Free The Eyewitness by Stephen Leather

flaunting office procedures. We have diaries, Jack,” Miller pushed Solomon's across the desk, “So that we know where our people are. Then, if anything goes pear-shaped, we know where to look.”
    “I didn't have time to change the diary,” said Solomon.
    “Bull-fucking-shit, Jack. I was here when you left remember? You lied to me.”
    “I was planning to see Lisa,” said Solomon, 'just not today."
    “That's not the point, I'm your boss. There has to be trust for the relationship to work.”
    Solomon sighed.
    “Look, Chuck, I knew you'd be pissed off if I cancelled Lisa so I didn't tell you. And it wasn't a quick screw.”
    “Whatever it was, it better have been damn important for you to lie to me.”
    “It was the Pristina case. The truck.”
    Miller jabbed a finger at Solomon's chest.
    “I knew it.”
    “Well, if you knew that's what I was doing, why the accusations?” asked Solomon.
    “I wanted to hear it from your lips. I told you, that case is over. We've identified the remains, you wrap up the file and pass it on. We don't have the resources for you to play detective.”
    “I'm not playing anything,” retorted Solomon.
    “I'm trying to track down an eyewitness.”
    “The Tribunal will do that,” said Miller.
    Solomon tutted.
    “They're as stretched as we are,” he said.
    “They're only after the big fish these days, or the easy cases. This isn't an easy case. There's only one witness and she's vanished. If I send over the file now, it'll get lost.”
    “Twenty-six deaths, you said?”
    “That's right. Women. Children. Grandparents.”
    “And clearly racial?”
    “All ethnic Albanians.”
    Miller threw up his hands.
    “So it's a perfect case for the Tribunal. It's a war crime, clear-cut. Twenty-six deaths, they'll follow it up.”
    “I don't think they will,” said Solomon.
    “No one other than the missing witness saw what happened. All we know is that twenty-six people were herded into a truck, and the truck ended up at the bottom of a lake. Without the eyewitness, there'll be no case.”
    Miller jabbed his finger at Solomon's chest again.
    “That's not your problem! Our budget is stretched as far as it can go. I've a list of cases pending as long as my arm and I can't afford to have you playing the maverick. End of story.”
    “Fine,” said Solomon, flatly.
    “Fine isn't good enough, Jack. I want your word that you'll drop this case.”
    “How about I work it on my own time?”
    “Haven't you heard a word I've said? The file goes to the Tribunal. Today.”
    “Okay.”
    Miller gestured at the white board “And they come down off your wall. Today.”
    “Okay,” said Solomon.
    “I mean it.”
    “I said okay.”
    Miller stared at him.
    “Okay. No hard feelings, yeah?”
    “You're the boss.”
    “That's right.” Miller gripped Solomon's shoulder.
    “We should have a drink some time, after work.” He left the room.
    “Sure,” said Solomon to himself.
    He removed the photographs from the white board and put them into a desk drawer, then wiped off the black felt-tip marks he'd used to link the pictures of the dead with the faces in the wedding photograph.
    He sat down at his desk and tapped at his computer keyboard, then got up and walked over to the framed Sarajevo street map that hung by the door. He ran his finger along Obala Kulina Bana Road and found the main post-office building. Virtually destroyed during the siege of Sarajevo, it had been painstakingly rebuilt and was now one of the most impressive buildings facing the Miljacka river. Inside it was all gleaming brass and polished mahogany with marble floors, but so much money had been spent restoring it to its former glory that there was little left to pay staff. Whenever Solomon had been there the queues had been horrendous. Even if Nicole had posted her letter there Solomon doubted that anyone would remember her.
    When Solomon arrived at work the next morning, a typewritten memo from Chuck Miller was tucked under his