Дэвид Балдаччи - The Fallen

“Anybody ever visit him here?” asked Decker.

“Not really. I don’t think he had many friends.”

“Did you see him shortly before he went missing?”

“Truth is, I hadn’t seen Mike since he left here.”

“Did he have any enemies?” asked Jamison.

“Not so’s I know. But he sold drugs, so he might have.”

“Did he have a car?”

“No. But he had a bike. He took it with him when he left.”

“Do you know what it looked like?” asked Decker.

“Yeah, it had two wheels.”

They walked out of the place not knowing much more than when they’d walked in.

Jamison leaned against the side of their truck and said, “Well, this case is moving about as fast as a bike without two wheels.”

Decker looked over her shoulder. “You really can see it from just about everywhere in Baronville. Must be a sore point for the locals.”

Jamison looked at where he was indicating.

“John Baron’s ancestral estate?”

“And our next stop.” Decker checked his watch. “He should be up by now.”

Decrepit.

That was the word that came to mind as Decker studied the outside of the Baron mansion.

He had pounded twice on the battered double front doors and had heard nothing in return.

Jamison said, “Maybe he’s not home.”

“It’s a big house. Maybe he has to walk a long way to answer the door. And he told me he’s usually here.”

A few moments later they indeed heard footsteps approaching.

The door swung open and John Baron the Fourth looked back at them.

Decker noted that he was wearing the same clothes as the other night. His hair was just as disheveled and his eyes were full of sleep.

“Did we wake you?” Decker asked, giving him a long look, since it was late in the afternoon.

Baron smiled and stretched out his long frame.

“Actually, you did. I was up before, of course. Rolled out of bed right around noon as usual. This was just a refresher nap before I go to bed tonight.”

He glanced at a wide-eyed Jamison. “And who do we have here?” he said.

“We have here, Alex Jamison,” said Jamison. “I’m Decker’s partner.”

“Lucky you, Decker,” said Baron. “Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

“We’re investigating the murders,” said Decker.

“So you told me.”

“We’d like to ask you some questions.”

The smile remained at full wattage. “And why’s that?”

“Just routine.”

“Right. That’s what they say when they have no grounds to ask questions but want to come in anyway. Well, I would be delighted, but only if the charming Alex here gets to ask questions too.”

He backed away and waved them in.

They stepped through and he closed the door behind them.

Jamison immediately shivered, because there was a chilly draft in the hall.

Baron noted this and said, “I don’t turn the heat on officially until January. So we have some months to go until warmth returns. Oil-fired furnace. Beastly expensive. And one must live within one’s means.”

He led them down the hall. As they passed open doorways on both sides of the grand passage they glimpsed rooms of immense size with decorations and furnishings from many decades ago. The atmosphere in each was one of decay.

“Quite a place,” said Jamison.

“Actually the craftsmanship was abysmal and the materials were the cheapest available.”

“Why is that?” asked Decker.

“Because Baron the First was loath to part with a dime. I think his role model was Ebenezer Scrooge. But he wanted a symbol of his wealth on display for all the town to see. And this was the result.”

“And the workers? They weren’t any good?”

“Oh, I heard they were excellent. But they hated their employer and so they did crappy work. At least that’s the family gossip.”

He pointed through an open doorway. “The gun room.”

He led them inside a space about twenty feet square. On three walls were rows and rows of gun racks, but they only contained a few long guns: one antique over-and-under shotgun, three hunting rifles, and an elegant-looking flintlock. In glass cabinets in the center of the room were a few sets of pistols, blunderbusses, old bullets, and assorted hunting accessories.

“Baron the First fancied himself lord of the fiefdom, and he liked to look the part.”

“Did he hunt?” asked Decker.

“Only for money. And he didn’t use a gun. Just a knife to stab people in the back.”

Jamison raised her eyebrows at this remark. “There were obviously a lot more guns in here at one time,” she observed.

“There was a lot more of everything here at one time. As for the guns, I sell them off occasionally to help pay the expenses on this place. But as you can clearly see, I’m running out of assets. Now, on to my little inner sanctum.”

Baron ushered them down the hall and into what looked to be a large study straight out of an early-twentieth-century period piece. There was an enormous partner’s desk set near the rear wall. Resting on it was an old computer, which still looked out of place with all the other antiquated trappings. Bookcases, low tables stacked with books and papers, an ancient freestanding metal globe, and a leather couch that sagged nearly to the floor were set around the room. Against one wall was a heavily carved credenza upon which sat a line of half-empty bottles of alcohol with cut crystal glasses set in front of them. There were two other upholstered chairs in the room across from the desk, which Baron waved them into as he settled himself down behind his desk and moved some stacks of papers and books out of the way.

Decker’s chair creaked ominously with his weight, but it held. Behind Baron were dark green drapes that were heavily stained.

Decker eyed the boxy computer. “So, what is it that you do for a living?”

“How do you know I don’t live off an immense fortune left to me?” asked Baron, but his grin showed that the question was not serious. He pointed to the computer. “I actually do research for a number of professors at Penn State and U Penn. It doesn’t pay all that well, but I can do it from here and it provides some income.”

“What sort of research?” asked Jamison.

“Mostly history. I like looking into the past. Allows me to forget my present circumstances and leaves me no time to dwell on my possible future prospects, or, more accurately, the lack thereof.”

“Have you researched your own family history?” asked Decker.

“Just what’s been passed down from generation to generation. It’s nothing you haven’t seen with other friendly neighborhood robber barons.”

“Speaking of Barons,” said Jamison. “I was wondering if that was really the family name, or if it was chosen by John Baron the First.”

“As far as I know it’s our real name, though I would put nothing past my ancestor in pretty much any department.”

He put his hands behind his head, sat back, placed his long feet on the desk, and said, “Okay, I’m ready for your routine questioning.”

Jamison took out her recorder.

When Decker didn’t do likewise, Baron said, “Does your partner docket everything for you?”

“No, I have a pretty good memory.”

“I’m sure that comes in incredibly handy.”

“Yeah, it can.”

“So, the routine questions?”

“I asked you before if you knew any of the victims.”

“I vaguely remember that.”

“And do you vaguely remember telling me you didn’t?”

“Possibly.”

“Either you do or you don’t, Mr. Baron,” interjected Jamison.

He looked at her and smiled disarmingly. “My dear Alex, normally I would answer such a question without hesitation, but at the time it was asked by your colleague here, I had imbibed quite a bit of alcohol. In other words, I was drunk. I should have walked home. As it was, I nearly drove my truck into the river. But may I say your query was exceptionally well phrased and spot-on with its content?”