Nelson DeMille - Plum Island

To my surprise, she nodded. "That's about it. Now I realize there's more to you."

"No, there isn't."

"Sure there is."

"Maybe I'm trying to get in touch with my inner child."

"Oh, you do that just fine. You should try to get in touch with your suppressed adult side."

"That's no way to speak to a wounded hero."

She continued, "On the whole, I think you're loyal to your friends and dedicated to your job."

"Thank you. Let's get to the case. You want me to brief you about what I've done."

She nodded. "Assuming you've done anything." She said, with a touch of sarcasm, "You appear to have been busy with other things."

"Job related. She's president of the — "

Emma popped her head into the kitchen. "Okay, I think I heard a horn outside. Nice meeting you, Beth. Talk to you later, John." She left, and I heard the front door open and close.

Beth said, "She's nice." She added, "Travels light."

I didn't comment.

Beth said, "Do you have those financial printouts for me?"

"Yes." I stood. "In the den. I'll be right back."

I went into the center hallway, but instead of going into the den, I went out the front door.

Emma was sitting in a wicker chair, waiting for her ride. Beth's PD, the black Ford, was in the circle. Emma said, "I thought I heard a horn. I'll just wait here."

I said, "I'm sorry I can't drive you to work."

"No problem. Warren lives right near here. He's on the way."

"Good. Can I see you later?"

"Friday night I go out with the girls."

"What do the girls do?"

"Same as the boys do."

"Where do the girls go?"

"Usually, the Hamptons. We're all looking for rich husbands and lovers."

"At the same time?"

"Whatever comes first. We do deals."

"Okay. I'll stop by the shop later." I asked, "Where's your potty?"

"In the bedroom."

"I'll bring it with me later."

A car pulled into the long driveway, and Emma stood. She said, "Your partner seemed surprised to see me."

"Well, I suppose she was expecting me to answer the door."

"She seemed more than surprised. She was a little… put off. Subdued. Unhappy."

I shrugged.

"You said you weren't seeing anyone else out here."

"I'm not. I just met her for the first time Monday."

"You met me Wednesday."

"Right, but — "

"Look, John, I don't care, but — "

"She's just — "

"Warren's here. I have to go." She started down the steps, then came back up, kissed me on the cheek, and hurried off to the car.

I waved to Warren.

Oh, well. I went back inside and walked to the den. I hit the play button on my answering machine. The first message at seven p.m. last night was from Beth, who said, "I have a ten a.m. appointment with Max tomorrow, I'd like to stop by on the way — about 8:30 or so. If this is a problem, call me tonight." She gave me her home number, then said, "Or call me in the morning, or call my car." She gave me her car phone number, then said, "I'll bring donuts if you make coffee."

Very friendly tone in her voice. She really should have called me from the car phone this morning. But okay. My experience over the years has always been that if you miss a message, something interesting usually happens.

The next message was from Dom Fanelli at eight p.m. He said, "Hey, are you home? Pick up if you're there. Well, okay… Listen, I got a visit today from two gents from the Anti-Terrorist Task Force. An FBI guy named Whittaker Whitebread, or something like that, real buttoned-down dandy, and his cop counterpart, a guy we met a few times, a paisano. You know who I mean. Anyway, they wanted to know if I'd heard from you. They want to see you Tuesday when you come in for your doc meet, and I have to deliver you to them. I think the FBI doesn't believe its own press release about the Ebola vaccine. I think I smell a cover-up. Hey, are we all going to get the black clap and watch our dicks fall off? By the way, we're going down to San Gennaro tomorrow night. Get your ass in here and meet us. The bar at Taormina's, six p.m. Kenny, Tom, Frank, and me. Maybe some babes. We're gonna mange, mange, mange. Bellissimo. Molto bene. Come meet us if your pepperoni is lonely. Ciao."

Interesting. I mean about the Anti-Terrorist Task Force. That surely didn't sound as though they were concerned about a miracle cure for Ebola getting into the black market. Obviously, Washington was still in a state of panic. I should tell them not to worry — it's pirate treasure, guys. You know, Captain Kidd, doubloons, pieces of eight, whatever the hell that is. But let them look for terrorists. Who knows, they might find one. It's a good training exercise.

The Feast of San Gennaro. My mouth was watering for fried calamari and calzone. Jeez, I felt like an exile here sometimes. Sometimes I got into it — nature, quiet, no traffic, ospreys…

I could conceivably be at Taormina's at six tonight, though I didn't want to fly that close to the flame. I needed some more time, and I had until Tuesday before they got their hands on me — first the docs, then Wolfe, then the ATTF guys. I wondered if Whittaker Whitebread and George Foster were in communication. Or were they the same guy?

Anyway, I retrieved the pile of financial printouts. Also on the desk was the bag from Tobin Vineyards that held the painted tile with the osprey. I picked it up, then thought, "no," then thought, "yes," then "no" again, then "maybe later." I put it down and went back into the kitchen.

Beth Penrose had her papers from the briefcase spread out on the table, and I now noticed a plateful of donuts. I gave her the stack of printouts, which she put to the side. I said, "Sorry I took so long. I had to play my phone messages. I got your message."

She replied, "I should have called from the car phone."

"That's all right. You had a standing invitation." I indicated the paper on the table and asked, "So, what do you have there?"

"Some notes. Reports. Do you want to hear this?"

"Sure." I poured us both coffee and sat.

Beth said, "Did you discover anything else in these printouts?"

"Just some increases in their phone, Visa, and Amex after their England trip."

She asked me, "Do you think the trip to England was anything other than business and vacation?"

"Could be."

"Do you think they met a foreign agent?"

"I don't think we'll ever know what they did in England." I was fairly certain, of course, they'd spent the week wading through three-hundred-year-old papers, making sure they signed in and out of the Public Records Office, and/or the British Museum, thereby establishing their bona fides as treasure seekers. However, I wasn't prepared to share that thought yet.

Beth made a short note in her book. Maybe some archivist would be interested in a late-twentieth-century homicide detective's notebook. I used to keep a notebook, but I can't read my own handwriting so it's sort of useless.

Beth said, "Okay, let me begin at the beginning. First, we still have not recovered the two bullets from the bay. It's an almost hopeless task, and they've given up on it."

"Good decision."

"All right, next. Fingerprints. Almost every print in the house is the Gordons'. We tracked down the cleaning lady, who had cleaned that very morning. We also found her prints."

"How about prints on that book of charts?"

"Only the Gordons' and yours." She added, "I examined every page of that book with a magnifying glass and an ultraviolet lamp, looking for marks, pinholes, secret writing — whatever. Nothing."

"I really thought that might yield something."

"No such luck." She glanced at her notes and said, "The autopsy shows what you'd expect. Death in both cases came as a result of massive brain trauma caused by an apparent gunshot wound to the decedents' respective heads, the bullets both entering from the frontal lobes, and so forth… Burned powder or propellant found, indicating close range, so we can probably discount a rifle from a distance. The ME won't commit, but he's saying the murder weapon was probably fired from five to ten feet away and that the caliber of the bullets was in the larger range — maybe a forty-four or forty-five."