Page 86 of Water's Edge

Not sure which.

“Chief Holmes,” she says, not offering a hand. “Jimmy said you wanted to see Robert Boyd’s quarters.”

Quarters. Not room or dorm room. She’s ex-military.

“Ex-Army?” I guess.

“Navy,” she says with a hint of a smile. “Chief petty officer. Submarine duty.” She walks away. I suppose I should follow.

“I appreciate this.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank Jimmy.” Her pace is much quicker than mine and I have to jog to keep up. I don’t like to jog unless I’m chasing someone or running away. She notices and slows.

“Sorry. Old habits.”

“Not a problem,” I say. “Did you know Boyd?”

“I didn’t know him, but I was keeping an eye on his activities on campus.”

I wait for her to expand on what she meant.

“He was a source for fake IDs. He was a source for illegal drugs. He shared a room with another student. Neither of them ever made it to any classes, but they seemed to keep their grades up. I suspect someone was taking exams for them. Or they were hacking the school computer system, entering grades.”

I knew how to do that. In fact, I’ve done it. It isn’t difficult if you have one of the employees’ passwords.

“Who was his roommate?” I ask.

“Qassim Hadir,” she says. “Came here from Syria. Jimmy told me he has a Washington driver’s license in the name of Robert Aloysius Boyd. I’m not sure which of these two made the IDs.”

Clay told me that Robbie Boyd had stolen the identity of his roommate, who was a black male. Now Chief Holmes tells me the other guy’s name is Qassim Hadir. I guess he could pass for a black male.

“How do you know Qassim Hadir is his real name?”

She shakes her head. “That’s the thing: I don’t. Both of these guys check out if you don’t look further than their applications to school. None of the jobs check out. None of the references check out. I had a friend run Boyd through Social Security with the number he’d provided. That Robert Boyd died nine years ago at the age of sixteen. Using a dead guy’s information—can you believe that?”

I can.

And, yes, I’d have done the same thing, but for a different reason. Survival. And who’s to say that’s not what these two were up to. One of themwasdead. Hanged. Maybe set up for several murders. The other was missing if Jimmy could be believed. It was ironic. Or was it? What if the killer used Boyd to send us in a different direction? Boyd and Qassim could change identities like some people change underwear. Boyd could have just disappeared too. Like Qassim.

But he didn’t.

I had the feeling someone else was pulling the strings on these two.

“I can believe anything,” I say.

The two-story apartment building has five units up, five down. It’s wood framed with paint that’s a faded and chipped battleship gray. Black iron railings and concrete stairs complete the picture.

From the outside, I check out Boyd’s room upstairs. Cheap white plastic chairs are on each level, facing out toward the bay. One of the balconies, Boyd’s I think, has a large wooden spool for a plant table. On top, an ashtray and a trio of empty beer cans.

Chief Holmes uses a master key to unlock the door. I make a mental note to collect the beer cans if I don’t find anything more useful inside. I already had Boyd’s body, hence his DNA, but if someone hired him, it’s possible the real killer left something behind.

The chief swings opens the door and the smell hits us. Hard. Like a semitruck of stench.

Forty-Two

The Kitsap County Sheriff’s Office is out in force. Clay is there, wearing his stern, all-business face, along with two other detectives going door-to-door, talking to any dorm resident who might be home.

Not many are.

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