by Linda Lovely
“Hey lady, don’t yell at me,” Weaver countered. “If you’d called, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Now go get that damned riddle before it disappears. I need to authenticate it.”
When Darlene left to retrieve the paper, Weaver returned her attention to Ross and me. “You guys unraveled the riddle at supper, right? So, how did our mystery man know The Tipsy House was Jake’s hiding place? If he tailed you everywhere, what made him launch a full-scale attack when he did? His assault seems reckless unless he had reason to believe you’d retrieved what he was after.”
The FBI agent made an excellent point.
Ross’s forehead wrinkled. “Right, how did he know? Marley swears no one tailed us, and the mugger made no attempt to follow us into the museum. So why did he tag along at The Tipsy House?”
Even Weaver went quiet.
I returned her stare. “A bug? Seems improbable, but I don’t have a better explanation. Let’s say someone listened in on our dinner conversation. If our murderer suspected Jake squirreled away evidence, he might have put two and two together from my blatherskiting about a final riddle.”
Ross shook his head. “You’re saying someone bugged my eighty-year-old mother’s condo? Hard to swallow. But if you’re right, why didn’t the joker just grab the package and scamper away before we arrived? He had a two-hour head start.”
I shook my head. “He didn’t know where to look. That’s why. I never mentioned there was a package, let alone that it was stuck in a gutter. Without that tidbit, he could have searched The Tipsy House for hours and come up empty handed.”
Darlene returned with Jake’s note clutched in her hand. “Great, I just heard the tail-end of your conversation. If someone bugged May’s house, they’re probably listening to us right now.”
“I can assure you they’re not,” Weaver said. “Our agents did a sweep when we took over from Thrasos.”
“Did you find bugs?” I asked.
Weaver nailed me with an exasperated look. She didn’t answer. “We’ll check May’s house,” she said. “Don’t worry about contacting the sheriff. I let him know we’re taking over the investigation.”
Weaver stood. Her body language signaled dismissal. I wasn’t ready to leave. Not until a few of my questions were answered. “Have you searched the Glaston safe room?”
“No.” The FBI agent shifted from foot to foot. “Darlene said she didn’t know about it, and Kyle and Hamilton pleaded ignorance. Every time I call to talk with Eric, his uncle claims the young man is sedated and sleeping. I’ll track down the architect tomorrow. If that fails, we can do a search. I doubt it’ll gain us anything though. If only the Glastons knew it existed, it’s doubtful the killer ventured inside.”
“Want to find out?” I asked. “The woman who cleans house for the Glastons gave me an idea. Should only take a few minutes to see if I’m right.”
“What’s your hunch?” she prodded.
I shared Anna’s observation that a second-floor guestroom had lost a passel of square footage when the Glastons installed an elevator. “I’ll bet the safe room’s accessed directly from the elevator. That would be a sound design, offering a quick route to safety from the first or second floor.”
Weaver yawned. “I’ll look into it tomorrow.”
“Why not now? None of us is going to sleep. We’re too wired. Aren’t you curious?”
Weaver agreed, but put her foot down at all four of us trekking to the Glaston house. More people meant more chance to muck-up evidence. Ross and Darlene would wait while Weaver and I took a gander.
The outside air felt colder than forty degrees. The biting wind had not chased the clouds away. Zero cracks in the overcast canopy, no hint of moonlight. We stumbled along the path. The estate’s soft landscape lighting was better suited to romance than sure footing.
Looking down at the rough stone path, we almost blundered into a black-cloaked intruder. He’d come within five feet before Weaver deciphered his shadow and drew her pistol. The man scurried along a feeder footpath that crossed our main walkway.
“This is the FBI. Identify yourself—now,” Weaver challenged.
I froze, heart racing. My eyes, poorly adjusted to the blackness, pulled few details from the specter’s image. The man loomed over six feet. Jeez, was he wearing a cloak? I blinked. Okay, his clothing wasn’t quite so ominous—a black slicker with a hood cinched against the rain.
The dark form straightened. “Lower your gun, you idiot, or I’ll see you fired so fast your feeble brain swims.” I instantly recognized the snotty tone.
“I’ll lower it once I’m sure you’re not carrying,” Weaver barked back. “Assume the position, Mr. Hamilton. Kindly lean on the tree beside you and don’t move a muscle.”
“Consider your actions carefully.” The silky voice stretched out the words. “There’s nothing I’d like better than to instigate a fat civil lawsuit. If I were you, I’d forget any hopes for a government pension. I lunched with Director Swanson last week. Of course, you’ve probably never met the head of your FBI.”
“You can’t bully me, so can it,” Weaver replied.
I cheered her chutzpah, playing with fire. I didn’t doubt Hamilton’s claim of influential friends, maybe even the FBI director. I crossed my fingers her record would protect her.
She completed a quick pat down and holstered her weapon. “What are you doing here?” Weaver didn’t back down. “Thrasos was relieved of all security responsibilities at the estate. The sheriff passed that message to you personally. The estate is off-limits to everyone except FBI and family.”
“So what’s she?” Hamilton pointed at me. “I hadn’t heard Jake had gone Mormon. I thought he only married one whore at a time.”
I longed to jump down Hamilton’s throat with my own zippy, curse-laced repartee. But Weaver seemed quite capable of reaming this guy’s butt on her own. “Marley’s here because I invited her,” Weaver replied.
“And I’m here because Kyle Olsen invited me,” Hamilton spat back. “I’m not some broken-down security guard. I’m in charge of security for Jolbiogen, and Kyle Olsen asked me to retrieve corporate documents from the Glaston house. We don’t want any more secrets falling into the wrong hands.”
Weaver didn’t flinch. “You can tell Kyle Olsen the FBI has assumed responsibility for the contents of the Glaston house. We’ll make certain any papers remain secured.”
“Not reassuring,” he purred. “Let me go about my business, or I’ll take this up with your boss. I have his blessing.”
“I’ll wait to hear it from his lips,” Weaver said.
“You’re unbelievable.” Hamilton’s voice rose. “Perhaps you’re not very bright. My men did most of your homework. We handed you the case against Julie on a platter. Motive, emails. Good God, woman, what are you waiting for? A signed confession?”
“I just plod along at my own pace. I’m a suspicious cuss. Never accept a gift until I’ve unwrapped it and given it a few pokes.”
“I hope no one else dies while you’re poking,” Hamilton said. “I checked in with the agent on the gate. Told him I had FBI approval. If security were still Thrasos International’s domain, your man would have notified you, and we wouldn’t be having this cock-up.”
I decided Weaver shouldn’t have all the fun. “If your visit’s so legitimate, why skulk around alone in the middle of the night? You could have asked Agent Weaver to accompany you while you secured papers anytime in the last twenty-four hours.”
“I don’t have to answer questions from you.” Hamilton spun on his heel.
Weaver called after him. “Maybe not, but I’d like to hear your answer, too.”
He never responded, never looked back. He walked away, confident Weaver wouldn’t resort to force to stop him.
“What’s he up to?” I mumbled.
Weaver thumbed her walkie-talkie and arranged for an agent to escort Hamilton from the compound. “Wonder how long it’ll be before my boss calls.” She sighed. “
Five minutes? I’m not helping my career.”
“Might as well finish this treasure hunt.” Weaver extracted a key from her pocket and unlocked the Glaston’s front door. Inside she made a beeline to the elevator. She’d been there before. I trotted behind.
Weaver punched a button for the second floor. When the lift stopped and the door slid open, we began our search. The bedroom to the right had a sizable amount of unaccounted for square footage directly behind the lift.
We climbed back in the elevator and ran our hands over the ornate paneling on the right hand side. Nothing. We puzzled over the control panel and tested the buttons. They performed as advertised. Frustrated, we held down buttons in varied combinations and sequences. The elevator jerked like a peripatetic puppet at our conflicting commands.
After ten minutes of trial-and-error, Weaver found the open-says-me, pushing all of the Braille embossed pressure pads in concert. The right panel disappeared as a motorized pocket door glided open with whisper-like perfection.
Weaver and I ducked into the confined space. The elevator panel slid shut. “Hope it proves as easy to get the hell out of here,” she muttered.
The cubbyhole resembled a large walk-in closet with padded benches attached to one wall. Room for six people in a pinch, if they weren’t claustrophobic. The space held a small desk, too. Weaver donned gloves to rifle through it.
“A damn peculiar place for a desk,” she said. “I searched Glaston’s home office. It’s ten times the size of this coffin.” She picked up a paper. “I recognize the doctor’s writing. He kept papers here.”
While Weaver snooped, I scanned the cubbyhole’s interior. An almost invisible seam threaded through a section of the tiled floor. In one area, the gray grout looked extra glossy. I touched it with my finger. The wet-looking substance was a putty-like plastic. “Weaver, I think I found a trapdoor.”
The snug fit hid it in plain sight. With a little maneuvering, I lifted the lid to the stowaway space. At first—and second—glance, the contents disappointed. A few pieces of antique jewelry lay beside a single sheet of folded paper and a clothbound journal.
With gloved fingers, Weaver shook the lone paper by a corner to unfold it. “It’s printed on Jolbiogen letterhead. A summary of DNA test results. It must be connected to the stolen research.”
Looking over her shoulder, I read the header: “Results, DNA Trial, May 10.” The document listed thirty subjects by patient number—no names. No mention of pathogens or targeted gene sequences. Under conclusions, it said patients 1333 and 1342 had the same father, and patient 1300 was the father of subject 1355.
“Sounds like paternity testing. Why squirrel it away in a safe?” I wondered aloud. “Can the FBI’s computer gurus search Jolbiogen files to match these patient numbers with names? That might help us figure out why Glaston kept it.”
“There is no us,” Weaver reminded. “I’m looking into this. You’re butting out. I’ll talk to our forensic guys, but they already have a full plate tracing possible hacks into top-secret research and Olsen family medical files. Whoever the Jolbiogen thief is, he—or she—certainly knows how to play a computer keyboard.”
Weaver opened the journal. “Looks like Dr. Glaston’s personal journal. We’ll leave everything as we found it. After our crime scene specialists process the scene, I’ll read the journal, see if it offers any clues.”
A button to call the elevator sat in plain view. Weaver pressed it. The panel slid open and we descended in ghostly silence to the first floor. Neither of us spoke during our uneventful stroll back to the main house.
“It’s about time.” Darlene stood. “What did you find?”
Weaver briefed them regarding the desk contents but conveniently omitted our encounter with Hamilton. Guess she didn’t want to rile Darlene more.
“Okay, it’s late, and I have work to do,” she concluded. “First task is to get Jake’s note analyzed and verify he wrote it. Please, don’t even think about any more sleuthing.”
The agent left, and we fell into a funky silence.
“Guess we should go, too.” Ross and I edged toward the door.
“Please stay just a couple minutes more.” Darlene walked over to a credenza covered with snapshots. “I spent the afternoon poring over scrapbooks to pull together a tribute to Jake, one that focuses on happier times. I’d like your opinion, Ross. The funeral director said he’d mount the snapshots on a magnetic board before tomorrow’s visitation.”
We studied the photos. In them Jake morphed from a rakish college student into an adoring new dad. In middle age, he performed duties as the proud ribbon-cutter for Jolbiogen’s headquarters. In his seventies, he sported a carefree grin as he looked adoringly at Darlene. The pictures offered nary a clue about who would want this man, his daughter and son-in-law dead.
“Jake was a good man.” Ross bit his lip. “Sure hope they find the bastard who killed him.”
Amen, to that. And I hoped they did so before anyone else turned up dead.
SEVENTEEN
Jake’s body floated just out of reach. I could tell he was dead, but his animated hand busily scribbled messages on a piece of paper. The page remained blank. Invisible ink.
“What are you trying to tell me?” I demanded.
A disembodied voice answered. “I told you. You lost it.”
A loud pounding prompted me to cover my ears. “What is that?”
Jake fixed me with his walleyed stare and refused to answer.
The image dissolved. The banging grew louder. I woke. Someone pounded insistently on Aunt May’s front door. My monster headache intensified the racket.
Where was May? I hurried into her bedroom. Bed neatly made. She’d decamped for the day. I snatched a hot pink velour robe hanging from a hook, zipped it, and headed to the door. Hemmed floor-length for my aunt, the robe hit me mid-calf.
“May? You here?” I called en route. Silence.
The door offered no peephole or safety chain. “Who is it?”
“Weaver.”
Though muffled by the closed door, her schizophrenic speech pattern—a Southern drawl spoken with an allegro cadence—identified her.
I cracked the door open. “Come in. What time is it?”
“Eleven o’clock. Your aunt left five minutes ago. It seemed a good time to chat. Get dressed. We’ll take a drive.”
Recalling that May’s house might be bugged, I didn’t quarrel—though I longed for a kitchen detour and strong coffee. Instead I vamoosed to the bedroom and threw on a short-sleeved sweatshirt and jeans. I returned in two minutes flat. Brushing my curly hair isn’t obligatory when I’m on a clock. My husband always swore he couldn’t tell any difference between my combed and uncombed locks.
“Let’s do it,” I said.
Sliding into the front passenger seat, I got a pleasant surprise. The agent had requisitioned two large coffees. Steam curled tantalizingly from sipping slips cut into the Styrofoam mega mugs occupying the holders between the seats.
“Thanks.” I reached for the nearest cup.
Weaver put the car in gear and rocketed away. A wave of hot coffee sloshed out the top. I didn’t complain. “Is everything okay with my aunt?”
“Far as I know.” The FBI agent glanced over at me. “She got a call from her real estate office, mumbled something about leaving you a note, and took off. Based on her phone conversation, she slept soundly. Had no idea you didn’t return until the wee hours.”
“Are you bugging May’s apartment?” I demanded.
“Yes. Remotely.” Weaver shrugged. “A scan told us someone else had bugged the condo remotely—and that someone didn’t have a court order. So we put a fishing boat in your cove. His tuner picks up voices in the condo just fine. It’s not that we don’t trust you and your family. We just felt it prudent to hear what our eavesdroppers were hearing so we could anticipate any action.”
“My lord, I can’t believe someone bugged May’s house.”
“Didn’t surprise
me. We disabled a half-dozen bugs at the Olsen estate, and we’re jamming to prevent any long-distance monitoring. So they went after a softer target. Anyway this is good news. Now we can script what we want your eavesdroppers to hear.”
Weaver’s good news didn’t thrill me. “I’m not acting out any script that drags May into danger.”
The FBI agent’s chuckle didn’t signal amusement. “You’re awfully righteous for someone who plunked her cousin in a shooting gallery. But no, we won’t do anything to endanger your family.” When she looked over, her eyes narrowed. “Will you please sit quietly and sip your coffee while I bring you up to date?”
Her dressing down didn’t sit well. She’d recruited me with General Irvine’s blessing. The woman acted awfully uppity for a pipsqueak who was fifteen years my junior and needed my help. Do they teach arrogance in FBI school?
I gritted my teeth. Maybe she had reason to be perturbed. I hadn’t exactly been acting my age.
Weaver filled me in on the frantic activity that took place while I sawed logs. It started early morning, when experts examined the contents of the safe room vault. The clothbound journal proved an evidentiary goldmine. Jake’s son-in-law definitely penned the self-congratulatory tome. In it, Glaston boasted how easy it was to filch the military research. He also crowed about the deal he negotiated with buyers. Unfortunately, he didn’t identify them.
Weaver pulled onto an overlook at the Kettleson nature preserve and shut off the engine. “Now that we know Glaston was the seller. General Irvine’s working his contacts. Not your problem. Before you start asking questions, let me finish.”
Exhaustion shadowed her eyes. Not the time to spark debate.
“Glaston wrote a cryptic entry about his ‘fair-weather friends.’ Said they’d served their purpose and were in for a nasty surprise once he was safely away. He added it was too bad he wouldn’t be around to see the high and mighty fall. Not a big leap to believe his collaborators killed him.”
Weaver opened her car door. I took the cue, exited and rounded the car. The trumpeter swans seemed less vocal today. Weaver slouched against the fender.
