Simple Genius

  “Good, because from what I’ve seen of that woman, there’s not a man alive who can take her by himself.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  CHAPTER

  38

  AS THEY PULLED THROUGH the college town home of William and Mary and its neatly laid out brick buildings, Sean glanced over at Hayes. The good sheriff was hunched forward gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were the color of an eggshell.

  “Sherriff Hayes, if you break the steering wheel in half we won’t be able to get back.”

  Hayes’s face reddened and he loosened his grip. “Just call me Merk, everybody does. I guess I’m not acting like a proper law enforcement officer, am I?”

  “Most cops don’t get summoned to meet with the big bad wolf in the middle of an investigation.”

  “What do you think he’s going to say?”

  “I doubt anything we really want to hear. And I can tell you straight out, the C does not stand for cooperation.”

  “My day just keeps getting better and better!” Hayes exclaimed.

  “So did you talk to Alicia?”

  Hayes nodded. “After you told me she was seeing Rivest, I had to.”

  “Was it serious between them?”

  “She seemed to think so.”

  They parked in front of the address Hayes had been given. It was a three-story brick building that appeared to Sean to be made up of residential units.

  A man dressed in a polo shirt and khaki pants met them inside the lobby area. Sean sized up the fellow as Ian Whitfield’s security. The guy wasn’t as tall as Sean, and lacked bulging muscles, but there wasn’t an ounce of fat on his body; the man’s six-pack abs were visible through the shirt. And to Sean’s informed eye, the guy carried himself with the air of someone who could kill you a dozen different ways without breaking a sweat.

  The first thing he did was show them his ID, then confiscate Hayes’s sidearm. He next frisked Sean, all without saying a word.

  They rode the elevator up to the third floor and were soon seated in comfortable chairs around an oval table inside one of the corner units. Six-Pack disappeared for a moment and then returned with another gent. This guy also wore a polo shirt and khakis and was in nearly as good condition as the other, even though he had close-cropped gray hair and was probably nearing sixty. However, Sean noted the man limped. There was something wrong with his right leg.

  A flick of a gaze by the man at Six-Pack and a manila file folder appeared in Whitfield’s hand, for this was Ian Whitfield, Sean assumed.

  There followed a few minutes of silence while their host methodically read through the file. Then he finally turned his attention to them.

  “There have been four confirmed suicides in the vicinity of our installation over the last twenty-seven months,” Whitfield said.

  Sean hadn’t expected this opening line and obviously neither had Hayes.

  Whitfield continued: “For some reason we’ve become the whipping boy for the depressed and suicidal. I don’t know why, but it seems there could be many reasons, including wanting notoriety or causing trouble. It goes without saying that I’m growing a little tired of these stunts.”

  “Someone dying hardly qualifies as a stunt, does it?” Sean asked while the blood drained from Hayes’s face. “The circumstances of Monk Turing’s death have not been fully uncovered yet. Suicide, murder, we don’t know yet.”

  Whitfield tapped the file. “All facts point to suicide.” He looked at Hayes. “Don’t you agree, Sheriff?”

  Hayes stammered, “I guess you could say that.”

  “There was no evidence that Monk had been depressed enough to take his own life,” Sean pointed out.

  “Aren’t all geniuses depressed?” Whitfield answered.

  “How do you know he was a genius?”

  “When people move into my neighborhood I like to get to know them.”

  “You’ve been to Babbage Town, have you?” Sean pressed.

  Whitfield turned back to Hayes. “I trust I’ve made my position clear. Four suicides and now five. My patience is at an end.”

  “A man has died,” Hayes said, apparently screwing up his courage in the face of the other man’s patronizing tone.

  “Anyone can jump a fence and blow his brains out.”

  Sean said, “Just because you say it doesn’t make it true.”

  Whitfield kept his eyes on Hayes. “I’m assuming this man is associated with you somehow.”

  Sean piped up. “Sorry, I’m Sean King. I guess we missed the introduction phase of the conversation. I am associated with Sheriff Hayes on this matter. And we’re assuming that you’re Ian Whitfield, head of the CIA’s Camp Peary? If not, we’re wasting a lot of time.”

  “The FBI has concluded its investigation and suicide was the verdict,” Whitfield said.

  “Well, it wouldn’t be the first time the Bureau has jumped the gun, would it? And of course we have the murder of Len Rivest, head of security at Babbage Town.”

  “That’s no concern of mine,” Whitfield said.

  “Well it is if it turns out that Turing’s death is connected somehow.”

  “I highly doubt that’s the case.”

  “Well, that’s why we play the game, isn’t it?” Sean said. “Because your opinion doesn’t really count.”

  In response, Whitfield’s gaze flicked to the door. A moment later Six-Pack had Sean’s arm in a vise grip and was leading him rapidly to the exit. Or maybe off the roof.

  Back in the lobby Hayes’s gun was returned to him, Six-Pack gave Sean’s arm an extra-hard squeeze and both men walked out into the darkness.

  As they reached the cruiser, Hayes said, “Are you nuts talking to him like that?”

  “Probably.”

  “Come on, you went out of your way to tick him off, why?”

  “Because he’s a prick, that’s why.”

  Hayes said, “He’s right about the four suicides.”

  “That doesn’t mean Monk killed himself. In fact, it might have given whoever murdered Monk the idea to make it look like suicide.”

  “That’s a good point.”

  “Thanks. I try to have at least one a day.”

  “So it’s back to Babbage Town?”

  “I want to check something out first.”

  Sean climbed in the driver’s seat of the cruiser while Hayes scrambled into the passenger side.

  “I’m not sure regulations allow you to drive the car,” Hayes pointed out.

  “In for a dime, in for a dollar,” Sean said as he put the car in reverse, backed out of the space and then took up a position away from the building entrance.

  “What are we doing here?” Hayes asked.

  “It’s called surveillance. I’m assuming you’re acquainted with the concept.”

  “Who the hell do you think you’re running surveillance on? The head of Camp Peary!”

  “Is there a law against it?”

  “Hell, probably.”

  Fifteen minutes later a car pulled up to the entrance of the building and a woman who looked to be in her mid-thirties got out. She was tall, tanned, leggy and blond with a figure that demanded not just a second but possibly a third look. As she approached the front door, Whitfield and his shadow came out. The woman spoke to Whitfield for a few moments and then he limped away with Six-Pack, climbed in a black sedan and drove off, leaving the woman looking more than a little put out.

  “Interesting,” Sean said. “She’s either Whitfield’s wife or mistress.”

  “Or girlfriend.”

  “Uh-uh, Whitfield was wearing a wedding band.”

  While they were talking the woman got in her car and drove off. Sean put the cruiser in gear and drifted after her.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Hayes demanded.

  “Following her.”

  “Sean, we could get in trouble for this.”

  “I’m already in trouble.” Hayes sat back with an air of resignation.
Sean smiled and said, “Still glad you decided to partner with me?”

  “No!”

  “Good, that means we’re really starting to click as a team.” And that remark made Sean remember that in a few hours’ time Michelle would be here. Normally Sean would look forward to seeing his real partner. Yet Horatio’s words kept coming back to him. Michelle could be dangerous, to herself. She shouldn’t have left the facility. She wasn’t cured. She was coming down here. And who the hell knew what would happen?

  CHAPTER

  39

  MICHELLE TOOK ADVANTAGE of the drive down to call a girlfriend of hers who worked at the National Intelligence Center after a stint at the Secret Service where Michelle had helped her along the career path. She called the woman at home figuring her phone at work would be monitored.

  After a bit of chitchat, Michelle said, “Not looking for any secrets, Judy, but what can you tell me about Camp Peary?”

  “You mean the DOD’s Armed Forces Experimental Training Activity?”

  “Come on, Judy, give me a break. We’re talking CIA.”

  “Okay, okay, forgive the automatic official response.” Her friend gave her the physical dimensions of the place, a thumbnail of its history and its official mission. “Most of the advanced training is now done at the Point in North Carolina,” Judy said. “But it’s still the CIA’s primary Field Tradecraft center. Actually, the Pentagon’s thinking about establishing its own espionage school and setting up intelligence op commands around the world.”

  “Sometimes too much intelligence is a bad thing,” Michelle said wryly.

  Judy laughed. “I officially can’t comment on that. Now the current head of Camp Peary is a man named Ian Whitfield. Ex-military, Delta Force, I believe. Vietnam War hero. Not a guy you want to mess around with. He came over to the intelligence side sometime in the 1980s. He was stationed in the Middle East for the last several years. Now that he’s back stateside, word is he’s doing all he can to bring Camp Peary back to prominence.”

  “How’s he going about that?”

  “What’s your interest?”

  “Got a job down there. Someone was found dead on the property.”

  “I read about that in the newspaper. I thought it was a suicide.”

  “It might turn out to be. We were talking about Whitfield?”

  “Well, two years ago some money was slipped through Congress to construct a new building down there, purportedly a dormitory.”

  “Purportedly?”

  “Look, you didn’t hear this from me.”

  “Judy, I never talked to you, okay? Now spill it.”

  “In the Nineties they built a 105-room dorm to go along with a new training school. So, word around here is the new money was really for an interrogation center.”

  “Interrogation? Why would that be so hush-hush?”

  “Depends on who they’re interrogating and—”

  Michelle finished for her. “And how they’re interrogating them.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Terrorists?”

  “You know the NSA is probably listening to this conversation.”

  “Let them. They don’t have enough personnel to sift through the real bad guys’ conversations much less people like you and me. So they’re bringing people down there that nobody knows about and maybe torturing them?”

  “Officially? Absolutely not. Unofficially, who knows? It’s not like we’re going to be telling everyone that a brand-new torture chamber has opened in Tidewater, Virginia, three hours from the capital of the free world. I’m not for mistreating prisoners, but it’s a war on terror. It’s not like we can fight it the old-fashioned way.”

  “Okay, how are they getting them there?”

  “Along with the funds for the ‘dorm,’ money was also appropriated for a new runway that would accept larger jets.”

  “Like jets capable of intercontinental travel?”

  “Exactly.”

  Michelle was quiet for a few moments. “The paramilitary squads still assigned to Camp Peary?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Judy, come on!”

  “Let me put it this way, don’t go there for a picnic, you might never be seen again.”

  “I appreciate it. You’ve been a big help.”

  “You’re the only reason I survived my first year with the Service.”

  “Girls do have to stick together.”

  “Are you working on this with Sean King?”

  “Yep.”

  “So are you two more than just business partners yet?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Because if you’re not going after him I want a shot. He’s gorgeous.”

  “You ought to see him when he’s cranky.”

  “I’ll take him cranky, believe me.”

  Michelle clicked off, downed a PowerBar and finished off her coffee. She checked her watch and then her navigation system. Ninety miles an hour and sixty minutes to go. Trusty old illegal radar detector.

  CHAPTER

  40

  HAYES AND SEAN FOLLOWED the lady into the parking lot of a very popular bar located about three blocks off the William and Mary campus. As she went inside, Hayes and Sean held a quick consultation. It was decided that Sean would go in alone, leaving the uniformed Hayes in his police cruiser.

  As Sean slid out of the car the sheriff held up a warning hand. “Look, I want to be on the record that you going within two miles of that woman is a really bad thing if she turns out to be married to Whitfield.”

  “But on the other hand if Monk’s death is connected to Camp Peary and Ian Whitfield, then the lady might provide us with a shortcut. And as an added bonus, maybe I can find out who tried to kill me.”

  The inside of the bar held an interesting mix of college kids and those who had to actually work for a living. Behind the old-fashioned bar, which looked straight out of the Cheers set, two young men and an older gent were filling drink orders as fast as their brains and hands would operate. Higher education was known to inspire great thirst, Sean thought.

  There she was, at a high table in the back, near the pool tables. She already had her drink and was nimbly fighting off the advance of what looked to be a member of the William and Mary football team, a lineman judging by the young man’s heft. Not that Sean could blame the guy for trying. The lady’s skirt was short and the legs long, and the way the blond hair fell over the shoulders, spilling near the deep cleavage revealed by the plunge of her neckline, and the heat of those blue eyes bubbling just below the surface… Hell, if he’d been in college he could imagine moving heaven and earth to bed that prize. The bragging rights alone would’ve lasted the entire four years he’d be in school.

  The guy wrote something down on a piece of napkin and handed it to her. She looked at the writing—no doubt a phone number or description of