The Dolomite Solution by Trevor Scott

and poles thrown about inside rather haphazardly. Ski boots on the passenger side floor. Why had he left the car here? And how had he gotten himself killed in the alley?
    Jake glanced around watching skiers fly down the last part of the mountain and stand in line at the chair lift to do it again. Up the valley further was the Standseilbahn, a raised funicular railway that carried skiers to the highest part of the mountain. Behind the red train that was slowly making its way up the tracks, rocky peaks poked up into the swirling clouds.
    He looked back at the car. There wasn’t much he could do without breaking in. As a matter of fact, he wasn’t even sure what he was looking for. He just knew that something wasn’t right about Murdock’s death, or him being halfheartedly set up for it. Either the killer had to be the worst bungler ever, or a genius. After all, if the Austrian polizei had arrested him, how could the killer continue screwing with him?
    Crouching down low, Jake looked under the car’s chassis. It was dark and he could see if there was anything there. He worked his way around the front of the car, when he saw the skis in the snow bank sticking out like a crude cross on a shallow grave. Next to the skis, laying on their sides, were a pair of boots. Without touching either of them, he memorized the numbers engraved in the tops above the bindings and the name of the rental company.
    He scratched a little snow off the bottom of one boot to learn it was a size eight. Either a small man or a large woman.
    Turning back to the car, Jake noticed a silver Mercedes rolling up to a stop. Behind that was two green and white polizei cars.
    Tirol Criminal Commissioner Franz Martini parked right behind Murdock’s Renault and got out with a disturbed look on his face, as if a three-year-old had just beaten him at chess.
    â€œMr. Adams,” Martini said, meeting Jake at the rear of the car. “It’s becoming less and less funny how you always seem to be at the wrong place at the wrong time.”
    Jake tried smiling. “I told you...bad things seem to follow me around.”
    By now the uniformed officers had flanked the polizei captain waiting for orders.
    â€œI want a good, thorough search,” Martini demanded.
    The uniformed sergeant nodded and fiddled with a set of electronic keys with a plastic rental company symbol.
    â€œWait,” Jake said, grabbing the man’s sleeve. “You should have a bomb squad look it over first.”
    Martini lowered his brows at Jake. “Why is that? Do you know something we don’t?”
    Those were good questions that Jake couldn’t answer. The problem was, he knew almost nothing. “I’m just thinking about my car earlier today. What if the guy used up all his C-4 before he got to me?” Jake shrugged, and the sergeant glanced at his boss for directions.
    â—
    Sitting a hundred meters across the parking lot in a gray Opel Omega, Marcus Quinn tapped along to Led Zeppelin’s Ramble On. It was lower than he would have liked it, but he didn’t want the local cops taking special interest in him. He had followed the line of polizei cars from his hotel. Seeing them leave in such a hurry from his old friend’s room, he figured they must have been up to something.
    He almost regretted having left the rental skis behind like that in the snow bank. But what the hell, he had to give them some hope before blowing them all into tiny pieces. Even if they happened to track down the ski rental place, he was sure the man who had waited on him would never remember his face.
    Looking through his binoculars again, he couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw Adams standing next to that polizei captain. “Damn it, Adams,” he whispered into the noisy flow of music. “You weren’t supposed to be here.”
    Adams was pointing to the skis and then to the underside of the car. Now Quinn knew his plan may have a