THE MARCH WIND BLEW with its typical fervor on the school rooftop, and gray clouds gathered like soldiers readying for an attack. Kord glanced at Monica to make sure she hadn’t been tossed off. “Need help?” he said.
She shook her head. “If I can’t manage a little breeze, I might as well pack up my toys and go home. I’ve tracked the storm heading this way, and it’s a biggie. We’re lightning rods up here.” She laughed at the wind, and it blew her hair back.
Model perfect. She didn’t take trash from anyone. Kord caught his thoughts before they ran wild.
“I want us to find evidence before the rain washes it away.” She shrugged. “My optimism is showing through.”
“We need it.”
They greeted the officers and learned nothing had been found.
“We’re not giving up, considering the international spin,” an officer said.
Leaving a casing behind would have been a generous touch, but the sniper had no reason to be obliging. Kord and Monica made their way to the north side of the roof, where the sniper had waited for the right moment to pull the trigger. There, the officers left them alone to resume their own sweep.
Monica spent several moments with binoculars focused on the crime scene across the street.
“Anything?” he said.
“Maybe. I’m thinking about it.” She panned the area. “Doesn’t take much to pick a lock to get up here, but I’ve calculated the distance, and we’re looking at over six hundred feet. That wouldn’t take a professional, but assembling and disassembling a weapon with precision and pulling this off is another matter. If he posed as a kid, then a backpack would be a perfect cover.” Her attention swung from one entrance door to the other. “Want to know the odds of us finding a trace of evidence after HPD and the FBI have spent time on this roof?”
“No. Might be depressing.”
“If it’s here, we’ll find it.”
There went her optimism again. Sorta balanced his grief and frustration. Later when they were alone, he’d ask about her past assignments, take the time to get to know her better. . . . Maybe he’d been too rash, judgmental. Maybe she could handle Saudi opposition.
“The sniper wouldn’t have taken any chances of being seen,” she said. “Walking across the roof or stooping to avoid detection is an amateur’s method.”
“So he crawled from the southern entrance, which is closer than the northern.” He eyeballed an imaginary line from the shooting point to the southern door in question. Dropping to his knees, he moved along the sniper’s probable path, dragging his fingers and palms over every inch and looking for whatever he could find.
Thunder rumbled from the west.
Monica pulled the pair of latex gloves from her pocket and scrutinized a few feet in every direction.
“Sealing this in your memory?” he said.
“Yep.” She silently imitated him, covering twelve feet of width between them. He observed her meticulous examination. She drew her hands over the roof, hesitating in some areas and picking through debris, stones, dirt, dried bird droppings.
Thunder cracked louder.
She coughed lightly. “I found what I think is clothing fibers, possibly cotton.”
He crawled her way.
“Here’s a jagged piece of the roof, enough to tear clothing.” She gathered up the fibers and dropped them into a plastic bag before handing them to him.
“Good one, Monica.”
“Depends if my find belongs to the killer or a kid who sneaked up here with his buds or a girlfriend. DNA testing takes a while, and even so, there may not be a match in the system. Which means you pocketed a long shot. We can put a rush on it.”
“It’s a start.”
“Two things would help me feel better —our sniper caught on camera and a witness.”
“Add a third —who turned on Prince Omar?”
“I’ll take that. Does he interrogate his own like others in that neck of the woods?” she said.
“Skillfully if he’s angry. Dicey no matter how it pans out.” He paused. “It’s not one of his. I know every person he brought with him.”
Lightning cut across the sky.
Thunder split his eardrum.
HPD cleared the rooftop.
“I want to finish up here,” she said. “And hope our bosses won’t be replacing our fried bodies with another team.”
Within minutes, the clouds exploded, raindrops pelting them like tiny stones. They spent a few more minutes on the roof. The clothing fibers were all they found.
Once they descended the stairs to the ground floor, they shook off the water drenching them and walked a hallway leading to a side entrance. “The interviews won’t be released until late tonight or tomorrow, and we won’t be the ones conducting them,” he said.
“What do you say about checking out the physical fitness building behind us?”
“Any particular reason?”
“A hunch. Saw cars parked beside the building when we arrived.”
The closer they walked, the more the sound of voices and the rhythmic pounding of a ball captured his attention. “Why are kids in the gym if the school was evacuated?”
“Good question.”
They walked to the gym door, and he opened it for her to enter. The scent of sweating teen boys playing basketball brought back memories, the steady thump of the ball and sitting on the bench. Two coaches worked the boys on either end of the court, one layup after another.
Kord and Monica walked the sideline to one of the coaches, a man built like an outhouse. “My partner and I are investigating a shooting from the school roof. Is there a reason why the boys haven’t been dismissed?”
“We have permission from HPD. This area has been cleared.” The coach never took his eyes off the players. “We have play-offs and gotta have the practice if we’re going to walk away with a trophy.”
If Kord hadn’t needed info, he’d have questioned the coach’s priorities. The players’ parents would handle his stupidity of putting their kids in potential danger. “Mind if we talk to the boys?”
“We’re almost finished. Fifteen more minutes.”
Great. School pride wins.
Monica strutted her wet stuff onto the gym floor. She waved her hands. “Hey, guys, can I have your attention for a few minutes?”
Every boy and two coaches were glued to the petite blonde. Admiration rose for his partner. Not that he doubted her abilities —she was quickly earning his respect.
“Y’all are aware a hit man found a way to the roof of your school and murdered a man across the street. Did any of you see anything? A stranger on the grounds carrying the means to assemble a rifle?”
“Listen up,” a second coach said. “This is important. Police officers asked us the same things, and none of us came forward. Think about this morning. Now’s the time to speak up.”
The boys shook their heads. One continued to bounce a ball.
“Have you talked to the janitors?” the second coach said to Monica.
“We will. Wanted to check with your players first.”
A leggy boy stepped forward. “I might have information for you. I had an orthodontist appointment this morning and got to school late. I saw a man carrying a toolbox. Not walking toward the construction site. He asked me how to find the janitors’ office. Probably nothin’.”
“Can you describe him?” Kord said.
“Jeans, baseball cap, button-down shirt. Maybe five foot seven.”
“Race?”
The kid hesitated. “Kinda Hispanic, but not black. Slight accent.”
“What kind?” Kord said.
He shrugged.
Middle Eastern? He didn’t want to put words into the boy’s mouth.
Monica spoke up. “Were his jeans torn?”
“I don’t know,” the boy said.
Kord recalled the fibers in his pocket. “How old was he?”
“My dad’s age maybe. Or yours.”
Kord had officially climbed over the hill. “Can you describe the toolbox?”
The kid did an assessment with his hands, approximately two feet long. “Black. Metal.”
Kord made his way to the boy and shook his hand. “Thanks. We appreciate it.” He nodded at Monica. “Other than determining where the sniper entered the school, do you have any more questions?”
“Just one more.” She waved at the group of players and coaches and reverted her attention to the boy. “Which way did he go?”
The boy dragged his tongue across his lips. “Outside and down the hall to the left.”
Kord and Monica followed the boy’s directions and entered the office. An older man sat at a desk filling out some kind of paperwork. Kord explained why they were there. “We know you’ve been asked the same questions, but repetition often sparks our memories.”
“Sure. I don’t mind. I came back on my own after the kids and teachers were evacuated. Police said it was okay for us to use this building. Work goes on. Didn’t see nary a thing.”
“We’re interested in a man dressed in jeans and carrying a toolbox,” Kord said.
The man tightened his brow. “Didn’t see any strangers.”
“Are all of your fellow workers accounted for?”
“All but Chip. He must have gone home.” He paused. “I know he missed an interview from HPD, and an officer requested his number.”
“Can you call him?” Kord said.
“Sure.” The man pressed in a number on his cell phone. After several long moments, the man offered Kord eye contact. “Chip, would you give me a call? You left without signing out.” He laid his phone on the desk. “He must be busy.”
“Sir —” Monica leaned in closer —“I’m sure there are areas of the school where only janitors are permitted. Can we take a look?”
“You’re worried about him, aren’t you? Me too. Not like Chip to disappear.” He stood, his metal chair scraping across the tile floor. “I’ll show you.”
“We’re interested in supply and storage closets too.”
“The largest closet is really a room on down from my office. Got to keep chemicals and things away from the kids. Some of ’em would be snorting and making drugs if we didn’t.” He unclipped a ring of keys from his belt and led the way. “Are you thinking the killer could be hiding in there?”
That wasn’t what Kord feared, but his mind usually took the worst chain of events.
They approached a door labeled Keep Locked at All Times. The older man handed Kord the key. But the door was unlocked. He stepped inside and flipped on a light. Monica followed behind him.
Navy knit shirts with Paramount High School stitched on the left front pocket hung on hangers from pegs. Industrial-size cleaning products lined metal shelving. Five-gallon buckets with an assortment of mops and wet and dry vacs looked like statues. The pungent odor of the afternoon cleaning, a mix of orange and something he couldn’t identify, assaulted his nostrils. But he’d smelled much worse.
“Chip?” the older man said. “You back here, buddy?”
Kord walked deeper into the storage room.
A man lay flat on his back next to the wall, his neck slashed. Blood covered the floor near his head, and he wasn’t wearing the navy shirt for janitors.
Kord touched his fingers to the side of the man’s neck. No pulse.