"No, the thief ran off, we ran him off before he could get to Caskie's computer."
"What was the thief after?"
"I don't know!"
Sherlock said, "I agree it wasn't Blauvelt who was in Royal's office, even though he could have walked in and accessed anything he wanted. The thing is, he couldn't have fit himself through that small bathroom window. So he hired someone. It had to be a woman. Do you know who she could be?"
"No, I have no idea!" Alvarez looked battered. The well was dry, Sherlock thought. She said gently, "I sure hope Caskie Royal is an excellent lover, Ms. Alvarez, because meeting him here was a very bad decision on your part."
Alvarez looked down at her nails, frowned at the hangnail on her thumb. She didn't look up as she said, "No, not particularly. Like you said, Agent, men are dogs."
"You're a smart woman. You should clean up your act. Now, tell me how you see this going down, Ms. Alvarez. Don't give me the tired old line about a mugger. Who do you think murdered Helmut Blauvelt?"
Carla Alvarez sagged against her desk. "I wish I knew, Agent. I'd tell you. Then I'd never have to see you again. You're a bitch."
"And proud of it," Sherlock said, gave her a smile, and left her office.
12
STONE BRIDGE POLICE STATION
Sherlock and Savich sat in wooden chairs across from the ancient desk Bowie had been temporarily assigned in the local police department.
Sherlock said, "I agree with Dillon. Let's get Caskie Royal in here tomorrow and have at him. No more kid gloves like you used today, Dillon, we'll catch him by surprise. Bring on the lawyers, it'll be fun."
Savich said, "If I were his boss, I'd lawyer him up and dare us to connect Blauvelt's death with Schiffer Hartwin." He paused a moment. "You know, I would like to go a couple rounds with Bender the Elder." He smiled a smile that would make the Devil rethink things, Sherlock thought. He continued, "What you found out, Sherlock, about this unexpected profit. I have a gut feeling you're on to something. Unexpected profit. It's worth looking into. I think I'll get MAX started on this. It could be someone in Schiffer Hartwin is involved in something unethical and illegal that's dumped money in their laps, and that's what Alvarez was referring to."
Bowie said, "A windfall profit. I like the sound of that."
Savich said, "I'll call Dice, see if we have any whistleblowers from Schiffer Hartwin who've come forward."
Bowie said, "Since that landmark criminal and civil fine last year of two point three billion dollars levied against Pfizer, I wouldn't doubt it. I wondered how much of that money the six whistleblowers split among them."
"Enough for a whole lot of encouragement," Sherlock said. "Admittedly, though, their lives couldn't have been fun for most of a decade, but in the end, it paid off big-time for them. That two point three billion dollars represents about a year of profits for Pfizer. Do you think it's enough to make some of the drug companies clean up their act?"
Bowie said, "Don't know. I'm rooting for Health and Human Services myself. I know they'll be monitoring Pfizer for the next five years, since no one trusts them to keep to a straight path." Bowie looked down at his watch. "I've got to go. I'll pick you guys up for our date at Chez Pierre, at eight forty-five, okay?"
They watched him dash out of the small makeshift room where he and four other FBI agents were temporarily housed. The Stone Bridge police chief, Clifford Amos, obviously wasn't happy about the feds invading his police station, and the accommodations he'd provided them showed how he felt about it.
Agent Dolores Cliff leaned forward in her ancient creaky chair, behind an even more ancient desk than Bowie's. "Bowie's got to pick up his daughter from school and take her to the new babysitter."
13
Erin came down on her knees to look Georgie Richards in the face. "You wanna stay with me for a couple of days, Georgie? Your dad and I decided it'd be more fun to stay here rather than me trucking over to your house. What do you think?"
Georgie was looking toward Erin's colorful living room, with bright pillows tossed on the green-and-white-striped sofa, a huge red beanbag in the corner, and framed posters of Degas ballet dancers on the walls. "I don't know," Georgie said, taking a step toward the living room. "Maybe you're not such a good roommate."
"Hey, anyone who can teach smart-mouthed kids how to demi-plié has to be a good roommate."
Georgie said, "You are a good dancer."
"Yep, I can dance up a storm. My grandmother told me my second arabesque was the most graceful she'd ever seen. Hmm, I think she told my mother the same thing. Anyway, maybe I could give you extra pointers. For free. I've got a surprise for you in your bedroom."
"A surprise?"
That got the kid's attention. "All surprises are better if you have to wait awhile."
Georgie was nearly humming with excitement. She'd scored a point on that one, Erin knew, and tried not to smile. Then Georgie said as she touched her fingertips lightly to the leaves of an African violet, "Can you cook?"
"Hard to get, aren't you? Sure, nearly as well as I can dance. Wait'll you taste my Nutcracker Brussels sprouts and Swan Lake cabbage salad."
The little girl grabbed her stomach. "Eeew! Daddy, tell her I can do the cooking, I know some great recipes. Daddy loves them."
Bowie laughed. "Her hot dogs with chili and grated cheese on top and her famous Special K with sliced baked apples stirred in are the best I've ever had."
"That does sound good," Erin said. "Hmm, maybe we could work something out."
"Daddy washes my clothes for me when Glynn doesn't. Will you, Erin?"
"Okay, maybe I could do that."
"And ironing-?"
"That's pushing it, kid. Your dad can iron for you before he goes to bed, how about that?"
"I just don't know, Erin. Daddy says he's got some real heavy stuff to do. I don't know if he'll ever go to bed until he catches these bad guys."
Erin didn't want to, but she looked up at Bowie Richards-Special Agent Bowie Richards, SAC of the New Haven field office-and recognized him for the predator she knew he could easily be. She wasn't fooled for a minute by the thankful father who saw her as his salvation. If only he knew. She'd already cursed herself from here to Bratislava thinking this over. She'd done it for Georgie, but she'd also realized if she was careful, she could work with this. Just maybe when he came over to visit his daughter, she could be subtle enough so he'd never know she was easing information out of him. She could do subtle well, her case successes told her that. The huge ball of fear she'd felt since this morning dissolved a bit in her belly.
She saw Bowie Richards look at his watch. She got to her feet and shook his hand, a big hand, callused. "I'll even iron her clothes, but I draw the line there. Georgie, you've got to make up your own bed."
The look of absolute relief on his face nearly made her laugh. "Georgie's been making her own bed for two years now, haven't you, baby?"
"I'm seven years and six months old now, Daddy, I'm not a baby."
"How could I be so blind? Forgive me." He went down on his haunches and hugged her, breathed her in. "I'll come visit whenever I can, but like I told you, I'm up to my earlobes in a big gnarly mess right now."
"Will you come back for dinner tonight?"
"No, sweetie, I'm sorry. I've got to have dinner with two hotshot FBI agents the bosses sent up from Washington."
"And they need you to show them what to do, right?"
She believed in him absolutely, Bowie thought, looking at that precious face and huge dark blue eyes, her mother's eyes. He nodded. "Yes, sweetie, they need my help."
He kissed his daughter again, told her to mind her manners, ruffled her dark brown hair, his hair, and rose. "Thank you, Ms. Pulaski, I owe you big for this."
Erin prayed she'd never have to collect on the debt.
And so it was done. Erin had a roommate for two days, then they'd reevaluate, Bowie had said in a hopeful voice.
Georgie shook her head and said in a
too-adult voice, "He's worried, I know he is, but he doesn't say anything. Some German man got killed in Van Wie Park, and Daddy's got to figure it all out. He said he found out who the man was because of his teeth. He didn't have any ID either. I heard Daddy say that on the phone. I hope the agents from Washington will be able to help."
So the man who was killed was German? If he was German, he was almost surely connected to Schiffer Hartwin. He didn't have any ID? Bowie figured out he was German from his teeth? So that meant Bowie recognized German dentistry? Well done. What about his fingerprints?
She'd have to find out about that. She smiled down at Georgie. "We'll eat in an hour, that okay with you?"
"Will we have Nutcracker food?"
"Nah, not tonight. I've got a macaroni and cheese casserole in the oven. Now, kiddo, let me show you your room."
"What's my surprise?"
"It's in your room. Let's take a look."
Erin opened the door and Georgie charged in to see a barre set against a long glass wall. "Now you can practice and practice," Erin said. "I even lowered it for you. What do you think of that?"
Georgie had obviously nourished higher hopes, but the kid was polite. "It is a beautiful barre, thank you, Erin," and that little voice told her another surprise would be a lovely thing for Erin to produce. Long day for the little girl, she thought, and so full of change.
Erin said, "You know, if you don't want the mac and cheese, I could fry us up a mess of liver and put Cool Whip all over the top."
The little girl laughed and laughed as she walked over to lightly run her fingertips over the smooth wooden barre.
When, Erin wondered, did little girls, seven years and six months, usually go to bed? She had a feeling if she asked Georgie, she'd lie to her, clean.
They had a successful meal of mac and cheese, obligatory green beans, and a small salad thrown in. After an hour playing on the barre and two TV shows, Erin looked over at the droopy-eyed Georgie, who'd sworn her daddy never made her go to bed until very late, and dialed Bowie Richards's cell.
"Richards. Yeah?"
He sounded harried.
"It's Erin Pulaski. When does Georgie usually go to bed?"
There was an instant of stark silence. She could see him firmly bringing his brain back to the mundane. "An hour ago, at seven forty-five. She got you, huh?"
"Oh yeah." And she hung up.
Bowie laid his cell next to himself on the car seat. Sherlock eyed it as it slid into her. She picked it up and handed it to him.
"Oh, thank you," he said, gave it a baffled look, and stuck it in his pocket. "That was Erin Pulaski, she's my temporary babysitter, taking care of my daughter. She's, ah, a private investigator here in Stone Bridge, as well as my daughter's ballet teacher." He shook his head, flipped on his left-hand turn signal. "Some combination."
Savich said from the back seat where he was working on MAX, "Her name's Georgie, right?"
"Yeah, today she told me she was seven years and six months and not a baby anymore." He shook his head, grinned. "I'll tell you, it seems like she was wearing diapers and drooling just last week. Tell me about your little boy."
They spoke to him of Sean and their dog, Astro.
"Georgie wants a dog, what kid doesn't? We'll have to see."
The evening was cool, the moon at half-mast, the sky clear and studded with stars. Bowie said, "The restaurant is just down this road. I had their lobster the one time I ate here and it's great. Another thing, the owner, Paul Remier, wasn't too happy to be hosting three cops in his fine upscale restaurant tonight. I think he's afraid we'll slap handcuffs on someone and march him out."
Sherlock grinned. "Then let's keep him guessing."
He looked over at her, appreciated the nice black dress she was wearing, the sexy open-toed shoes that showed off her bright red toenails. She'd pulled back all that beautiful red curly hair and fastened it behind her ears with gold clips. He'd never take her for a tough-as-nails FBI agent, which is what she was.
He glanced over at Savich, who was wearing a conservative black suit, nearly a match to Bowie's. He liked them both, but he still wished they weren't here, wished they were back in Washington playing with their kid. Why did Disneyland East always think the field offices were incompetent? At least Savich and Sherlock had excellent reputations. He'd heard some talk that Savich was into psychics, or something, which sounded ridiculous to Bowie, not that he was going to ask Savich about it. What did one do? Have séances? The FBI didn't deal with ghosts. It just wouldn't work.
It was nine o'clock on the nose when they walked in. The maitre d' stood by a podium near the front door, along with the owner, Paul Remier, a very short rotund man with jet-black hair and black eyes. Neither of them looked particularly welcoming.
Sherlock gave them both a high-voltage smile. "Dr. Ella Franks tells us you serve the best oysters this side of the Atlantic."
"Ah," said Paul Remier, unbending just a bit, "this is true. So you know Dr. Franks? A fine lady. Do allow me to seat you myself. We hope you have a lovely dinner. Our chef's oysters à la maison are exceptional. I have arranged for last night's waitstaff to be available for you to speak with, discreetly, here at your table. Will that be convenient for you?"
Once they were seated, with their water poured in crystal glasses, fine virgin olive oil in a small bowl, and a warm baguette laid in a white basket on their lovely corner table, Bowie raised a brow at Sherlock. "How did you do that? I thought Remier would prefer to serve me for dinner rather than feed me oysters when I saw him this morning."
Sherlock grinned at him. "I found out Paul Remier is a neighbor of Dr. Ella Franks. Dr. Franks calls him Paulie."
14
Dillard Shanks, known to the Chez Pierre patrons as Estafan, told them he'd happened to overhear Mr. Blauvelt speaking on his cell phone, something simply no one did at Chez Pierre, and he actually sniffed. However, no one had bothered the gentleman since he was sitting at a back table, wearing an expensive English suit and Italian loafers; but still, Monsieur Remier had believed it exceedingly rude.
"Tell us what you heard him say," Bowie said.
They could tell Estafan didn't want to admit to eavesdropping, but when Bowie added, "You'll make us the happiest people in Stone Bridge if you heard something," Estafan said, "Well, as a matter of fact, I did stop and listen because the gentleman had a bit of an accent, German, I believe. I heard him say he'd made up his mind and to leave him alone. He said something about flying home, but I didn't hear enough to be certain. He listened for a couple of seconds, then nodded, just like a person was sitting across from him, and said there were always difficulties but he was good with overcoming them. Then he switched to German, laughed a little bit, then hung up." Estafan frowned at a fork beside Sherlock's plate, picked it up and rubbed it vigorously on the napkin over his forearm. "I guess he got more difficulties than he'd counted on, since he's dead."
Sherlock smiled up at him. "Thank you for the information and my shiny fork. You ever need a parking ticket fixed, you call Agent Richards."
Estafan said, "Could that include my boyfriend, who's a maniac on his motorcycle?"
"Not a problem," Bowie said, and wondered what the odds were of Chief Clifford Amos's making good. Bowie sat back in his chair and watched Estafan lean over a client four tables away, nod solemnly, and wend his way gracefully to the kitchen. "My question is, if Blauvelt was speaking to his boss in Germany, then why was he speaking in English? And what did he mean about he'd made up his mind and leave him alone?"
They enjoyed a further bit of luck with Claude-just Claude-the sommelier, who confided that the foreign gentleman at table eleven obviously had a lovely trained palate, and money, since he'd ordered a bottle of Blanklet 2004 Paradise Hills Merlot, Napa Valley, a very fine wine indeed.
"Did he drink the entire bottle?"
"Oh, yes, he did," Claude said to Sherlock, admiring the lock of red hair curling around her ear. "It costs nearly two hundred dollars a bott
le here."
Bowie said, "Was he tipsy when he left?"
"I wouldn't say tipsy, no. He ordered another bottle, then paused and appeared to think about it. He changed his mind, waved me away. I didn't notice him after that."
"Okay," Savich said when the dapper Claude was out of earshot, "Dr. Franks did indeed say he'd had red wine with his venison. An entire bottle-did that make him slow, less careful?"
"Well, he certainly realized another bottle might impair him," Sherlock said. "Speaking of wine, does anyone want a nice dry chardonnay for dinner?"
Bowie shook his head, smiling. "None for me, I don't drink."
Sherlock's left eyebrow hoisted itself. "Health reasons?"
"No, not really," Bowie said, and nothing more.
They enjoyed a lovely sauced scampi over rice, crème brûlée for dessert, and rich dark French espresso.
It was nearly midnight when Bowie dropped them back at the Norman Bates Inn. Fifteen minutes later, they were tucked into a soft bed with Janet Leigh's silent earsplitting screams on the wall behind them. Sherlock said against his shoulder, "The espresso was a mistake," and sighed.
"Maybe not," Savich said, and turned to her. After a couple of minutes, she whispered against his mouth, "Well, another dessert is always nice."
15
Tuesday morning
Erin let a well-dressed, heavy-eyed Bowie Richards into her apartment the next morning at seven thirty.
"You don't look good, Agent Richards. You on an all-night bender with those wild agents from Washington?"
"All I can hope is they had as miserable a sleepless night as I did. We all drank espresso, and the stuff was so strong it could have blasted a rocket into space. That and thinking about this gnarly murder kept me up until nearly three a.m."
Erin cocked her head to one side, tried to look uninterested, but polite. "And what did you decide after all that thinking?"