matter?’
‘Maybe. You’ve seen the security reports. He’s certainly been talking to the Israelis, but so he should. They’re good customers.’
Telemann nodded. Lennox Gold had secured contracts withtwo separate divisions of the Israeli Aircraft Industry. His speciality was Electronic Counter-Measures, ECM, the shell of hi-tech electronic emissions that cocooned the latest generation of fighter planes from the attentions of enemy missiles. In today’s dog-fights, no pilot could survive without them. R & D-wise, the US still led the field, and Gold had the inside track. To the Israelis, always looking for the edge, his knowledge would have been invaluable.
Benitez looked thoughtful. He was still gazing at the body in the bag. ‘You’re looking for a motive?’
‘Maybe.’
‘You think he got too close to the Israelis?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘Close enough for someone to want to kill him?’
Telemann shrugged but said nothing. No one from New York knew anything about the message from Amman. That, for the time being, was the tightest Federal secret of all. He nodded at the fridge. ‘What about the girl?’
The attendant glanced at Benitez and slid out another tray, immediately above Gold’s. The body in the bag was smaller, whiter. She had curly brown hair, shoulder-length, and a little of her lipstick had survived the attentions of the pathologist. She had a good figure, long legs, and her knees were slightly bent, drawn up towards her belly, a pose that lent her a strange innocence. The stitching on the long autopsy incision from her throat to her belly was as neat as Telemann had ever seen. Normally, no one put much effort into it. An autopsy, after all, wasn’t something you ever survived. But the work on this girl was different. Someone must have seen what Telemann had seen. Someone must have cared.
Benitez was picking his teeth. ‘Elaine Fallaci,’ he said, ‘Italian hooker. Successful. Freelanced for an agency on the Lower East Side. They work the diplomatic crowd a lot. That’s serious money.’
‘She live in town?’
‘Sure. Small apartment. East 74th. Overlooks the Park …’ He smiled. ‘That’s how good she must have been.’
Telemann nodded, his eyes still on the girl. Something abouther reminded him of his own wife, a decade and a half back, that summer they first met at the University of San Diego. He’d always regarded their life together as one of God’s bigger miracles, infinitely delicate, infinitely precious. The fact that this girl was dead disturbed him more than it should. Mortality, he thought again. Hers. Mine. Laura’s.
He glanced up at Benitez. ‘You say he’d met her before?’
‘A lot.’
‘How many times?’
‘Double figures.’
‘Who says?’
‘The agency.’
‘They keep records?’
‘Yes.’
‘They give them to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘They want to stay in business.’ Benitez smiled a thin smile. ‘And the girls aren’t keen on dying.’
Telemann nodded, accepting the point. ‘You talked to the girls?’ He nodded at the tray. ‘They tell you anything?’
‘Not much. It’s quite common to keep a handful of steadies. Better the devil you know …’ Benitez trailed off, still looking at the dead girl. Then he shrugged and glanced up at Telemann again. ‘He was a businessman. Flew in regularly. Met people around town. Serious guy. Hard worker. Very straight up. Nothing kinky. Nothing violent. Treated her nice. Strictly cash. Two hundred bucks an hour. No hassling for deals …’ He paused again. ‘Shame about the aerosol.’
They exchanged glances and stepped back from the bodies, and Telemann heard the rumble from the rollers and the soft clunk of the door as they turned away and the attendant tidied up. Back outside the morgue, sitting in the car, Telemann wound down the window. The driver had disappeared inside the hospital in search of a Coke machine. For late evening, it was still very hot.
‘The aerosol
‘Maybe. You’ve seen the security reports. He’s certainly been talking to the Israelis, but so he should. They’re good customers.’
Telemann nodded. Lennox Gold had secured contracts withtwo separate divisions of the Israeli Aircraft Industry. His speciality was Electronic Counter-Measures, ECM, the shell of hi-tech electronic emissions that cocooned the latest generation of fighter planes from the attentions of enemy missiles. In today’s dog-fights, no pilot could survive without them. R & D-wise, the US still led the field, and Gold had the inside track. To the Israelis, always looking for the edge, his knowledge would have been invaluable.
Benitez looked thoughtful. He was still gazing at the body in the bag. ‘You’re looking for a motive?’
‘Maybe.’
‘You think he got too close to the Israelis?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘Close enough for someone to want to kill him?’
Telemann shrugged but said nothing. No one from New York knew anything about the message from Amman. That, for the time being, was the tightest Federal secret of all. He nodded at the fridge. ‘What about the girl?’
The attendant glanced at Benitez and slid out another tray, immediately above Gold’s. The body in the bag was smaller, whiter. She had curly brown hair, shoulder-length, and a little of her lipstick had survived the attentions of the pathologist. She had a good figure, long legs, and her knees were slightly bent, drawn up towards her belly, a pose that lent her a strange innocence. The stitching on the long autopsy incision from her throat to her belly was as neat as Telemann had ever seen. Normally, no one put much effort into it. An autopsy, after all, wasn’t something you ever survived. But the work on this girl was different. Someone must have seen what Telemann had seen. Someone must have cared.
Benitez was picking his teeth. ‘Elaine Fallaci,’ he said, ‘Italian hooker. Successful. Freelanced for an agency on the Lower East Side. They work the diplomatic crowd a lot. That’s serious money.’
‘She live in town?’
‘Sure. Small apartment. East 74th. Overlooks the Park …’ He smiled. ‘That’s how good she must have been.’
Telemann nodded, his eyes still on the girl. Something abouther reminded him of his own wife, a decade and a half back, that summer they first met at the University of San Diego. He’d always regarded their life together as one of God’s bigger miracles, infinitely delicate, infinitely precious. The fact that this girl was dead disturbed him more than it should. Mortality, he thought again. Hers. Mine. Laura’s.
He glanced up at Benitez. ‘You say he’d met her before?’
‘A lot.’
‘How many times?’
‘Double figures.’
‘Who says?’
‘The agency.’
‘They keep records?’
‘Yes.’
‘They give them to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘They want to stay in business.’ Benitez smiled a thin smile. ‘And the girls aren’t keen on dying.’
Telemann nodded, accepting the point. ‘You talked to the girls?’ He nodded at the tray. ‘They tell you anything?’
‘Not much. It’s quite common to keep a handful of steadies. Better the devil you know …’ Benitez trailed off, still looking at the dead girl. Then he shrugged and glanced up at Telemann again. ‘He was a businessman. Flew in regularly. Met people around town. Serious guy. Hard worker. Very straight up. Nothing kinky. Nothing violent. Treated her nice. Strictly cash. Two hundred bucks an hour. No hassling for deals …’ He paused again. ‘Shame about the aerosol.’
They exchanged glances and stepped back from the bodies, and Telemann heard the rumble from the rollers and the soft clunk of the door as they turned away and the attendant tidied up. Back outside the morgue, sitting in the car, Telemann wound down the window. The driver had disappeared inside the hospital in search of a Coke machine. For late evening, it was still very hot.
‘The aerosol
Similar Books
