Where the Evidence Lies (A Mulholland / Strand Magazine Short) by Jeffery Deaver

Author:Jeffery Deaver [Deaver, Jeffery]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Little, Brown and Company
Published: 2016-04-18T22:00:00+00:00

An hour later Detective Gillette led a handcuffed Joey Wilson into the hangar.

He directed the refueling man into an orange fiberglass chair and helped him sit. None too gently, Rhyme observed, thinking it must have been a harrowing, if short, chase.

“What’s the story?” Rhyme asked.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Please. “Why’d you run?”

“I wasn’t running. I just wanted to get home and close up my windows. Because of the storm. I forgot about them.”

Rhyme said, “You were lying to us. You did go out to the plane.”

“Maybe I did.”

“When?”

“Maybe eight thirty, a little later.”

“To plant a bomb in Nash’s plane.”

“No!”

“But you didn’t refuel the plane. We can check the logs.”

The man grumbled, “I told you no.”

“Perhaps an attitude is not what we need now. What did you go out to the plane for?”

But just that moment the answer came via a phone call. Gillette spoke for a few minutes and then hung up. He grinned as he looked over Wilson. “The crime scene people just went over your car.”

“Oh, hell.”

“And guess what they found?”

“I don’t know.”

“A kilo of very high-quality pot.”

“I don’t know anything about that!”

“Not even how it ended up in your spare tire?”

Wilson closed his eyes.

Rhyme said, “That’s why you were out at the plane, Joey, right? You didn’t plant any bombs; you were getting a delivery.”

“I swear…I didn’t kill him. But I lied about going to the airplane. I did, sure.”

“Because you’ve got a network of people who work on planes, right. They smuggle some drugs on board in equipment holds or wheel wells. That’s how you knew his flight plan.”

The sigh said, Yep, that’s right. He muttered, “It’s not even very good shit. All this trouble and it’s lousy pot.”

“Was Nash involved?”

“Naw, none of the people who fly the private planes know. That’s what makes the plan work so well. See, they don’t get nervous talking to Customs.”

This was undoubtedly true—using businessmen beyond suspicion made sense.

Rhyme continued, “Where were the drugs?”

“Port side. Left. An access compartment to the hydraulic system under the engine.”

Gillette said, “Opposite of the bomb.”

Rhyme wasn’t pleased. Had the drugs been sitting next to the bomb, there might have been a transfer if the two items had touched. But, no, this case was simply not going to be a forensic one.

“And you didn’t see anything else?” Rhyme asked.

“No, sir.”

Gillette escorted him to his feet. Several other officers from the Dade County East Sheriff’s Department took him away.

Sachs said, “Well, at least it’s clear he didn’t plant the bomb. We can believe him there.”

Gillette nodded. “No, he’s not going to kill his golden goose.”

“Well, on the surface, seems that those three suspects aren’t suspects after all. We’ll have to see what the NTSB says, but my conclusion from these facts is that it was an accident.” Rhyme gazed out over the tarmac. The planes seemed fragile in the wind and rain, as if the smallest of disruptions, let alone a bomb, could bring them down.

“Can they bring up the plane eventually?” Sachs asked.

“Five miles down?” Gillette said.

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