The Double Eagle Read Online Free Page A

tied in a double knot. But now she immediately noticed that something was different. The knot on his woven silk tie was much smaller than usual, as if he had loosened it and then retightened it several times. As if he were worried.
     
    Corbett frowned and looked at her quizzically before nodding slowly in sudden recollection. When he spoke, his voice was strained, as if he had just run up several flights of steps.

    “Sure. I remember. Hi.” He spoke in short, sharp bursts and there was something in the precise urgency of his machine-gunned words that suggested a military background. They shook hands again.
     
    Corbett often passed for a man much younger than his forty-five years, although the deepening creases around his eyes and mouth suggested that time was at last beginning to catch up with him. Next to Tucker certainly, he looked fit and healthy although that was possibly an unfair comparison. There was something streamlined about him, from his slicked-back steel gray hair to the rounded contours of his chin and cheekbones that gave him the chromed elegance of one of those 1930s Art Deco locomotives that look like they were powering along at two hundred miles an hour, even when they were standing still. Above the sharp angle of his nose, the cold light of his close-set gray eyes suggested a very clever and very determined man. He reminded her, in a strange way, of her father. Hard but fair.

    “You know, Bob’s got the best cleanup rate in the Bureau.” Tucker continued. “What is it now? Only five unsolved cases in twenty-five years? That’s outstanding work.” He shook his head, as if he couldn’t quite come to terms with it.
     
    “Actually Phil, it’s two. And I haven’t given up on them yet.” He smiled, but Jennifer could tell he wasn’t joking. He didn’t look like the sort of man who did.

    “Bob needs someone to work on a new case for him. I suggested you.”

    Jennifer shrugged awkwardly, her face suddenly hot as two pairs of eyes focused in on her.

    “Thank you, sir. I’ll do my best. What’s the case?”

    Corbett slid a large manila envelope toward her and motioned with a wave that she should open it. Warily, Jennifer lifted the tab and pulled out a series of black-and-white photos.

    “The man in that photo is Father Gianluca Ranieri.” She studied the picture carefully, taking in the man’s contorted face and the large gash in his chest.

    “They found him in Paris yesterday. River cops fished him out the Seine. As you can see, he didn’t drown.”

    Jennifer flicked through the rest of the photos, her mind focused. Close-ups of Ranieri’s face and the knife wound flashed past her large hazel eyes. A quick scan through the translated autopsy report at the back confirmed what Corbett had just told her—stabbed and then presumably thrown in the river. A single blow through the xiphisternum, aimed up toward the left shoulder blade, had caused a massive, almost instant heart attack.
     
    As she read, she flashed a quick look at Corbett. He was studying her office with a faint smile. She knew that some of her colleagues found it strange that she kept the stark green concrete walls bare. Truth was, she found the lack of clutter helped her keep her mind clear.

    “Any thoughts?” Corbett asked, his eyes snapping back round to meet hers.

    “Judging from the injury, it looks like a professional job. Some sort of hit.”

    “Agreed.” Corbett nodded, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he were reappraising her in the light of this quick diagnosis.

    “And it was public. The body dumped where they knew it would be quickly found.”

    “Meaning?”

    “That they’re not worried about getting caught. Or that maybe they wanted to send someone a message.”

    Corbett nodded his agreement.
     
    “Perhaps both. Best guess is that he was killed round about midnight on the sixteenth of July, give or take three or four hours either way.” He got up and padded noiselessly over to the