3rd Degree (Women's Murder Club 3)

“Keep them close,” the deputy director said with a wink. “Might prove a little embarrassing to me if they got out.”

I skimmed through the records from Seattle. A few had prior records—everything from inciting a riot to resisting arrest and unlawful possession of a firearm. Others appeared to be students caught up in the cause. Robert Alan Rich had an Interpol file for inciting violence at the World Economic Forum meeting in Gstaad. Terri Ann Gates had been bagged for arson. A gaunt-faced Reed College dropout with tied-back hair named Stephen Hardaway had committed a bank robbery in Spokane.

“Remote-triggered bombs, ricin,” I said, thinking aloud. “The technology is pretty advanced. Any of these connected enough to pull off the strikes?”

Molinari shrugged. “Somebody could’ve teamed up with an established terror cell. The technology’s for sale. Or we could be dealing with a white rabbit.”

“White rabbit? Like the Jefferson Airplane?”

“It’s the name we give someone who’s been hiding for a long time. Like the Weathermen from the sixties. Most of them have fit into society again. They have families, straight jobs. But there are a few still out there who haven’t given up the cause.”

A cabin door opened and the copilot said that we were starting our descent. I stuffed the files in my briefcase, impressed with how quickly Molinari had followed up on my request.

“Any last questions?” he asked, tightening his seat belt. “There’s usually a squadron of FBI officials who latch on to me when we land.”

“Just one.” I smiled. “How do you like to be addressed? Deputy director sounds like someone who runs a hydroelectric factory in the Ukraine.”

He laughed. “In the field, generally ‘sir’ comes with the territory. But out of the field, what usually works for me is ‘Joe.’”

He tossed me a smile. “That make it any easier for you, Lieutenant?”

“We’ll see, sir.”

Chapter 47

WE WERE WHISKED by police escort from the private airfield outside Portland to the Governor Hotel in the center of town. The Governor was an old restored Western, and this was the worst thing that had ever happened there.

While Molinari conferred with the head of the regional FBI office, I got up to date with Hannah Wood, a local homicide inspector, and her partner, Rob Stone.

Molinari gave me time to go over the crime scene, which was definitely grisly. Clearly Propp had let his assailant in. The economist had been shot three times—twice in the chest and a clean-through to the head, the bullet lodging in the floor. But Propp had also been slashed several times, probably with a serrated knife that still lay on the floor.

“Crime team dug this out.” Hannah showed me a bag containing a flattened 9mm bullet. A large gaff hook in a Baggie was also being held for us.

“Prints?” I asked.

“Partials off the inside doorknob. Probably Propp’s. The Swiss consulate’s contacted Propp’s family back home,” Hannah said. “He had dinner with a friend scheduled last night, then a seven A.M. flight to Vancouver. Other than that, no calls or visitors.”

I put on a pair of gloves, flipped open the briefcase on Propp’s bed, and shuffled through his notes. A few books were scattered about, mostly academic stuff.

I went into the bathroom. Propp’s toilet case was laid out on the counter. Not much else to go on. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed.

“Be easier if you could tell us what we’re looking for, Lieutenant,” Stone said.

I couldn’t. The name August Spies hadn’t been released yet. I focused on prints of the crime scene photos that were taped to the mirror. It was an ugly, horrible scene. Blood everywhere. Then the warning: MAI.

The murderers were doing their homework, I was thinking. They wanted a soapbox. They had it. So where the hell was the speech?

“Listen, Lieutenant,” Hannah said uncomfortably, “it’s not too hard to figure out what you and the deputy director are doing up here. That horrible stuff going on in San Francisco? This is connected, isn’t it?”

Before I could answer, Molinari came in with Special Agent Thompson. “Seen enough?” he asked me.

“If there are no objections, sir”—the FBI man pulled out his cell phone—“I’ll advise the antiterror desk in Quantico that the killer is on the move.”

“You okay with that, Lieutenant?” Molinari looked toward me.

I shook my head. “No. I don’t think so.”

The FBI man shot me a double take. “Run that by me again, Lieutenant?”