David Baldacci - Simple Genius

He reversed direction, passing the rear courtyard of the mansion where an Olympic-size pool was located along with chairs, tables and umbrellas, an outdoor, stainless steel grill and a stone fireplace. A group of people were gathered around the fireplace, beers and wineglasses in hand, talking quietly. A couple of heads turned in his direction, but no one made an effort to greet him. Sean noted one person sitting off by himself nursing a beer. Sean sat down next to him and introduced himself.

The man was young, and looked nervously at his shoes. He had known Monk, worked with him, he said.

“And your field is?” Sean asked.

“Molecular physics, with a specialization in…” The young man hesitated and took a swallow of beer. “So what do you think happened to Monk?”

“Don’t know yet. He ever talk to you about anything he was into that could’ve gotten him killed?”

“No way, nothing like that. He worked hard, like all of us. He has a daughter. She’s sort of, well, she’s special. Super-bright, I mean things she can do with numbers, even I can’t do. But Viggie is one odd bird, though. Guess what she collects?”

“Tell me?”

“Numbers.”

“Numbers? How do you collect numbers?”

“She has all these amazingly long numbers she keeps in her head. And she keeps thinking of new ones. She labels them using letters. You ask her for the ‘x’ number or the ‘zz’ number you get the right one every time. I’ve tested her. It’s astonishing. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Monk ever talk to you about Camp Peary? Maybe wanting to go there for some reason?”

The man shook his head.

“You knew about it, though, right?”

“Can’t hardly miss it, can you.” A few people from the pool area were pointing over at them. The kid quickly rose. “Excuse me, I’ve got to go.”

Sean continued his walk. Nobody at this place was prepared to talk. Yet if Monk Turing had killed himself, there had to be a reason. With enough digging, that motivation would surface, Sean was sure of it.

He stopped near the building with the water tower attached. The sign on this building read Hut Number Two. As he approached the front entrance an armed guard stepped forward and put a hand up.

Sean held out his badge and explained who he was. The guard scrutinized the security badge and then eyed him. “Heard they were sending someone down.”

“Did you know Monk Turing?” Sean asked.

“No. I mean I know what he looked like but fraternization between the guards and the brains is not encouraged.”

“Any peculiar behavior that you noticed?”

The guard laughed. “Man, all these guys are pretty much whack jobs in my book. Too much smarts can be a bad thing, you know what I mean?”

Sean motioned toward the building. “So what’s Hut Number Two?”

“You can ask, but I won’t tell. Not that I know all that much anyway.”

Sean tried two or three more times to get additional information but, to his credit, the guard held firm.

“You wouldn’t happen to know where Turing lived on the grounds?” he finally asked.

The guard pointed down a path with trees bordering either side. “First right, second bungalow on the right.”

“His daughter living there?”

The man nodded. “Along with somebody from Child Services. And an armed guard.”

“Armed guard?”

“Her dad’s dead. You take precautions.”

“This place looks pretty well guarded actually,” Sean remarked.

“So’s Camp Peary, but someone managed to kill Monk Turing over there.”

“So you think he was murdered? Not a suicide?”

Now the guard looked uncertain. “Hey, I’m not the detective.”

“The FBI and the local police, you talked to them?”

“We all did.”

“They have any theories?”

“None that they cared to share with me.”

“No security problems with Turing? No strangers hanging around here?”

The guard shook his head. “Nothing like that.”

“Turing was killed with his own gun. Did you know he owned one?”

“As far as I knew only the guards have guns.”

As Sean moved down the road he saw the row of bungalows up ahead. The first one was dark, the second one-Monk Turing’s place-had a light on in the front window. All of these residences were constructed of red brick and looked to be about twenty-five hundred square feet in size. Nice digs, he thought. The small lawns were well kept; the picket fences in front neatly painted. Pots of colorful flowers sat on the steps leading up to the front door. It was like one of those idyllic paintings depicting life as it never really was. From inside the house Sean could hear someone playing a piano. He opened the gate and headed up the sidewalk to the front porch.

He eyed a pile of sports equipment on a small bench on the porch. A couple of golf drivers, a basketball, a baseball and a first baseman’s glove were among the items there. Sean picked up the glove; it smelled of well-oiled leather. Turing must’ve been into sports, probably to relax after all the brain work.

Sean peered through the screen door. A plumpish woman dressed in a robe with slippers on her feet was asleep on the couch. There was no sign of a guard. In the far corner of the room sat a baby grand. Playing the piano was a young girl. She had long, white blond hair and pale skin. While Sean was standing there she switched from classical, Rachmaninoff Sean thought, to an Alicia Keys piece he recognized, without missing a beat.

Viggie Turing looked up and saw him. She wasn’t startled. She didn’t even stop playing.

“What are you doing here?”

The voice surprised Sean because it came from behind him. He turned and saw the woman right at his elbow.

He held out his badge. “I’m Sean King. I’m down here investigating Monk Turing’s death.”

“I know that,” the woman said tersely. “I meant what are you doing here, at this house? At this hour?”

She was in her mid-thirties, about five-five. Her red hair was short, parted on the side with a little flip halfway down her neck. The front door light was on so he could see that her skin was freckled and her eyes a milky green. She had on jeans, black loafers and a corduroy shirt. The lips were too full for the thin face, the shoulders a bit too wide for the frame, the nose not quite in sync with the eyes, the chin too sharp for the neighboring square jaw. And yet with all that asymmetry, she was one of the loveliest women Sean had ever seen.

“I was just taking a stroll. I heard Viggie, I presume that’s her playing the piano, and just stopped to listen.” He assumed that was enough information to allow him to ask a question of his own. “And you are?”

“Alicia Chadwick.”

“She’s an amazing pianist,” Sean commented.

The milky green eyes settled back on him. “She’s an amazing child in many ways.” She put a hand on his sleeve and pulled him away from the door. “Let’s talk. There are some things you need to know.”

He smiled. “You’re the first person I’ve met here that’s willing to talk.”

“Reserve your judgment until you hear what I have to say.”

FIVE MINUTES LATER ALICIA LED SEAN up the stone steps of a large green clapboard house with a cedar shake roof and broad front porch. He followed her inside into a comfortable study lined with books. A desk stood in the middle of the room with a large flat screen computer monitor on it. She motioned with a finger toward a worn leather chair while she plopped down in the swivel chair behind the desk.

He watched with interest as she put her right leg up on her desk and pulled on the lower section of her pants. The Velcro strip came free about mid-thigh and that part of the pants leg came away in her hand. It was then that Sean could see the highly polished metal and straps underneath. She undid the leg straps, unloosened a few levers, and set the prosthetic with the black loafer still on it down on her desk. Then Alicia rubbed at the spot where her flesh had met aluminum.