Free Run the Risk by Scott Frost Page A

me, you’re Daniel Boone, too,” Foley said.
    â€œEagle Scout,” Harrison said.
    â€œFucking beautiful.”
    â€œHe could have fallen out here, struck his head on the cement, staggered into the water, and passed out,” Harrison said.
    â€œBut?” Foley said, sensing more was coming.
    â€œWhat happened to his wallet and keys?” I asked.
    â€œSo he got jacked, then whacked on the head, he fell into the water and they took his car,” Foley said.
    â€œWhy didn’t they take his ring? A petty thief wouldn’t leave it behind.”
    â€œMaybe they couldn’t get it off his finger, maybe they got scared and took off.”
    â€œMaybe they didn’t want anyone to know who he was,” Harrison said.
    Foley looked at Harrison impatiently. “Now why would someone jacking a wallet and a car give a shit about that?”
    â€œMaybe for the same reason they tried to make it look like an accident with the tequila,” I said.
    â€œWhich is?” Foley asked.
    â€œI don’t know,” I said.
    â€œMaybe it’s a crime of passion?” Foley said sarcastically.
    â€œI doubt your idea of passion and mine are the same, Foley,” I said.
    The ME leaned in close to the body and lifted the collar of his shirt to examine the neck.
    â€œThere’s a gold-beaded chain here.”
    Foley took out a pack of cigarettes, removed one,tapped it on the back of his hand, then stuck it in his mouth without lighting it.
    â€œYou are making this way too complicated, Lieutenant, if you don’t mind me saying.”
    â€œI got an ID,” the ME said.
    He lifted a chain from around the victim’s neck with his fingers. “Couldn’t see it under the shirt and sweater.”
    â€œWhat?” Foley asked.
    â€œDog tags.”
    â€œSo we got a soldier,” Foley said.
    The ME looked at the tags and shook his head in surprise. “He’s a major in the Mexican army. Hernandez. What the hell is a major in the Mexican army doing here?”
    Harrison and I immediately looked at each other, thinking the exact same thing at the exact same moment.
    â€œHe missed the dog tags,” Harrison said.
    â€œIt’s gold, he must have thought it was jewelry and left it.”
    â€œHow long would it take to ID a foreign national?” Harrison asked.
    â€œWeeks, if we identify him at all,” I said. “And by then, whatever he’s intending to do will be over.”
    â€œThat’s why he didn’t want us to know his ID,” Harrison said.
    I stared at the body for a moment thinking we had missed a piece of the puzzle. Then it struck me.
    â€œYou said bombers don’t like to be intimately involved with violence,” I said. “It’s why he couldn’t have killed Finley. Could he have done this?”
    â€œDrowning is a benign form of violence.”
    â€œA bump on the head and he goes for a swim,” I said.
    Harrison nodded.
    â€œThere’s another possibility.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œHe doesn’t fit any of the profiles and is much more dangerous.”
    â€œHe?” Foley said. “Who the hell is he ?”
    The line connecting the dots from Finley to Sweeny to the bomb that blew Dave into next week had just beendrawn straight to the casting pond. There is no such thing as coincidence, not when murder is the result. Breem’s flower trucks had come from Mexico. The explosives had come from the Mexican military. The middle-aged father whose life ended facedown in a pool where men practice catching trout was a major in the Mexican army. Dot to dot to dot, and here we are. Wherever the hell that left us. I turned to Foley.
    â€œConsider this a murder scene.”
    Foley’s eyes moved back and forth between me and Harrison like the guest at a dinner table who doesn’t get the joke.
    â€œYou want to tell me what the hell is going on?” he said.
    â€œYeah,” I said,