Chapter 65
I WAS TRAINED to have a sharp eye as a Marine helicopter pilot and I still had it. I snapped wide-angle and close-up pictures of Jason Pilser’s apartment from the foyer, staying out of Sci’s way and out of the evidence, in case a murder had been committed here.
Dr. Sci was quiet as he worked, he and his crew speaking to one another in shorthand as they used our state-of-the-art forensic equipment, worth every penny of the fortune it had cost. From where I stood, nothing looked disturbed—which might mean something.
When Sci told me it was okay, I followed him from room to room through the spare, modernly furnished one-bedroom apartment.
The sofa and armchair cushions were neat, there were no glasses in the sink, the bed was made, the bedroom closet in fastidious order. And I didn’t see a suicide note.
I did make note of a suit jacket on a valet stand in the bedroom. A roll of bandages and iodine on the bathroom sink.
“The ME said he had mixed nuts, a couple of martinis, and painkillers in his stomach,” Sci said. “Maybe he was going out to dinner with his friends. Or his killers,” Sci said. “The scrape marks on his belly were consistent with the blood and skin on the terrace wall. He slid himself over the wall—which is improbable, or at least unusual.”
“Or he was shoved across it in increments until he was airborne,” I said. “Seems more likely to me.”
“We’ve got some prints,” lab assistant Karen Pasquale said to Sci from the hallway. “Three sets so far.”
“Excellent,” Sci said. “Now. Where’s his computer?”
“What’s that?” I said, pointing to the briefcase almost invisible in the shadows, wedged between the desk chair and the wall.
Sci picked up the case with his gloved hands, set it down on the desk, and unsnapped the locks.
The case sprang open.
There was a tie on top of a laptop. A sheaf of papers in the side pocket.
And a cell phone.
“This’ll keep me busy,” Sci said. “Another no-sleep night.”
“Mind taking a look at the phone now?” I asked.
“Not at all.”
Sci opened the phone and said, “His battery’s almost gone, but I’ll give it a shot.”
I stood behind Sci, looking over his shoulder as he scrolled through messages. Suddenly he stopped as if he’d been turned to stone.
“Sci?”
He showed me a text message on Pilser’s phone that had been sent last Wednesday. It was short and to the point.
“Freek Night is on, Scylla. Get ready. You’re IT.”
It was signed by someone using the name Steemcleena.
I said to Sci, “Wait. Shouldn’t this be from Morbid? He’s the connection, right? Who is Steemcleena?”
Sci worked his jaw soundlessly a few times, then he said, “Who is Steemcleena? As brilliant as I am, I’m going to have to get back to you on that.”