The last few days had been a blur for Jericho. It had taken
a couple of days for the police to clear Jericho to leave the country, but not
before a tense interview with Scotland Yard. Jericho’s alibi was unshakable,
but law enforcement was more interested in Zeke’s past, if he had any enemies,
etc. The issue was compounded for Jericho, because he could only think of one possible
motivation for Zeke’s death – their current case.
That’s insane. I’m
chasing the chimera of a charlatan for a lot of money. There just isn’t
anything there – certainly not anything worth killing over.
For a moment, an image of Mr. Dursley flashed into Jericho’s
mind, snarling, “There’s no such thing as magic!”
But people really do
believe in Magick. I wonder if they believe in it strongly enough to kill.
In the end, Jericho had mentioned that he was working with
Zeke on historical research, but left out any reference to their odd “key”
theory, or anything that might indicate they were involved with anything of
value. It was just too absurd to be taken seriously.
As soon as he was cleared to leave, Jericho scheduled a
flight to Houston, and now he found himself on an American airplane piloted by
an American company. Jericho hated flying with American companies. The
Middle-Eastern flights were the best, especially Etihad and Emirates. On those
flights he was served halal lamb and
rice, with wine from an actual glass bottle. British Airways was almost as
good. Even their brief, coach-class flights included a lemon-scented steamed
towel, and coffee in a real cup and saucer. When he boarded this flight there
was already one passenger trying to stuff what looked like a body bag into the
upper compartment. Unable to close the compartment, the man shrugged and
slouched to his seat. Two minutes later a middle-aged flight attendant with a
blouse slightly too tight around her middle stumped down the aisle. “Whoever’s
bag that is, you gotta move it!” She grunted. “I’m coming back in five, and if
its still there I have to check it.”
Ah yes, good old American customer service. And legroom, for
that matter. Jericho supposed it didn’t matter. He had calculated that the
restroom occupancy to passenger ratio was specifically calculated to get each
passenger to spend at least 30% of the flight standing in line. At least he
didn’t have to worry about deep-vein thrombosis. As he stood there, idly
thumbing through his phone, his mind kept worrying the events immediately
following Zeke’s death.
Upon the realization that Zeke was dead, Jericho had
immediately slipped into detective mode without even thinking about it. He
dialed 999, and then began taking inventory of the scene without disturbing any
evidence. Zeke’s belongings were spread out as if he had been in the middle of
working. His posture indicated that he had been sitting upright when
killed, but had not looked around. Had the murderer been in the room already?
There was no exit wound – the kill had been professionally executed with a
small caliber weapon, probably a .22 or .25. Given that the .22 caliber is the
most easily accessible in Great Britain, Jericho decided that was probably it.
He couldn’t get a trajectory, but he could get a general direction. The killer
had been in the flat, in the area of the sofa. There was no place to hide.
Jericho’s stomach churned as the thought came back. He had seen death before –
the worst kind of death while in the Army; even the death of friends – but he
had never become comfortable with it. He heard a flush and the line inched
forward. Only thirteen people to go.
Jericho had glanced at his watch, guessing he had maybe four
more minutes before the police arrived. Perhaps it was a burglary? He scanned
Zeke’s equipment, and his hackles went up. Zeke’s iPad was missing. He glanced
frantically around the flat, careful not to touch anything, but there could be
no doubt. It wasn’t in the flat. That didn’t mean it had been taken, but it didn’t
mean it hadn’t been, either. But why would anyone want his iPad? Unless they
were onto something very, very serious with this whole key investigation.
Bullshit. There is no
way.
Jericho had moved closer, and examined the wound. There were
burn marks around the hole, indicating Zeke was killed at close range,
execution style. But it was something else that grabbed Jericho’s attention.
Just below the hairline, positioned so that with normal posture Zeke’s hair
would cover it up was a small, faded tattoo.
It was a small triangle, enclosing the Hebrew letter shin.
