running a grocery store. Day like today, I wished I had taken it."
Reeves said, "Lots of days like today, I wished I had never heard of the federal government. Here, a reminder of what we're up against."
She fanned across the black-and-white photographs of the dead man, and I looked at the photos, each freezing a point in time where the body of a dead man slowly cooled in his rented car in a state parking lot. Somehow, in the photographs he looked more real, as if the man I had seen the other night had been a fake. I went through each of them, looking at the closed eyes, the 'finely trimmed mustache, the bloodstream going down the front of his suit, the white shirt stained as well, no necktie. Each photograph was part of a series, and soon I got sick at looking at a dead man from a variety of angles.
"Name's Romero, correct?" I asked, putting the photos hack down on the table.
"Yes."
"When did he get to New Hampshire?"
She went to a legal pad, took another sip from her Diet Coke.
"Got into Manchester the same day he got killed. Arrived at three p.m. on a commuter flight from Boston. From Boston, we've traced him back to JFK in New York, and from there, back to Mexico City. Apparently traveled by himself, no checked luggage."
I pushed the photographs back to her. "When was the time of death?”
“Maybe an hour or so before he was discovered. No matter what the novels or TV shows say, it can be a hellish thing to set the time of death."
"All right," I said. "It takes about an hour, at the most, to get from Manchester to the seacoast. Any idea what he did or where he went during those extra hours?"
There was a soft rustle of the newspaper from Doug, and Reeves said, "No, though we've been quietly canvassing all of the bed-and-breakfasts, motels, and hotels in the area. You have any idea how many lodging establishments are in this part of the state?"
"Not a clue."
"Lots, believe me," she said. "So far, we've turned up nothing. Hell, for all we know, Romero might not have bothered with setting up a room reservation."
"And the rental car?"
"Under the assumed name of Smith, with a credit card issued by a Mexico City bank that's practically owned and operated by the narcos. We're also trying to backtrack his movements, to see if he communicated with anyone along the way. Still nothing."
One of the two side doors opened and Turner came in, his face looking excited. "Laura, we've got our hands on the Fehler debrief and --- "
Reeves turned and said, "Button it, Gus."
Gus stood still, now looking slightly humiliated. "You told me to come get you the minute it came in."
"Right," she said, "and I'm telling you I'm busy here. Look, I'll be there in a sec. Okay?"
He said nothing, his face red, almost matching the color of his hair, and he went back through the door. I caught a glimpse of another room, almost as large as this one, and also stuffed with tables, computer gear, and, in this case, two unmade beds. The door slammed shut --- a touch too hard, I thought --- and I looked back at Reeves. She said, "Gus is a bit eager, but then again, once we all were. Is there anything else?”
“Yeah,” I said. “This Whizzer character and whoever he represents. Are they local, or are they recent moves to the area?”
"Why do you ask?"
I thought about Felix and said, "I might have an ability to track him down if he's originally from Massachusetts, that's all."
She shook her head. "All we know is the name and the shipyard. I'd focus your attention on that, Lewis."
"Well, I'll also focus your attention on the fact this Romero character came to my home state and got killed for his troubles. That's the kind of thing that makes me sit up and take notice."
She played with the top of her Diet Coke can. "In our recent visit to your home, I was impressed with the number of firearms you possess."
"I'm an avid supporter of the Second Amendment."
"So it would seem. So I would think you'd have no problem defending yourself,
Reeves said, "Lots of days like today, I wished I had never heard of the federal government. Here, a reminder of what we're up against."
She fanned across the black-and-white photographs of the dead man, and I looked at the photos, each freezing a point in time where the body of a dead man slowly cooled in his rented car in a state parking lot. Somehow, in the photographs he looked more real, as if the man I had seen the other night had been a fake. I went through each of them, looking at the closed eyes, the 'finely trimmed mustache, the bloodstream going down the front of his suit, the white shirt stained as well, no necktie. Each photograph was part of a series, and soon I got sick at looking at a dead man from a variety of angles.
"Name's Romero, correct?" I asked, putting the photos hack down on the table.
"Yes."
"When did he get to New Hampshire?"
She went to a legal pad, took another sip from her Diet Coke.
"Got into Manchester the same day he got killed. Arrived at three p.m. on a commuter flight from Boston. From Boston, we've traced him back to JFK in New York, and from there, back to Mexico City. Apparently traveled by himself, no checked luggage."
I pushed the photographs back to her. "When was the time of death?”
“Maybe an hour or so before he was discovered. No matter what the novels or TV shows say, it can be a hellish thing to set the time of death."
"All right," I said. "It takes about an hour, at the most, to get from Manchester to the seacoast. Any idea what he did or where he went during those extra hours?"
There was a soft rustle of the newspaper from Doug, and Reeves said, "No, though we've been quietly canvassing all of the bed-and-breakfasts, motels, and hotels in the area. You have any idea how many lodging establishments are in this part of the state?"
"Not a clue."
"Lots, believe me," she said. "So far, we've turned up nothing. Hell, for all we know, Romero might not have bothered with setting up a room reservation."
"And the rental car?"
"Under the assumed name of Smith, with a credit card issued by a Mexico City bank that's practically owned and operated by the narcos. We're also trying to backtrack his movements, to see if he communicated with anyone along the way. Still nothing."
One of the two side doors opened and Turner came in, his face looking excited. "Laura, we've got our hands on the Fehler debrief and --- "
Reeves turned and said, "Button it, Gus."
Gus stood still, now looking slightly humiliated. "You told me to come get you the minute it came in."
"Right," she said, "and I'm telling you I'm busy here. Look, I'll be there in a sec. Okay?"
He said nothing, his face red, almost matching the color of his hair, and he went back through the door. I caught a glimpse of another room, almost as large as this one, and also stuffed with tables, computer gear, and, in this case, two unmade beds. The door slammed shut --- a touch too hard, I thought --- and I looked back at Reeves. She said, "Gus is a bit eager, but then again, once we all were. Is there anything else?”
“Yeah,” I said. “This Whizzer character and whoever he represents. Are they local, or are they recent moves to the area?”
"Why do you ask?"
I thought about Felix and said, "I might have an ability to track him down if he's originally from Massachusetts, that's all."
She shook her head. "All we know is the name and the shipyard. I'd focus your attention on that, Lewis."
"Well, I'll also focus your attention on the fact this Romero character came to my home state and got killed for his troubles. That's the kind of thing that makes me sit up and take notice."
She played with the top of her Diet Coke can. "In our recent visit to your home, I was impressed with the number of firearms you possess."
"I'm an avid supporter of the Second Amendment."
"So it would seem. So I would think you'd have no problem defending yourself,
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