فصل سه

CHAPTER THREE

No Clues

Denton Voyles put Eric East in charge of the case.

On Thursday, East reported back to Voyles with a list of their top suspects.

There were a number of political groups - especially the Underground Army, the Ku-Klux-Klan and the White Defenders - but also some individuals who were rich enough to afford the kind of professional killer who had obviously done this job.

There was Nelson Muncie, who had lost his daughter in a sex killing in Florida; the police had caught the man, who was black, but thanks to Rosenberg the man had walked free.

There was Clinton Lane, whose son was a homosexual who had died of Aids.

The problem with all these suspects, however, was that the killings were so professional and clean that there were no clues except for the gun and the rope.

There were not even any clues about how the killer had entered Rosenberg’s house.

Still, Voyles and he agreed to have between five and twenty men investigate each suspect or group of suspects.

In the law library and on the computers of Tulane University, Darby Shaw was gathering pages and pages of information.

What was the connection between Rosenberg and Jensen?

She could see reasons for killing one or the other, but not both together.

But there had to be a single reason.

Thomas Callahan slept late and alone. Darby had been too busy to see him since Wednesday.

Now it was Friday morning.

He made some coffee and, as he drank it, watched the busy French Quarter through his window.

What was it he had to do?

Oh, yes, phone Gavin. On Monday he was going to Washington for a conference about constitutional law.

He and his old friend Gavin Verheek were going to meet and get drunk together on Monday evening.

Gavin had been a friend ever since law school.

He and Callahan were the only two in their year who refused to go into private practice and get rich.

While Callahan had become a teacher, Verheek had joined the FBI as a legal adviser.

When Verheek came on the phone, he said, Thomas, how are you?

It’s ten-thirty. I’m not dressed.

I’m sitting here in the French Quarter drinking coffee and watching the world outside.

What are you doing?

Well, here it’s eleven-thirty, and I haven’t left the office since they found the bodies on Wednesday morning.

It makes me sick, Gavin.

The President will get two Nazis on to the Supreme Court.

I suppose you’ve already seen the list.

I bet your office is already checking that they’ve lived good, clean lives.

Go on, Gavin, tell me who’s on the list.

I won’t tell anyone else.

No chance.

I’ll only tell you this: your name’s not on the list.

I’m so disappointed.

How’s the girl?

Which one?

Come on, Thomas.

The girl?

She’s beautiful and brilliant and gentle.

Oh, and rich.

She has red hair and the longest legs you’ve ever seen.

Wow! What’s her name?

Darby Shaw.

But I haven’t seen her for a couple of days.

She’s trying to solve the murders all by herself.

Why don’t you tell me who did it, and then I can tell her and she’ll come back to me?

Don’t you read the papers?

We have no suspects.

Not one.

At least I tried.

Are we going to meet on Monday?

I hope so.

Voyles wants us to work day and night until the computers tell us who did it.

I’ll expect a full report on Monday, Gavin - not just the gossip.

Why don’t you bring Darby?

How old is she?

Nineteen?

Twenty-four, and she’s not invited.

I’ll see you on Monday at seven pm, in the usual restaurant.

OK?

OK.

See you.

Darby’s enquiries had brought her to the court in Lafayette.

Of all the Supreme Court cases due to be heard in the next few months, there was one that could explain the killings.

She needed to see the court’s files on the case.

When the clerk brought them to her table, however, her heart sank.

There were lots of files, each inches thick.

The case was seven years old.

Only one person was involved, but he had hidden behind thirty-eight different businesses, which had used no fewer than fifteen law firms over the last seven years.

She pulled her chair in to the table and began to work.