He always wore a three-piece suit, starched collars, a hatand cane. Come to think of it, I don’t see a hat anywhere. We’ve gotto check into that. May be something to it.”Manny Silver rotated a full circle. “Yea, no hat anywhere I can see.So was this Mick-whatever — he’s Irish or something, is he? — washe in the habit of walking on the beach this early in the morning?”“I don’t know if he’s Irish or not. It’s not Mick in that sense. Mr.Micawber was a character in David Copperfield.”“This guy worked for Copperfield? The magician?”Tony was silent as he contemplated his response. “The novel byCharles Dickens,” he said finally. “In David Copperfield there’s a popularcharacter who always dressed up like he was well off, even whenhe wasn’t.”If Manny was even slightly embarrassed by the gap in his literarybackground, he concealed it admirably. “So could be our vic herewas hard up. Closet gambler maybe with big debts? Might be amotive there.”“I have no idea at all about his finances,” Tony replied. “All Iknow is what I’ve told you. Except that the women all thought hewas wonderful.”“Aw, women always like short guys, ’specially when they’re old.Means they’re sure to be harmless.”“No, that’s not it. It’s because he was so polite. A total gentleman inevery way. My wi … my ex always used to say he should give lessons.”“Awright, so we got mister supermanners with the weird clothesgoes for a walk on the beach and gets himself blown away by…”Manny went down on one knee just as Tony had on the other sideof the chair. “He gets himself blown away by somebody wearing —uh, wearing...” He bent over to the second set of footprints that ledto the chair, leaning so close to them that his nose almost touched.“Wearing a pair of ladies’ New Balance, 71⁄2 double D, I’d say.”Manny stood and grinned at the expression on Tony’s face. “Iused to work in a shoe store. You get good at the sizes in a hurry.”He put his hands on his hips. “So. My take is the vic, Mr. Micawber,is out for his constitutional. Very early morning. Beach is deserted.He sits in the chair here and Ms. New Balance, 71⁄2 double D, walksup — you can see where she stands and shifts a bit — puts onethrough the vest and then walks away. Just one, two, three, likethat. You agree?”Tony nodded, paused, and then nodded again. “Except for onething,” he said. “I say the shooter was a guy.”Manny frowned. “Yea? What makes you say that?”
What makes Tony Sanchez say that?
2. Border Alert
The call came in from the RCMP at 4:11 p.m. Larkin had begun her shift at 4 p.m., and over the eleven minutes she had passed three passenger cars through her checkpoint. That was normal traffic for a Wednesday afternoon in late August, as the border crossing where Larkin worked was a quiet one, even on holiday weekends. To the north, Quebec’s Highway 55 stretched up to the town of Magog and west to Montreal. To the south, U.S. Interstate 91 reached into Vermont and beyond. On both sides of the border, the area was rural and densely forested.
The RCMP’s alert had been followed by one from the FBI only seconds later and both gave similar, very limited information: a suspected terrorist would be attempting to cross the border some time before 6 p.m. The only really useful information the two agencies added was that the suspect was definitely male and that they were 80 percent to 90 percent certain he was Caucasian. The RCMP’s alert stated that the subject may (like every other customs officer, Larkin snorted at the “may”) have greasy or grimy hands for there was evidence — once more with 80 percent to 90 percent certainty — that he was an auto mechanic. From the FBI came information that the subject may have a bushy, dark mustache.
By 4:12, Larkin’s supervisor had closed all checkpoints but one and placed his entire staff there. The move would definitely slow traffic but it also meant the concentration of officers would increase the level of scrutiny. Then at 4:15, the supervisor began interviewing each duty officer to review whom they’d passed through since the shift began. Larkin was first.
Of the three cars she had waved through, the first one became an immediate candidate in her review because the driver was alone in the car. He was Caucasian and did not offer a passport. On the other hand, the latter bit was not unusual because he was a Canadian citizen and this type of border crosser frequently offered a driver’s license with a photograph. The license, Larkin recalled, was from the province of Quebec and she had taken particular note of his face to match it with the photograph.
When she was asked about a possible mustache, Larkin was certain he did not have one but then strained her memory to recall whether it might have been recently shaved off. Finally, she concluded that even if it had been recently removed, the man’s complexion was really too pale to tell. As for the hands, she had not seen them well enough to notice anything. The car, she explained, was a reasonably new Japanese model, and at first she had been curious about a ski pole in the back seat. A strange item in August, and even stranger in that there was just one. However, the driver explained he’d been hiking in the White Mountains of New Hampshire for the past week, a claim reinforced by a backpack and two empty water bottles on the floor of the back seat.
The second car also seemed to offer a possible candidate as it had a man with a bushy mustache in the front passenger seat. Coincidentally, Larkin also remembered that he had dirty hands or, at least, hands that had been wiped with less than perfect results. However, the bushy mustache was more gray than dark and the woman driving the car had asked if there were washroom facilities. They had just changed a flat tire, the woman explained, and wanted to clean up. Larkin regretted not opening the trunk of this car; it would have been both easy and natural and, if nothing else, would quite likely have confirmed or disproved the flat tire story.
The two offered U.S. passports immediately upon driving up, a gesture that usually indicated experience in crossing borders, and gave their reason for travel as pleasure. They were en route to visit relatives in Sherbrooke, east of Montreal. Since both claimed their home to be a small town that Larkin knew was in the northwest corner of the state of Massachusetts, this was an appropriate border crossing, and she had waved them through despite a nagging curiosity about the difference in their appearance. The woman was far more neatly and carefully groomed than the man with her.
The lone driver of Larkin’s third car had caught her attention at first because he was sweating so profusely. Sometimes that was a sign of extreme nervousness; yet the man’s car was an older one and it could be the air conditioning did not work. Besides which, Larkin noted, she was sweating herself. The weather had been sunny and hot for the past week and today had been more of the same. Nevertheless, what made her pay extra attention in this case was the man’s passport. He was a Lebanese citizen. Although she constantly steeled herself against prejudice, any passport from the Middle East or Far East made her take special notice.
This driver was perhaps in his thirties and had no mustache but Larkin had no memory at all of his hands. She thought they might have been delicate but that impression may have come from her observation of the man as being of slight build. He claimed to be driving from Burlington, Vermont, where he worked (he had a green card) and was going west to Detroit, Michigan. When Larkin questioned why he was going into Canada, he offered the quite reasonable explanation that Canada offered an east-west freeway that could get him to Detroit faster. The interstates in the U.S., especially in this part of the country, run mostly north and south, he had added, a reason that Larkin, like all customs officers at this crossing, heard frequently. Still she had been curious, if not quite suspicious, and opened the man’s trunk. It had a single suitcase, a laptop and a set of golf clubs: nothing to merit delaying him further so she passed him through.
When her review was complete, the supervisor was satisfied that none of her three candidates provided any real reason for suspicion and Larkin returned to duty. It was not until her shift was finished
