“This is true,” Wesley said tensely. “After the American embassy in Paris was bombed several days earlier, the ambassador’s travel plans were secretly changed even though the reservations weren’t.”
His eyes glanced past me, and he was tapping an ink pen against the knuckle of his left thumb.
He added, “We haven’t ruled out the possibility the hijackers were a hit squad, professional guns hired by somebody.”
“Okay, okay,” Marino said impatiently. “And no one’s ruled out that Beryl Madison and Gary Harper might have been murdered by a professional gun. You know, their crimes staged to look like a squirrel did ‘cm in.”
“I suppose one place to start would be to see what else we can find out about this orange fiber, its possible origin.”
Then I came right out and said it. “And maybe someone ought to look a little harder at Sparacino, make sure he wasn’t somehow connected with that ambassador who may have been the real target in the hijacking.”
Wesley didn’t respond.
Marino suddenly got interested in trimming a thumb- nail with his pocketknife.
Hanowell looked around the table, and when it seemed apparent we had no more questions for him, he excused himself and left.
Marino fired up another cigarette. “You ask me,” he said, blowing out a stream of smoke, “this is turning into a damn wild goose chase. I mean, it don’t add up. Why hire some international hit man to snuff a lady romance writer and a has-been novelist who ain’t produced nothing in years?”
“I don’t know,” Wesley said. “It all depends on who had what connections. Hell, it depends on a lot of things, Pete. Everything does. All we can do is follow the evidence as best we’re able. This brings me to the next item on the agenda. Jeb Price.”
“He’s back on the street,” Marino said automatically. I looked at him in disbelief. “Since when?”
Wesley inquired. “Yesterday,” Marino replied. “He posted bail. Fifty grand, to be exact.”
“You mind telling me how he managed that?”
I said, furious that Marino hadn’t told me this before now. “Don’t mind at all, Doc,” he said. There were three ways to post bail, I knew. The first was on personal recognizance, the second with cash or property, the third through a bail bondsman who charged a ten percent fee and demanded a cosigner or some other sort of security to assure he wasn’t left holding an empty bag if the accused decided to skip town. Jeb Price, Marino said, had opted for the latter.
“I want to know how he managed that,” I said again, getting out my cigarettes and scooting the Coke can closer so we could share.
“Only one way I know of. He called his lawyer, who opened a bank escrow account and sent a passbook to Lucky’s,” Marino said.
“Lucky’s?” I asked.
“Yo. Lucky Bonding Company on Seventeenth Street, conveniently located a block from the city jail,” Marino answered. “Charlie Luck’s pawnshop for prisoners. Also know as Hock & Walk. Charlie and me go back a long time, shoot the breeze, tell a few jokes. Sometimes he snitches a little, other times he zips his lip. This is one of those other times, unfortunately. Nothing I could pull on him succeeded in getting me the name of Price’s lawyer, but I’ve got a suspicion he ain’t local.”
“Price obviously has connections in high places,” I said.
“Obviously,” Wesley agreed grimly.
“And he never talked?” I asked.
“Had the right to remain silent, and he sure as hell did,” Marino answered.
“What did you find out about his arsenal?” Wesley was making notes to himself again. “You run it through ATF?”
Marino replied, “Comes back as registered to him, and he’s got a license to carry a concealed weapon, issued six years ago by some senile judge up here in northern Virginia who’s since retired and moved down south some-
where. According to the background check included in the record I got from the circuit court, Price was unmarried, was working in a D.C. gold and silver exchange called Finklestein’s at the time he was issued the license. And guess what? Finklestein’s ain’t there no more.”