Cloudburst by Ryne Pearson Page B

prints for sure. I can see some with just my eyes.”
    “I want to know if there are any besides Jackson’s. If there are we’re going to need a rush match with any we found on the suspect debris.”
    Valenzuela shook his head. “I don’t know about that. Dan said there isn’t much, if anything, that we can use. A couple partial prints at best.”
    “Still, let’s do it,” Art persisted. “Do your best.”
    The mask came up, covering the agent’s mouth, and he turned to do his magic on the Jeep. Art stood silently at the open side door to the garage. The big double doors that opened to the driveway were still closed to the dismay of the crowd gathering across the street.
    Art didn’t see Jerry Donovan come up from behind. A tap on his shoulder alerted him. “Jerry. How the hell did you get here? I mean, in town ?”
    Donovan had been on a backpack fishing trip in the Maroon Bells area of Aspen, Colorado. “Let me tell you, it’s a damn shame when an Army chopper plucks you out of a spot that God Himself made for the fisherman. What’ve we got going here?”
    It took five minutes to update his boss. “He’s got some relatives, according to some lady two doors down. But that’ll take some time to confirm.”
    Donovan took it all in. He had obviously come straight from a quick change of clothes and a shave. His balding head of black hair was longer than he usually wore it. “A smart one, it seems.”
    “Maybe.” Art wasn’t sure about that. Fortunate, possibly, and well directed more likely. He felt it in his gut that there was a further player in this, someone behind Jackson.
    The second agent felt his top collar button pop. “Damn fast dressing!” He left it undone. “Hey. What say you and me head on back to the barn.” The barn was the office, and Art hadn’t been there since the morning of the shooting. Donovan bent forward and down, examining Art’s chin. “If that’s the worst you ever get…”
    “I know. I’m lucky.”
    “Who’s senior here?”
    “Hal Lightman.” Art looked to the front.
    “Good. Ready?”
    The drive to the FBI office was slow in the lingering Los Angeles rush-hour traffic, taking nearly forty-five minutes.
    “I went a little out of channels, Jerry,” Art admitted as the car exited the freeway. Donovan’s silence meant ‘go on.’ “Eddie’s over at the Israeli consulate. I wanted to contact someone I knew from their embassy—a terrorism expert.”
    “I don’t know, Art.” Donovan could see how that might backfire. “Picture the media if they get a hold of it. ‘FBI and Israelis investigate the middle eastern connection in the assassination.’” His gaze emphasized the words. “You get my drift? Especially if this Jackson connection pans out. The press would read that as a homegrown job, even if it’s not.”
    Art wanted to tell his superior that his line of thought was bullshit, but wisely toned down his tongue. “I understand, but one of the shooters is—”
    “Alleged shooter, Art.” Again, Donovan spoke louder with his eyes. “Remember that.”
    “Are you telling me to back off on that?” Art asked, with no love of the idea in his voice.
    Donovan paused. “No. It’s your call.”
    There hadn’t been any doubt in Art’s mind. His boss was just doing his job, and in a small way, he was right. But then he thought in political terms, not those of a cop. He had come up through the ranks from the financial investigations section, a path that was safe and deskbound from beginning to end. That, Art believed, made him a candidate for something, somewhere, someday. Fortunately, though, he didn’t impose his own skittishness on those he supervised. And there was that small bit of truth in Donovan’s words. The whole thing could be taken wrong, and that could lead to even more problems. International incident? Maybe. But the detrimental effect it could have on the investigation was what worried Art the most. The Israelis certainly wouldn’t be