The Icon Thief Read Online Free Page A

think that Sharkovsky was involved?”
    “We know that he sometimes runs prostitutes,” Wolfe said, glancing at the club behind them. “A lot of girls come through here. If one of them died, it wouldn’t surprise me if he hid her under the boards.”
    “Maybe.” Removing his glasses, Powell took out his handkerchief and polished the lenses one at a time. “We need to tread carefully. If the police go after Sharkovsky, he’ll change his routine.”
    “If you’re worried about this, you should talk to Barlow. He’s the only one who can put a homicide investigation on hold.”
    Powell, putting his glasses back on, was about to reply when it occurred to him that there was another point that deserved further examination. Ducking beneath the tape, he headed for the officer who had met him on his arrival. The patrolman did not seem particularly receptive to his approach, but his manner thawed slightly at the sight of Wolfe. “Something I can do for you?”
    “The sand,” Powell said. “It comes up to the boards. Is it the same everywhere?”
    “Under the boards?” In the patrolman’s mouth, the word
boards
sounded like
bawds
. “Depends. On this stretch, sure, the sand comes all the way up. Eight foot deep, in some cases.”
    “So you can’t walk under the boards,” Wolfe said, understanding the problem at once. If the sand went all the way to the top, it would have been impossible to carry the body to where it had been found.
    “Nope, no room,” the patrolman said. “Of course, there used to be. When I first got on this beat, you could walk under the boards for miles. That was before the Army Corps of Engineers extended the beach. To keep out the homeless, we fenced off the rear of the boardwalk. And then the sand took it back.” He paused. “But if you’ve got an open fence, like a chain link, the sand on the wind just blows through, instead of piling up under the boards. So in those places—”
    Before the officer had finished, Powell was heading down the ramp to the parking lot, which gave him a view of the space beneath the boards. The boardwalk here was eight feet off the ground, sealed off by a wire fence that would allow blown sand to escape. As the others followed, he observed that the ground under the boards was clear, with a good seven feet of headspace.
    To his right, there was a newer section of fence, with dense green mesh hung across the wire links. Beyond it, a concrete wall formed one edge of the parking lot. Here, where the fence and the wall created a solid barrier, the sand had accumulated in increasingly larger drifts. A few yards later, it was up to the boards. And it was there,Powell saw, that the body had been found. “Can you open this gate?”
    The patrolman glanced nervously at Wolfe, clearly thinking of the homicide detective standing above their heads. As a matter of professional courtesy, a detective owned his crime scene. “Normally, I’d say fine, but—”
    “It’s all right,” Wolfe said, touching her badge. “Just a quick look, and we’ll be out of your hair.” Her tone was polite but persuasive, and Powell wondered, in passing, if she had learned it as a missionary.
    “Well, okay,” the patrolman said doubtfully. Taking out his key ring, he unlocked the gate, which keened on rusted hinges. As they went under the boards, Powell could barely make out the concrete supports, where drifts of sand, no higher than a few inches, had gathered against the pillars. Through the gaps between the planks, regular lines of light fell against the uneven ground.
    Pulling the flashlight from his belt, the patrolman handed it to Wolfe, who switched it on, casting its beam against the wall of sand to their right. Examining it, Powell saw that a considerable problem remained. “It’s impossible. We’re ten feet from where the girl was found, but the sand is already above our heads. So how did our guy bring the body as far as he did?”
    Wolfe studied the sand blocking their