Elizabeth. "We earn our pay on this one all right. Which do you want to work on first? Proving a man came in through the locked fourth-floor window because there are no fingerprints, or figuring out how he arrived at the idea of using curare on the old guy's false teeth when he got here? I don't suppose the MO file will help much on this one, unless it was a South American pygmy we're looking for." He shook his head and the false bravado began to fade.
Elizabeth wasn't looking at him, though. She was standing before the window with both hands in front of her. "Pygmies don't live in South America,"
she muttered absently, staring at her reflection.
"I suppose we'd better get the forensics people back up here," he said, picking up the telephone again.
Elizabeth didn't turn, just said, "Yes. I'd like to be here when they come."
She'd never noticed that before, she thought. When you press your palms against a flat surface, the tips of your fingers are just exactly shoulder height. If you allowed for shoe soles, five foot ten? Six feet? They'd measure it, though.
You could always count on them to measure.
48
Hart came into the room, bringing with him his notepad, still scribbling on it. He said, "I heard a phone ring. Was it the lab report?"
"That's right," said Elizabeth. "It was curare that was put into the glass where he soaked his dentures, believe it or not. Mixed with his Polident."
"What's the report on the rest of his stuff? Any curare or containers for it?" He seemed to Elizabeth to be hiding his surprise at the poison and it annoyed her a little. How could he not be surprised?
"No," she said tonelessly.
"Then I'd say we have only a few things we can check on," he said. "One is that somebody close enough to him to get into his luggage put poison on one of the Polident tablets and only one. Maybe his assistant or whoever packed his bags. Another is that somebody tampered with them between Washington and here." He hesitated for a moment, but Elizabeth wasn't going to help him, since he hadn't had the decency to be surprised. Then he said, "But I'd say the least unlikely thing is that somebody came in through the window."
"The forensics people are on their way up now to check the window out,"
said Mistretta. “ Elizabeth figured it out a little while ago."
"Good thinking, Elizabeth," he said, with apparent sincerity.
Elizabeth wasn't ready to accept the compliment. Patronizing bastards, all of them. She was past that part of it anyway, thinking about the killer. He had to be athletic, or at least fit, to be able to go from any other room to this one. No matter how it was done he still had to get from one balcony to another in the cold and dark. That probably meant he wasn't over forty. He was between five foot nine and six feet tall. And he was sneaky. God, he was sneaky.
9
There was something clean about the sun in Las Vegas . Even in February there was a searing, blinding white light that made you feel as if you were being sterilized, even cauterized, so there wasn't a germ that could stick to you.
Everything extraneous would be burned off your skin, desiccated and sucked dry, its empty husk blown clattering away in the hot wind out of the desert. Even the air itself felt like that—a breeze that carried with it tiny abrasive particles of ground-up quartz and topaz too small to see. You could feel them buffing and polishing away at you.
He rolled over on his stomach. Better be careful the first time out. Getting a sunburn on top of all those scrapes and bruises would be about the limit of what he could endure. He could already feel the sun gradually heating up his back and shoulders, breathing its energy into them so that moment by moment the temperature of his skin rose in infinitesimal gradients. In a few more minutes, he decided, he'd go back to his room and get cleaned up, then take a 49
nice long nap before dinner. Your body heals faster while you sleep, he thought.
There was no
Elizabeth wasn't looking at him, though. She was standing before the window with both hands in front of her. "Pygmies don't live in South America,"
she muttered absently, staring at her reflection.
"I suppose we'd better get the forensics people back up here," he said, picking up the telephone again.
Elizabeth didn't turn, just said, "Yes. I'd like to be here when they come."
She'd never noticed that before, she thought. When you press your palms against a flat surface, the tips of your fingers are just exactly shoulder height. If you allowed for shoe soles, five foot ten? Six feet? They'd measure it, though.
You could always count on them to measure.
48
Hart came into the room, bringing with him his notepad, still scribbling on it. He said, "I heard a phone ring. Was it the lab report?"
"That's right," said Elizabeth. "It was curare that was put into the glass where he soaked his dentures, believe it or not. Mixed with his Polident."
"What's the report on the rest of his stuff? Any curare or containers for it?" He seemed to Elizabeth to be hiding his surprise at the poison and it annoyed her a little. How could he not be surprised?
"No," she said tonelessly.
"Then I'd say we have only a few things we can check on," he said. "One is that somebody close enough to him to get into his luggage put poison on one of the Polident tablets and only one. Maybe his assistant or whoever packed his bags. Another is that somebody tampered with them between Washington and here." He hesitated for a moment, but Elizabeth wasn't going to help him, since he hadn't had the decency to be surprised. Then he said, "But I'd say the least unlikely thing is that somebody came in through the window."
"The forensics people are on their way up now to check the window out,"
said Mistretta. “ Elizabeth figured it out a little while ago."
"Good thinking, Elizabeth," he said, with apparent sincerity.
Elizabeth wasn't ready to accept the compliment. Patronizing bastards, all of them. She was past that part of it anyway, thinking about the killer. He had to be athletic, or at least fit, to be able to go from any other room to this one. No matter how it was done he still had to get from one balcony to another in the cold and dark. That probably meant he wasn't over forty. He was between five foot nine and six feet tall. And he was sneaky. God, he was sneaky.
9
There was something clean about the sun in Las Vegas . Even in February there was a searing, blinding white light that made you feel as if you were being sterilized, even cauterized, so there wasn't a germ that could stick to you.
Everything extraneous would be burned off your skin, desiccated and sucked dry, its empty husk blown clattering away in the hot wind out of the desert. Even the air itself felt like that—a breeze that carried with it tiny abrasive particles of ground-up quartz and topaz too small to see. You could feel them buffing and polishing away at you.
He rolled over on his stomach. Better be careful the first time out. Getting a sunburn on top of all those scrapes and bruises would be about the limit of what he could endure. He could already feel the sun gradually heating up his back and shoulders, breathing its energy into them so that moment by moment the temperature of his skin rose in infinitesimal gradients. In a few more minutes, he decided, he'd go back to his room and get cleaned up, then take a 49
nice long nap before dinner. Your body heals faster while you sleep, he thought.
There was no
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