Dark Tiger (30 page)
“He didn't exactly see through you,” Brescia said. “But the McNulty thing rattled him, and he was uneasy about you. He prowled through your room first chance he had, and he saw your sheriff's badge and your .22 pistol. So he took the pistol, killed the Hoffman woman with it, and planted it in the Indian's room.”
“Franklin Redbird is his name,” Calhoun said.
“Sure,” said Brescia. “Redbird.”
“You're going to prosecute Dunlap for those murders, aren't you?” Calhoun said. “I mean, it ain't just about smuggling that poison.”
“Our job is to prevent terrorist events, Mr. Calhoun. You do understand that.”
“I don't know what your job is.”
Mr. Brescia shrugged as if it was of no importance what Calhoun knew.
“You saying you bargained away the murders?” Calhoun said.
“I'm saying,” Mr. Brescia said slowly, “that it's none of your business what we do. You did your job, and you did it competently, and that enabled us, in turn, to do our jobs, and you should trust me when I tell you, we are very good at our jobs.”
The waitress came with Calhoun's coffee. He waited for her to leave, then said, “A couple things still bother me.”
Mr. Brescia lifted his hand, turned up his palm, and let if fall, which Calhoun took to mean, “
You can ask, but I might no answer
.”
“McNulty and the girl,” Calhoun said. “They died of botulism poisoning. They must've inhaled it, to die so fast. Right?”
Brescia nodded. “That's right.”
“How'd it happen?”
“We surmise,” said Mr. Brescia, “that McNulty or the girl, Millie Gautier, one of themâmost likely the girl, because McNulty would've known betterâuncapped the vial that he'd taken. Robert Dunlap told us that when he found the vial missing and McNulty gone, he tracked down McNulty, and when he caught up with him, he and the girl were parked in their car, already dead.”
“So Dunlap retrieved the vial,” Calhoun said, “and put bullets into their dead bodies.”
Brescia nodded. “To make it look like a suicide and a murder. To make it obvious. Because he didn't want anyone to know they died from botulism poisoning.”
“The ME solved that one.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Brescia. “To Dunlap's credit, though, it did confuse things. Until you went up there and got it all figured out.”
“I didn't figure everything out, by a long shot.”
“Speaking of a long shot . . .” Mr. Brescia reached down and took something from his attaché case. It was wrapped in a soft chamois cloth. He put it on the table and pushed it at Calhoun.
Calhoun unfolded the cloth. It was his Colt Woodsman .22 pistol. It looked like it had been cleaned and oiled. “Thank you,” he said to Mr. Brescia.
“It's from the sheriff up there. He said to tell you hello.”
Calhoun nodded. “So now it's over.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Brescia, “It's never over.”
“But you're done with me, right?”
For the first time, Calhoun thought he saw the flicker of a smile in the man's dark eyes. “We're done with you for now, Mr. Calhoun,” Mr. Brescia said. “For now, anyway.”
