32
Colcord looked around Javier Castillo’s low-rise apartment in San Francisco, not without curiosity. It was graced with a stunning view of the Golden Gate Bridge through the glass wall that stretched across one side of the living room. He imagined it would be a perfect place to see the Fourth of July fireworks that would be happening that very night at nine thirty p.m. They’d twisted some arms to get the search done ASAP, as the pressure on the case had almost reached the breaking point. Too bad they couldn’t stay. The furniture was mostly mid-century modern, the floor spread with abstract rugs, with an inlaid miniature piano squatting in one corner.
The San Francisco Police Department was currently going through the Castillo place, wreaking havoc. The objective was to look for records and documents relating to Paradox or Margie Brooksfield, as well as anything that might be related to the homicide. The missing relic was not specified on the search warrant. Apparently, Javi Castillo’s next of kin had been uncooperative in consenting to the search, forcing them to obtain a warrant, and the cops were pissed about that and slinging shit everywhere. Not to mention angry that they were having to work on the Fourth of July instead of hoisting beers at a barbecue. Patagonia jackets and elegant suits were strewn across the bedroom floor. Titles likeHow to Win Friends and Influence PeopleandThe Multifamily Millionairewere being pulled from bookshelves, opened and shaken, then tossed onto the carpeting.
Now they were going through a collection of meteorites in a glasscase, fumbling around, and flipping over a bunch of framed photos of flying saucers on the wall. One fell to the floor and broke, the cops walking over the glass, crunching it into the rug.
“You gonna say something?” Cash asked in a low voice. She must have seen the troubled expression on his face.
Colcord attempted to smooth his features. “Nah, not my department.”
She gestured her chin toward the man in charge, a big gut-swinging detective who was currently texting something in the corner. “He doesn’t seem to be overseeing.”
“Let’s not annoy the locals,” Colcord said. “It’s Independence Day, after all.”
Cash crossed her arms. “I’m gonna check out the kitchen before they trash it.”
“I’ll do the office.” Colcord moseyed through the barking SFPD officers. Technically, they weren’t supposed to get ahead of the local search, but he doubted they’d give a damn or even notice. Most of them were trying to get out of there as fast as possible.
The office was a small room, with a desk tucked against one wall. A dead pothos vine snaked across a side table, reaching for the window. A stack of papers was piled on one corner of the desk, and Colcord began shuffling through them. A scholarly article entitled “The Cosmic Evolution of Biogenic Amine” caught his eye, and he skimmed through it—quickly realizing he didn’t understand a damned thing. He took a picture just in case. There were some blown-up photos of pages from an illuminated medieval manuscript showing a scholar holding a roundish, purple-tinged sphere, or possibly an almost round egg, a trancelike expression on his face, with rays of bloodred light radiating from his head. While it didn’t seem pertinent, it was so odd he took a picture anyway.
He was about to look through the papers piled everywhere on the desk, but then paused. He had the distinct feeling that the papers—and indeed everything on the cluttered desk—had been moved, examined, and put back. As he peered closer, he could see the faintest outline of dust where a piece of paper had once rested, then replaced slightly off-center. He looked around the room and the feeling grew: Someone hadsearched the room, a few weeks ago by the look of it, and taken great care to leave no trace.
He turned his attention to the papers that were piled under the desk, taking several photos, because who knew how long it would take the SFPD to get him the evidence they’d collected? They were mostly receipts, tax documents, and bank statements—but suddenly, there it was, nestled between two tax returns: a torn piece of paper with eleven handwritten numbers separated by spaces. He immediately recognized it as a SWIFT code—a unique identifier for banks and financial institutions to facilitate international money transfers. He took more pictures.
He heard Cash behind him. “Check this out,” she said. She was wearing nitrile gloves, holding up a key chain with an odd-looking key on it, enameled with the blue capitalBand a stamped number.
“What’s that?” Colcord asked.
“I remember this blueBlogo. It’s to the club Castillo belonged to. The Battery Club.”
“And?”
“I found it hidden in the freezer between two steaks. Weird place to hide a key.”
“Could have accidentally put it there.”
“I don’t think so. This place, in case you hadn’t noticed, was recently searched.”
“Yeah, I saw that.”
“Castillo was way too clever to leave the relic in his apartment. What better place than to hide it in a locker at a high-security, members-only club?”
“There’s just a wee problem here, Cash: We don’t have a warrant for the club.”
“We’ll talk our way in.”
“Yeah right.”
She slipped the key into her pocket and threw him a wink. “Watch and learn.”
Now the cops filed into the kitchen and began opening cabinets, hauling out dishes, pots, and pans. Cash and Colcord went back into the living room to get away from the noise.
“I found something too, by the way,” he said, taking out his phone and showing her the picture. “It’s a SWIFT code.”
“Good one,” Cash said. “Maybe that’ll help trace the Paradox transfers.”
