“Any guesses as to what it might be?” he asks without looking at me.
“It’s him.” My sketchbook is lying next to the keyboard. I flip it open, showing the drawings I’ve made so far, inspired by the clip caught on camera, plus my vision at the scene.
All three men stare at my charcoal drawing, and I fight the urge to squirm. It shouldn’t feel so intimate like they’re viewing my naked body.
If they delve deeper into the sketchbook, they’ll see the scenes I drew of the dom. I’ll rip the book out of their hands before I let that happen.
“You think this is him?” Cuccinelli asks, pointing to my drawing. “What the fuck is he wearing?”
The sketch shows the UNSUB as a large man in a black helmet, his broad shoulders made bulkier by thick layers of black material molded to his powerful form. “Some sort of body armor or suit. Like there.” I gesture to the screen.
“It’s not clear enough to see that. I’ve seen so-called UFO sightings clearer than this.” Cuccinelli reaches for my sketchpad, and I clench my fist, fighting the urge to slap it out of his hand. “And this shit? This is fairytale stuff outta a storybook. Some guy in a costume?” He studies my work for a second, then tosses my sketchbook back onto the desk. “How’d he fly down from the fifth story? Invisible wings?”
“Some sort of zipline,” I blurt before I think better of it. Burgess and Cuccinelli roll their eyes.
Bonds ignores them. “Do you see him coming out?”
“No.” I keep playing the clip until it goes fuzzy. “After this, the tape goes blank.”
“UFOs.” Burgess elbows Cuccinelli.
“He could’ve set off some sort of electric pulse to take out the alarm,” I say. “Which could also interrupt a recording like this.”
“Oh yeah, body armor and a fancy gadget,” Cuccinelli mutters.
“There’s stuff like that on the black market,” I say.
“Expensive,” Bonds says quietly.
“It fits the profile.” I swivel carefully to face Bonds. I might as well give him my professional opinion now. They can’t ridicule me any harder than they already are. “The vic was a rich man. His life was his work. This wasn’t a crime of passion. He was most likely killed over business.”
Cuccinelli snorts. “That doesn’t narrow it down. Tons of companies used Martin Shipping. They have contracts all over the country.”
“Whoever did this knew him.” I tick off my fingers. “Knew he’d be working there that night. Swung down somehow and entered through the emergency exit. And. . . drugged the vic?”
“The labs came back on the whiskey,” Bonds tells me. “No trace of any drug we know about.”
I lean back in my chair, careful of the wobbly wheel. “So he incapacitated him somehow, tied him up. They had a chat, and then the UNSUB slit his throat.”
“UNSUB.” Burgess nudges Cuccinelli with his elbow as if to say, “Get a load of this chick, using big FBI words. ”
“You think they knew each other?” Bonds asks, back to staring at the screen.
“Yes. They probably moved in the same wealthy upper echelons. But they weren’t friends.”
“Ya think?” Burgess mocks me again, but Cuccinelli is now listening to me with Bonds.
“The UNSUB did something to the vic to knock him out or disorient him long enough to get tied up,” I say.
“Like what?” Cuccinelli’s tone is less abrasive now that I’ve got him thinking.
I shrug. “Could be a drug we don’t know about in the whiskey. Or. . . some sort of gas? There was a chemical smell at the scene. I thought it was cleaning products.”
Bonds faces Cuccinelli. “Let’s see if we can get the air tested. Chief is fast-tracking every request for this case. It’s worth a shot.”
Cuccinelli mumbles something but stomps out to do Bonds’ bidding.
Burgess points to the shadowy blur on the screen. “If that’s a person, he’s a big guy.”
