Trader of secrets

Chapter Forty-One

By the time we reach the car parked in the alley, it is still dark. Harry asks me if I want him to turn on the headlights, but I tell him no, not until we get up close and see what is there.

“Why don’t you take the keys and stay in the car,” I tell Joselyn.

“Why don’t you?”

“I’ll do it,” says Harry. “There’s an opening down there to the left. Do you see it?”

I can barely make it out in the dim light.

“That’s where they went,” says Harry. “I don’t know where it goes, but if they come back out, try to stay clear. I’ll use the headlights to blind them. Cream ’em against the wall with the car if I have to.”

“OK.” Joselyn and I step slowly toward the end of the alley as Harry gets back in the car. We can see the long rolled bundle lying on the ground. It is sort of crumpled against the foot of the building. As we draw closer, I can tell, whatever it is, it is wrapped in one of those blue plastic tarps that you can buy in any hardware store in the world.

I can’t see the foot until we get closer. Harry was right. As we get within a few feet, I can tell that the running shoe sticking out of the bundle has to belong to a man. It is too big for a woman.

“Maybe we should call the police,” says Joselyn.

“In a minute,” I tell her.

The bundle is tied with twine. Neither of us has a knife or anything sharp enough to cut it. I am left to find the end and try and untie the knot. I pull my hands inside the long sleeves of my sweater and roll the bundle toward me looking for the end of the twine. Each time I try to roll it, the bundle seems to want to roll back the other way. Lividity has taken over the body, and the blood has settled to the lowest point and solidified, creating a counterweight.

“What are you doing?” says Joselyn.

“I’m trying to untie the knot.”

“Leave it alone. Let’s get out of here.”

“Go and sit in the car with Harry,” I tell her.

“Not unless you’re coming.”

“Watch the alley. Make sure nobody comes in behind us,” I tell her.

It takes me a good two minutes to find the knot and to push the heavy cotton twine backward, using my thumb and my fingernails to untie it. Once the knot is undone, it becomes easy to unwind the string from around the outside of the bundled tarp.

As I am doing this I am looking overhead to see if there are any surveillance cameras in or near the alley. It doesn’t look like it, but I can’t be sure. Using the inside of my sleeves, I pull the edge of the tarp and roll the body out.

The inside of the tarp is covered in blood, some of it clotted, some dried.

Joselyn looks away and covers her mouth with her hand. “Let’s get out of here. Why are we doing this?”

“Because I need to know what’s going on. Why don’t you go back to the car,” I tell her.

“No. I’m OK.”

The victim looks to be maybe forty years old with dark hair. The body is matted with blood. His flesh is the color of a bleached cotton sheet, pure white. There is a puncture wound in his throat, traces of blood still seeping from it.

He’s wearing a buttoned dress shirt and light-colored cotton jeans of some kind. I can see that there is nothing in the breast pocket of his shirt. I feel the pockets of his pants, front and back. They are empty.

“Who do you think he is?” says Joselyn.

“I don’t know. There’s no identification. No wallet, no watch, no rings. Whoever dumped him stripped the body.” I lean over and carefully turn down the collar on the back of his shirt. I don’t like touching the body any more than I have to. But it is the only chance I have to find out who he is. There is not a doubt in my mind that Liquida killed him. His shirt collar is covered with blood and there is a hole just under the label, but it is readable: “Kenneth Cole.”

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“Can’t be sure, but I’m guessing his clothes were bought in the States.”

“You think he’s American?”

“I don’t know.” Then something catches my eye. “Do you have a handkerchief?”

Joselyn feels around the pockets of her pants and her jacket. “No, but I have some Kleenex.”

“That’ll do.”

She takes out a small pocket pack of tissues and hands it to me. I take five or six and create a thick pad. “Don’t look,” I tell her.

I lift his shoulder with my left hand and reach down under the body toward the bottom of the plastic tarp underneath him.

“What is it?” Joselyn has her back to me.

“Looks like a pair of glasses. They must have missed them.” As soon as I pick them up I realize why. The neck strap has been pulled free from one of the temple tips, the part of the frame that hooks over the ear. If I had to guess, I would say that whoever murdered him dropped him onto the tarp as he was dying. This would account for all the blood inside the tarp. His heart was still pumping. “I am guessing that Liquida probably tangled his hand in the strap as he was dropping him onto the tarp. The glasses fell off and he never noticed them.”

“You’re sure Liquida did this?”

“Look at his throat.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” she says.

“That’s a puncture wound. Caused by something narrow and sharp. Herman has one just like it in his back. You know anybody else uses a stiletto like that? That’s his calling card.

“I’ll call the French police as soon as we get back to the hotel. Tell them about the body, give them Liquida’s name, tell them to check the FBI’s list for the poster and to search the hotel.”

“You think he’s still there?”

“No. But the French police, once they have the poster and a name, at least they’ll start watching all the airports.” I throw the edge of the tarp over the body. “Let’s get outta here.”