Cutting Edge

48

When she’d decided to come to Vienna, Lund hadn’t known what to expect. She reckoned she might have a hard time finding either DeBolt or Dr. Atif Patel, whoever he was. A degree of frustration seemed a given, as was the prospect of fencing with authorities. The one thing she hadn’t foreseen was boredom.

She’d been in the holding room for eight hours, the only visits being from a junior officer who asked occasionally if she needed a bottle of water or a sandwich. She’d taken him up on both three hours ago. Lund decided she’d underestimated the reach and efficiency of the Coast Guard, or TSA, or whoever had recognized her departure from the U.S. She’d wanted to slip into Europe quietly, before anyone realized she was a no-show in Kodiak. Special Agent in Charge Wheeley was the most likely culprit. He was under a microscope right now, his Kodiak CGIS outpost in tatters with one agent found dead in the other’s bed. Regardless of how it had reached this point, Lund hated where she was now. Locked in a holding room, she could do nothing to help Trey. So it was, when a new face came through the door, she was encouraged. At least something was happening.

The man was average in height and build, with brown hair and — she had to say — a certain softness about him. Rounded edges, indoor complexion. He smiled mechanically, and said, “Hello, Miss Lund. I’m Blake Winston, with the U.S. State Department here in Vienna.”

His words were clipped and pretentious, the Ivy League of four generations ago. Put him in a striped sweater and an ascot, and he’d show you the way to Newport. She stood and got a fleshy handshake. “State Department?” she asked.

“Yes. Were you expecting someone else?” He had a briefcase in hand, and set it next to the empty water bottle on the room’s only table.

“I guess I didn’t know what to expect. I’ve never been in a situation like this before.”

Winston put on a pair of glasses as he opened his briefcase. Lund thought he looked a bit young for readers. “Yes … about your situation.” He referred to a document. “You are a civilian employee of the United States Coast Guard.”

“That’s right, Coast Guard Investigative Service.”

“And you were given instructions by your unit commander to return to Kodiak for questioning regarding a homicide investigation.”

Lund sighed. “Yes.”

Winston looked at her as if expecting more. When she didn’t offer it, he said, “So then … why did you come to Austria?”

It was the question Lund knew she would face, and she’d had all day to think of a good answer. What she’d settled on was weak and evasive, but really the only option. “I will address that with my superior once I’m back in Alaska.”

Winston frowned, but didn’t press the matter. “Very well. My instructions are to arrange your transport to Ramstein Air Force Base in Germany. We have a small jet departing later tonight — you and your escort will be on it.”

“Escort?”

“An officer from our embassy security detail.”

“Is that necessary?”

“Apparently, yes.” Winston grinned at his cleverness.

“That seems like a lot of trouble to go to for—”

“Actually, it’s no trouble at all. It’s a U.S. Air Force jet, and the flight was already on the books. Your escort to Ramstein will be a Marine captain from the embassy detachment — he was traveling home on leave anyway.”

“And when I get to Ramstein?”

“We’re to hand you over to the Air Force Security Police. They will coordinate the rest of your trip home. According to this message”—he fluttered the paper in his hand—“you can expect three more military transports, with changes of aircraft in Dover and Anchorage.”

“That’ll take about a week. And more escorts?”

Winston shrugged. “You don’t appear to be dangerous, but it’s not my bailiwick.”

Bailiwick? Lund sank back in her chair. “Okay, when do we leave?”

“There’s some paperwork being run right now — the Austrians are funny that way. I think it’s already gone through a magistrate — let’s hope, because this late in the day we’d have a hard time finding one. Once that’s all done, and when your escort arrives, we can head straight to the airport.”

Lund thought, but didn’t say, It’s probably good that you’ll have some help, Mr. Winston. Otherwise I’d kick your ass right now and make for the hills.

The senior constable in the Bundespolizei evidence room made a terrible mistake, although at the time he couldn’t have known it.

“Two items to check,” said Oberkommissar Strauss as he came through the door. He was carrying a small roller suitcase and a woman’s purse.

The evidence man, who was lesser in rank, said, “Whose are they?”

Strauss handed over a form with the owner’s name and an inventory. “A young American woman. We detained her this morning at the airport for the Americans, but the dummkopf from their embassy who was supposed to act as her escort still hasn’t shown up. We’re working it out, but in the meantime I’m going off duty.”

The evidence man understood. Since the inspector of record was going off premises, the possessions could not be left unattended upstairs. In strict adherence to Bundespolizei procedure, Strauss would deposit everything in the evidence room for safekeeping.

Strauss filled out two adhesive tags and applied them, one to each the purse and the suitcase. The evidence room manager, who was more of a file clerk really, took possession as the inspector lifted the items over the counter.

“Shouldn’t be more than an hour or two,” said Strauss. “As long as it takes to push through the paperwork.”

Once the inspector was gone, the evidence man input a locator number on his computer, and then turned toward the rows of shelves with both articles in hand. In spite of having no more than twenty steps to cover, he walked slowly, and eventually paused near the junction of two sets of shelves. There he regarded each bag in turn. He was alone in the big room — always was except during shift change — yet he knew cameras watched the place continuously. The front desk, where each bit of evidence was signed in and out, was doubly monitored. Yet there was one dead zone, the very corner where he was standing, where no lens, human or otherwise, penetrated.

He parted the folds of the purse and saw a wallet and a phone inside, along with the usual sundries: hairbrush, lip gloss, a small mirror. A pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He pulled out the phone. It was an inspection he’d performed many times, and there was really no policy for or against it. He justified it by telling himself that he might one day break a big case, uncover some vital message or image that could be forwarded to the detectives upstairs. He never worried about whether such a search would hold up in court, nor did he dwell on what was closer to the truth: he was a nosy person, and rather liked looking at other people’s pictures.

The phone was not powered, so he turned it on.

The device took thirty seconds to spring to life, and he immediately saw badges on the main screen that signified new text messages. He began there and saw a series of photos, but nothing very scintillating. They were actually rather strange, five photographs of what looked like footprints in mud. He didn’t know what to make of it at first, not until the last image, which was embellished with text: Here are the pics for the Simmons case. Hope it helps your investigation.

The evidence technician fumbled the phone, nearly dropping it. Shannon Lund, in spite of whatever trouble she might have found, was also a detective of some kind. Unnerved, he quickly hit the button to turn the phone off, stuffed it in the woman’s purse, and set that on the correct shelf.

The technician scurried back to the front counter wholly unaware of his mistake. In his haste to shut the phone down, he had hit the wrong button. Glowing ever so silently on a high shelf, the phone remained powered up.