I turned to my bearded friend. "What do you think?"
Eyes ever on the screen as he chewed on a sliver of potato, Max
answered, "I think they cook these French fries in llama dung."
He tossed his paper dish aside.
"The disc, Max," I said impatiently. "Is it evidence of a forgery
or not?"
Max shrugged. "Could be. Nobody was better than Price when it
came to image manipulation--and we all know that you can't believe
a goddam thing you don't see firsthand anymore. But this isn't
setting off any alarms in my software."
Which was significant. Max, like most private detectives of our
day, had come to rely almost exclusively on computers for
everything from forgery identification to DNA analysis. If his
programs--and they were the best--weren't catching any evidence of
deliberate manipulation in what we were watching, then something
very confusing was going on. And as that something concerned one
of the seminal acts of political violence of our time, the
implications of the disc, along with the cause of Vera Price's
desperate behavior and statements in my office, became
uncomfortably apparent.
"If Price was mixed up in something," Max mumbled, "then we
should get a look at the spot where he was killed."
"The police went over it pretty thoroughly."
MORE>>
PAGE 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13
