in the dark with an escalating blaze. Next: Colberg maintains the outboard was gassed up when the yacht departed. When we retrieved the inflatable, the tank was almost empty, indicating that it had been run for almost two hours.”
Rosco mulled over the information. “The women could have reached any shoreline in the bay in two hours: Woods Hole, West Falmouth, even back to West Island . . .”
“In all probability, yes. But here’s the real kicker, Rosco . . .