Misgivings

by Donn Cortez

  She stopped halfway up the walk. Delko, a step behind her, stopped too.

  “Door’s ajar,” she said, her voice all business. She put her CSI kit down and drew her gun. Delko did the same—he knew better than to question Calleigh’s instincts.

  They approached the front carefully.

  “I’ve got a bloody handprint on the edge of the door,” Calleigh said.

  “I see it,” Delko said grimly.

  “Miami-Dade police!” Calleigh called out. “Is there anyone in the house?”

  No response. Calleigh pushed the door open.

  The large room just inside had obviously seen a fight; chairs were overturned, the coffee table lay in splinters, a lamp with a crushed shade threw fractured shadows across the wall.

  And then there was the blood.

  It was splashed in a great arc around the room, across furniture, the floor, the walls. From the color and consistency, both CSIs knew it was fresh.

  “Looks like arterial spray,” Delko said quietly.

  “It does,” Calleigh said. “Maybe enough to be fatal. Let’s see if our donor is still on the premises.”

  They moved quickly and efficiently through the building, checking the bedrooms, the kitchen, the bathroom.

  “Nobody home,” Calleigh said, holstering her gun. “But I think it’s safe to say we’ve found our primary crime scene.”

  “I’ll let H know,” Delko said, pulling out his cell phone.

  “I’ll start processing,” Calleigh said. “Before the—Bureau gets here.”

  Delko grinned.

  Blood-pattern recognition was a hybrid science; a proper understanding of it required a working knowledge of biology, trigonometry, and physics. Being handy with a camera didn’t hurt, either. By the time Horatio arrived, Delko had documented the crime scene extensively with photographs, and Calleigh had processed the handprint on the doorframe and taken samples of blood droplets.

  “Wherever Mister Pathan goes, violence seems to follow,” Horatio murmured, surveying the wreckage of the room. “Not to mention blood . . .”

  “I was just going to search the rest of the house,” Calleigh said. “Unless you’d like to wait for Special Agent Sackheim?”

  Horatio gave her a smile without any humor in it. “You know, he seemed kind of busy the last time I talked to him. We should probably just go ahead on our own . . .”

  Horatio could usually tell a great deal about someone from observing where and how he lived; usually, a place occupied by only one resident tended to showcase that person’s personality in a variety of ways. Considering Pathan’s background, Horatio hadn’t been sure what to expect—but it certainly wasn’t what he found.

  Pathan’s occupation, for instance, was hardly evident. No posters of famous magicians, no pictures of him onstage or posing with other performers, none of the trappings of an entertainer’s lifestyle at all. The house was decorated in a bland, middle-American style, with off-white drapes, a big-screen TV, a bookshelf stocked with bestselling paperbacks. The bedroom featured a double bed, a medium-size closet, a dresser with a mirror, and a portable stereo on a nightstand. Any vices Abdus Sattar Pathan had, he kept well-hidden—Horatio found no drugs, no alcohol, no porn or sex toys or women’s underwear. Pathan’s one nod to chemical indulgence was a top-of-the-line espresso machine in the kitchen, where the contents of the fridge seemed to indicate he ate out a lot. His bathroom showed a run-of-the-mill assortment of antacids, painkillers, and personal-hygiene products: dental rinse, mouthwash, toothpicks. Horatio collected DNA samples from a hairbrush and some dental floss in a wastebasket. If the blood in the living room was Pathan’s, he’d soon know.

  “Horatio,” Calleigh called out. “Take a look at this.”

  He followed the sound of her voice out to the connected garage. It had been converted into a workshop, and here at last was evidence of Pathan’s trade. A large metal bookshelf on one wall was stocked with books pertaining to stage magic, while two long tables loaded with a variety of tools both esoteric and mundane ran the length of two others. At least half the workshop was crammed with props from his act: an upright coffin with holes cut into it for the face and hands; a set of large, interlinked steel hoops; a trunk decorated with Day-Glo stars and moons. Smaller props were hung from hooks on a Peg-Board or stacked neatly on shelves bolted to the wall.

  “Looks as if he likes to keep his work separate from the rest of his life,” Calleigh said, echoing Horatio’s thoughts.

  “Yes,” Horatio said thoughtfully. “Compartmentalized. Everything nice and neat and in its proper place. Everything except Mister Batin himself . . .”

  “I thought his name was Pathan?”

  “The Brilliant Batin is his stage name. And this would be his domain . . . where he goes to construct his illusions.”

  Calleigh picked up on Horatio’s line of reasoning immediately. “You think the kidnapping was staged?”

  “I don’t know. But Mister Pathan wouldn’t be the first estranged offspring of a rich parent to fake his own kidnapping. What I can’t understand is how the initial assault ties in, or how he pulled off the fingerprint switch. But if he is trying to fool us, this is the place he used to make his preparations.”

  “Kind of an anti-CSI lab,” Calleigh said. “Finding ways to hide the truth instead of uncover it.”

  “In which case,” Horatio replied, “it’s our skills against his . . . but where he has to make do with a home workshop, we have the full resources of the Miami-Dade Crime Lab.”

  “And your assistants don’t have to dress like showgirls,” Calleigh said. “Which is probably just as well. I mean, I’d look great in fishnets and a top hat, but I really don’t want to see Ryan wearing anything featuring sequins . . .”

  “You realize,” Sackheim said, “that every piece of evidence you’ve collected is going to wind up in my hands, anyway.”

  Horatio looked at the FBI agent and smiled benevolently from behind his desk. He clasped his hands together in front of him and said, “Are you sure about that?”

  Sackheim glared at him. “Are you implying you would impede the progress of a federal investigation?”

  “Of course not. But given your lack of respect for my department’s abilities, you probably doubt we’ll be able to find anything. Right?”

  Sackheim thought about this and turned his glower down a few notches with a visible effort of will. “I didn’t mean to impugn the competence of your staff. I’m sure that whatever you discover will prove valuable.”

  “That,” Horatio said, “almost sounded like an apology.” He paused, met Sackheim’s eyes, then added softly, “Almost . . .”

  Sackheim looked away, apparently finding a framed certificate on Horatio’s wall of sudden interest. “I’m sorry if I offended you or your team. Now, can we stop this posturing and concentrate on the job at hand?”

  “I never stopped,” Horatio said. “Any word from the kidnappers?”

  “Not yet. We have all the standard procedures in place. Our first priority, despite what you may think, is the safe return of the victim.”

  “Good. My team is analyzing everything we took from the crime scene now . . . as soon as we learn anything, we’ll let you know.”

  “You realize the lab at Quantico is better staffed and better equipped—”

  “—and it’s in Virginia,” Horatio pointed out. “Shuttling material back there increases the chance of contamination or breaking the chain of evidence, and loses us valuable time as well. I think it’s in the best interest of all concerned if we do the work here . . . and you might be surprised at the equipment we have access to. I can arrange a tour, if you’d like . . .”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Sackheim said.

  * * *

  Calleigh was studying enlarged photos of the blood spatter from the Pathan house on the light table, her face illuminated by lurid red splotches of color, when Horatio walked up and said, “Hey. Got a minute?”

  “Sure, H
. What do you need?”

  “I just got off the phone with Alexx. It seems that the widow of that John Doe has been waiting patiently to be interviewed, and she’s getting a little distraught. The poor woman flew all the way in from Brazil, and she’d really like to get this over with.”

  Calleigh frowned. “I thought that was Delko’s case.”

  “It is, but he seems to have hit a wall on the investigation. I’m thinking maybe a fresh set of eyes might see something new.”

  “So I’m your go-to?” Calleigh said, smiling. “That’s sweet, but I don’t know how Eric will take it.”

  “You let me worry about that. For now, he’s too busy on the Pathan case to care about a stalled investigation. What I need you to do is go down to interview room two and talk to Mrs. Solana Villanova.” He took a folder out from under his arm and handed it to her. “This is everything Eric came up with—unfortunately, it isn’t much.”

  Calleigh flipped the folder open, scanned through the contents. “Hmm. I can see why he’d be frustrated. The guy’s life is pretty much a blank.”

  “Which I’m counting on you,” Horatio said, “to fill in.”

  Horatio left her there, studying the file’s meager contents. Like all of them, Calleigh loved a good puzzle—hopefully, it would absorb enough of her attention that she wouldn’t notice Horatio had just pulled her off a high-profile investigation to work on a much less urgent case. But butting heads with the FBI was a dangerous job—and right now, the confusing fingerprint results in the assault case placed Calleigh right in the crosshairs. Sackheim could use those results as an excuse to question the validity of her work and maybe even leverage the entire case away, damaging her career irreparably in the process.

  There was no way Horatio was going to let that happen.

  “Miss Villanova?” Calleigh said, walking into the room. “Or do you prefer Garcia?”

  The woman on the other side of the interview table looked exhausted, her eyes red and puffy and her posture slumped. “Call me Solana, please.”

  Caleigh hesitated. “I’m sorry, Solana. The DNA results came back—the body is your ex-husband’s.”

  Solana nodded, but no tears came. Calleigh could see from the look in her eyes that the woman had already realized the truth in her heart; hearing the words was just a formality.

  “You know, we don’t have to do this right now,” Calleigh said, taking a seat. “If you’d like to go back to your hotel, get a little sleep, that’d be fine.”

  “No, I just came from there. I can’t sleep. Please, I want to—to get this done.”

  “All right.” Calleigh opened the folder she’d brought with her, glancing at the notes she’d made. “I apologize if these questions seem too personal,” she said. “But any information you can give us will help us understand what happened.”

  “I understand.”

  “First of all—is there anyone you know of who would want to hurt your ex-husband?”

  “I don’t believe so, no. He was a good man. A little reserved perhaps, but—but he had a good heart. He always meant well.”

  “And what did he do for a living?”

  “He is—he was a plumber. He had his own business in São Paulo. It never did very well—he wasn’t very ambitious. I—I used to try to push him to try a little harder.”

  “What about life insurance? Did he have any?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “How long were you two married?”

  “Seven years. We divorced about six months ago.” She paused, her lower lip quivering, and dug in her purse for a tissue. Calleigh waited until she’d wiped her eyes and blown her nose.

  “I’m sorry,” Solana said. “Please continue.”

  “I apologize for asking, but—why did you and your husband divorce?”

  Solana gave a long, trembling sigh. “I was the one who left. Hector did not want me to go. But I . . . I was not happy. Hector was content with his lot in life, but I wanted more. In the end, we agreed it was best to go our separate ways.”

  “So it was amicable?”

  She gave Calleigh a sad smile. “I suppose that is as good a word as any. It was, at first—he was hurt, very hurt, but he did his best to make things easy for me. We did not see each other often, but whenever we did, we were polite . . . until just before he left for America.” She shook her head. “The last time I saw him, it was not pleasant. I can’t even remember what started the argument, but I’ve never seen him act that way before. Loud, angry, saying things I couldn’t believe. He was like a different person.”

  “What sort of things?”

  “Hurtful things. Insulting, accusing. He kept saying he didn’t need me, that he was going to America to do great things. At the time, it sounded like he never wanted to see me again; now, I wonder . . .”

  “You think he might have gotten involved in something he normally wouldn’t? Trying to show some ambition, maybe?”

  The miserable look on Solana’s face showed that she had been considering the same thing. “Perhaps,” she whispered. “If so, may God have mercy on my soul. I never meant for this. Not for anything like this.”

  “If Hector was going to do something illegal, do you have any idea what it might be? Did he have any friends or associates that he might have gone to?”

  “No. Hector didn’t know anyone like that. He was a plumber.”

  “How about here in the States? Did he know anyone here?”

  “He had one friend, yes, someone he went to school with. Marco Boraba. I think he is in Miami, but I never knew him well. When I heard that Hector was . . . when I heard, I tried to reach Marco. I could not find him.”

  “I see. And what does Mister Boraba do?”

  “I don’t know. I think Hector mentioned something about importing or exporting, but I’m not sure. He never talked about him like he was some sort of criminal, though.”

  “Well,” Calleigh said, “sometimes we don’t know people as well as we think.”

  “No,” Solana said softly. “No, we do not.”

  “Eric,” Horatio said, shrugging into a lab coat. “What do we have?”

  Delko eyed his boss curiously. It wasn’t that Horatio never got his hands dirty with labwork, but he usually let the rest of the team handle the routine stuff; he was more likely to be found in the field or the interview room, collecting testimony or uncovering new evidence.

  “A lot, actually,” he answered. “First of all, the blood. It matches the DNA of the samples from the bathroom, and epithelials I collected in the bedroom, the kitchen, and the living room. The blood definitely came from someone who’d been living in that house for a while.”

  “How about the blood itself?”

  “The first thing I did was have it analyzed for any trace of anticoagulants or preserving agents. Nada. This stuff hadn’t been stored previously— it was fresh.”

  “And the stain pattern?”

  Delko turned to a light panel on the wall, where several photos were clipped like X-rays, illuminated from behind. They depicted the bloodstains on Pathan’s wall, a pattern that resembled a crude painting of crimson tadpoles swimming upward. “Looks genuine. Projected blood from arterial spurting, probably a neck wound—you can see the impact points clearly.” Delko pointed to the heads of the tadpoles. When an artery was opened, every beat of the victim’s heart forced a stream of blood out through the wound; the rise and fall of blood pressure was visible as a distinctive rounded pattern on the target surface—the initial splash—followed by a downward-trailing tail.

  “What about castoff?” Often, blood droplets on a weapon like a knife would be flung onto another surface by the violent motion of the weapon during an attack.

  “Didn’t find any, but that’s not really a surprise.”

  “No,” Horatio said. “This was a slashing attack, not a stabbing one. One strike to the throat, which opened the artery but didn’t collect enough blood to cause castoff.”

  “Which means the bl
ade was thin, very sharp, and used quickly.”

  “Yes,” Horatio said, studying the photos. “Which makes very little sense. This reads more like an assassination attempt than a kidnapping. In an abduction, your captive is your greatest asset; you want him quiet, under control, and undamaged. Bleeding heavily and fighting back is hardly optimal . . .”

  “Maybe something went wrong. If the kidnappers were amateurs, they might have thought showing Pathan a blade would be enough to get him to go along.”

  “Possible, but unlikely. After all, obtaining a gun in Miami is hardly difficult—and offers a much better guarantee of cooperation.”

  “True,” Delko conceded. “So maybe kidnapping was never the objective.”

  “Maybe not. It could have been added as an afterthought to muddy the waters, buy the killers some time. Or maybe Pathan used his father’s money to bargain for his life, change the attacker’s mind.”

  “Either way, we don’t know if he’s dead or alive.”

  “No, we don’t. The only thing we know for certain,” Horatio said, “is that the FBI is going to be watching everything we do very, very closely . . .”

  10

  “ALL RIGHT, HERE I AM,” Tripp told Wolfe. “I got your message, but it didn’t make much sense to me. Exactly what did you find, and what was it wrapped in?”

  “Not ‘wrapped in,’” Wolfe said. “Rapped in. Here—let me show you.”

  He motioned Tripp deeper into the lab, where Wolfe had a variety of components laid out on a table. “I took apart the lock on our dead Santa’s door and brought it here. First, I examined the outer surface. The most obvious sign a lock has been picked is small scratches around the keyhole, made by the pick or the tension wrench. The problem is that these can also be made innocently, by somebody missing the hole and hitting the plate with the key. However, I didn’t find any—just that little indentation you noticed.”

  “Uh-huh. What’d you find once you took it apart?”

  “Nothing. Again, this isn’t conclusive—a skilled lockpicker can manipulate the pins and tumblers of a standard lock without leaving internal scratches, either. At least, not to the naked eye. Under the microscope, it’s another matter.”