“Who’s Eddings?” Lucy asked.
She was sitting on a countertop, sipping Peroni. Through the windows behind her snow streaked the gathering dark.
I explained more about what had happened today, and she asked no further questions, but was silent as Marino talked.
“Nothing jumped out,” he said. “One MasterCard, one Visa, AmEx, insurance info.
Crap like that and a couple receipts. They look like restaurants, but we’ll check. You mind if I get another one of these?” He dropped an empty bottle into the trash and opened the refrigerator door.
“Let’s see what else.” Glass clattered. “He wasn’t carrying much cash. Twenty-seven bucks.”
“What about photographs?” I asked, kneading dough on a board dusted with flour.
“Nothing.” He shut the refrigerator. “And as you know, he wasn’t married.”
“We don’t know that he didn’t have a significant relationship with someone,” I said.
“That could be true because there sure isn’t a hell of a lot we know.” He looked at Lucy. “You know what Birdsong is?”
“My Sig’s got a Birdsong finish.” She looked over at me. “So does Aunt Kay’s Browning.”
“Well, this guy Eddings had a Browning nine-mil just like what your aunt’s got and it has a desert brown Birdsong finish. Plus, his ammo’s Teflon-coated and has red lacquer on the primer. I mean you could shoot the shit through twelve phone books in the friggin’ pouring rain.”
She was surprised. “What’s a journalist doing with something like that?”
“Some people are just very enthusiastic about guns and ammo,” I said. “Although I never knew Eddings was. He never mentioned it to me-not that he necessarily would have.”
“I’ve never seen KTW in Richmond at all,” Marino said, referring to the brand name of the Teflon-coated cartridges. “Legal or otherwise.”
“Could he have gotten it at a gun show?” I asked.
“Maybe. One thing’s for sure. This guy probably went to a lot of them. I ain’t told you about his apartment yet.”
I covered the dough with a damp towel and put the bowl in the oven on the lowest setting.
“I won’t give you the whole tour,” he went on. “Just the important parts, starting with the room where he’s apparently been reloading his own ammo. Now where he’s been shooting all these rounds, who knows. But he’s got plenty of guns to choose from, including several other handguns, an AK-47, an MP5 and an M16. Not exactly what you use for varmint hunting. Plus, he subscribed to a number of survivalist magazines, including Soldier of Fortune, U.S. Cavalry Magazine, and Brigade Quartermaster.
Finally”-Marino took another swallow of beer-“we found some videotapes on how to be a sniper. You know special forces training and shit like that.”
I folded eggs and Parmesan reggiano with ricotta. “Any hint as to what he may have been involved in?” I asked as the mystery of the dead man deepened and unsettled me more.
“No, but he sure as hell seemed to be after something.”
“Or something was after him,” I said.
“He was scared,” Lucy spoke as if she knew. “You don’t go diving after dark and carry along a waterproof nine-mil loaded with armor-piercing ammo unless you’re scared. That’s the behavior of someone who thinks there’s a contract out on him.”
It was then I told them about my strange early-morning phone call from an Officer Young who did not seem to exist. I mentioned Captain Green and described his behavior.
“Why would he call, if he’s the one who did?” Marino frowned.
“Clearly, he didn’t want me at the scene,” I said. “And maybe if I were given ample information by the police, I would just wait for the body to come in, as I usually do.”
“Well, it sounds to me like you were being bullied,” Lucy said.
“I believe that was the overall plan,” I agreed.
“Have you tried the phone number this nonexistent Officer Young gave you?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
“Where is it?”
I got it for her and she dialed it.
“It’s the number for the local weather report,” she said, hanging up.
Marino pulled out a chair from the checker cloth–covered breakfast table and straddled it, his arms folded on top of the back. Nobody spoke for a while as we sifted through data that were getting only stranger by the minute.