Page 12 of High Treason
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.
