“Quite a soapbox, Thomas.” She laughed and continued with, “I don’t remember ever seeing you this worried about the population at large being hoodwinked by big business.”
“I’m a fan of big business. All business — big, small, and those in the middle. I just don’t know what I like less, stupid people or people preying on stupid people. And, it eventually all becomes the basis for the excuse: I can’t do this, I can’t learn that, I can’t go to work — I have this terrible disorder. It explains everything, and I didn’t even know I had it. You know, the one on TV? I’m on The Little Purple Pill.”
“Thomas, such bedside manner! I can see why you have stayed away from private practice.”
“I’d be the best thing to ever hit private practice,” I countered, causing us both to laugh at the absurdity of that statement. “My patients would get a full dose of, ‘I’ll tell you what drugs you need, not some actor!’ To hell with the ‘The Little Purple Pill!’ Drop and give me twenty!”
Abandoning my rant-voice for a more serious one, I said, “You know the world would view me as one of the big three.”
“The big three?”
“Yeah, Mother Theresa, Desmond Tutu, and me.”
From the front seat, we could hear, “Oh, God! Every time he comes home, I hope that he’d have changed! But no, he still suffers from being a Marine!”
“Hey, retired Navy, who asked you?” I countered.
“That’s the best thing about me, Marilena. You never have to ask for my opinion. I’ll always make sure that you get it! It’s why I’m here. Ask Tommy. Always here for you, Kid!”
“I wish there was a drug for ‘Lack of Marine Corps Respect Syndrome.’ I’d buy it in case lots!”
Gus solemnly answered back, “I’m sure it’s one of those drugs that I’d be allergic to!”
We pulled through the brick arch into the compound. It’s what I always thought of it as — the compound. Ron had called it our home, and it was. But, it was also a big, big, brick and block house surrounded by a collection of smaller brick and block buildings, surrounded by a brick and block wall. A compound, a large expensive piece of real estate, in an expensive part of town.
Gus stopped under a portico at the front door. The remaining staff, all eleven of them, were lined up to greet us. They had been magically alerted as to our impending arrival — I hated this. They weren’t troops for me to review, and I wasn’t anyone’s general. Besides that, I had either grown up with them or at the very least known them for over a decade. They were more friends than servants. Some of them had been more parents than friends. I didn’t want any one of them to run to the door just because I had arrived. It was unnatural for me, and for Ron before me, to have grown into some kind of Lord and Master. At least Gus didn’t take me too seriously. I wished that the rest of them would follow his lead — I didn’t want to be the spoiled, over indulged, rich kid who grew up to be imperious and insufferable.
I jumped out of the car, pulling Marilena out behind me before Gus could get to the door and made sure that all knew that I was happy to see them again and glad to be home. Not being a normally effusive kind of guy, I had to work at it, hoping that it would come off naturally. They knew this. Each one acknowledged Ron’s death in some way, and I was genuinely appreciative because the way that they felt about him was real, not just a show for the boss — the new boss. Oh, God, that was me.
Marilena had patiently waited off to one side letting me deal with the staff one at a time, recognizing what was happening and not wanting to intrude. After an individual exchange with each of them, I introduced them all to Marilena, from groundskeepers to housekeeping staff, and told her some little story or fact about each one and their relationship to Ron and me. I could tell that she was working hard to memorize their names and the facts about them. Little did they know that they too would soon be members of the fan club. It was only a matter of time before there would again be talk of her “trading up!”
We walked through the foyer and up the main staircase that curved up past large windows and was illuminated by a massive crystal chandelier. The chandelier was amazing in its size and quality. It was never dusty, yet I had never seen anyone clean it. I had decided that I would never know how they did that. Gus was directing suitcase flow. He forwarded mine to my room, where it would be searched for dirty clothes and removed of such, posthaste. He personally accompanied Marilena and her nicer looking luggage to the guest room down the hall. I imagined a velvet rope on brass floor stands being set up around her bags.
*
While Marilena unpacked, with considerable attention from two of the ladies who worked for us, I went back downstairs to the room I liked the most on the first floor. There were several formal living rooms, entertaining areas, and dining rooms on the ground level. I seldom went into any of them. The room I went to was different. It was tucked around back and adjoined the kitchen, a place that I learned as a kid was where tasty things originated that would be delivered by wonderful ladies to little, and later big, Tommy. It had floor-to-ceiling glass looking out onto a garden and the lawn beyond. I sat at a small table and looked at the package of paperwork that had been delivered by our law firm. Almost immediately, food and drink appeared. Dependable magic.
Most of the paperwork required my signature to become the principal family representative replacing Ron. I signed my name about two million times and made notes on a few things that I would ask the attorneys about. There were notices of board meetings with notes from our lead (and most expensive) attorney, about which ones I could ditch and which ones I couldn’t. I’d talk to him about relaxing his definitions and moving some of the category B meetings to category A. It reminded me about my last conversation with Alison Montgomery. Was my life going to become an endless series of board meetings? The last document in the pile was a letter to me from a probate lawyer at the same firm explaining the basics of Ron’s will. The original was attached for my review and returned to a place far safer it seemed than my personal possession. It was shorter than I would have guessed it would have been. The letter, and my reading of the will, seemed to agree that everything that was Ron’s was now mine. The will didn’t need to be long. The letter also assured me that the probate period would be as brief as possible — my mighty legal team was working diligently to move things along with tremendous efficiency. I wondered what the efficiency would cost?
Marilena entered the room. She must have been told where I was because you could spend considerable time searching the four-story house looking for someone if you didn’t get pointed in the right direction. I’m sure that she saw that I was reading a will, and it did not take a lot of FBI detective smarts to figure out whose it was. Instead of asking me about it, she started out with something that I am sure was designed to take my mind off of wills and lawyers.
“Thomas, this home of yours is amazing! I’ve seen only a small part of it, and I don’t know quite what to say.”
“It was definitely a different way to grow up. When I was a kid, Hide n’ Seek with my buddies required a map and compass. It seems strange that I am the only one left of the Briggs clan to enjoy it.”
“The people who work for you are wonderful. However, I can tell that they are concerned about what you plan to do with the house. They are too polite and considerate to ask you about it.”
“No. No one will say anything to me. They would see it as putting their problems ahead of the guy who just lost his only brother. A guy they cared for, too. Most of the relationship that we have was Ron’s doing. He never made them feel like just the help.”
“You have that same quality. They are very comfortable with you and respect you at the same time.” This observation surprised me. I hoped she was right.
“I’ll let Gus know to pass the word that I’m not changing anything. I’ll also let him know that I will try to be home more often. Tell everyone that I have decided that someday I’ll retire here. Nobody needs to worry.”
Marilena s
miled at me and said, “I think that you should call them all together and tell them everything yourself. They need to hear it from you.”
“You think?”
“Yes. Occasionally. And what is this about retirement? You? Hmm, there’s an unlikely image. Well, if you feel that you must, when the time comes, this would be a great way to spend one’s reclining years. Might there be room for a very deserving, retired federal agent who has unselfishly risked her life on countless occasions for the good of the country?”
“I don’t know. What does she look like?”
“Is that all that is important to you?” she said, faking insult.
“Pretty much.”
THE MARKLIN
Dr. Caroline Little was a surprise, a physical specimen that was unexpected. Her features, while plain, were not unattractive. They were just delivered in extreme measure. Little was a poor moniker for the middle-aged woman standing three inches taller than I at somewhere near six and a half feet. And it wasn’t just her height; her frame was as impressive, imposing. She had to weigh over two hundred pounds, and it looked like it was mostly muscle. Her shoulders were almost as wide as mine, and her hands were large and muscular. She knew her way around the gym. I couldn’t help myself. My first thought was that in addition to her having a motive, she had the physical ability to toss most people out of any window regardless of the height of the sill. With a little guy like Ron, she wouldn’t have broken a sweat. As we entered her lab, she spoke first, handshaking superfluous.
“Well?” she demanded. “Did you find his update?”
“It’s nice to meet you too, Little.” I didn’t get the expected warning look from my FBI partner. She stared at Little, her expression businesslike.
“Jeez, for a big boy, you sure are sensitive,” she shot back irritably. Marilena choked back a laugh at the thought of someone confusing me as sensitive, a quick departure from the stern look. This caused Little to focus on her, noting the conservative businesswoman’s suit — out of place in the lab.
“Is this funny? What are you supposed to be anyway, Sweetie?”
“It’s not Sweetie. It’s Special Agent Rigatti, FBI.” Marilena produced her ID without taking her eyes from Little. Her demeanor had returned to dead serious, her voice one of someone to be reckoned with.
“When will you have the update?” Little continued, pointedly ignoring Marilena. Oh, boy, that was a mistake.
Marilena spoke forcefully, not to be dismissed. “Dr. Little, I am responsible for the investigation into the murder of Dr. Ronald Briggs, your professional associate. You are a person of interest in that investigation. I have questions for you that you will answer. When I am satisfied, Colonel Briggs may indulge you. That is up to him, but only when I am finished. If you would prefer, I can arrange for an arrest warrant, and we can continue our conversation in less comfortable surroundings. It is your choice.” Marilena had been staring into Little’s face during her lecture. Now she adopted a bored expression and began to examine her nails as if patiently waiting for the answer from a child who had just gotten reprimanded.
Little transformed from tough gal, very big tough gal, to helpful, though still sarcastic, citizen. “OK, OK. We can talk now. Whatever. I’m not surprised that he was murdered. What do you want to know?”
“To begin with, why are you not surprised that his death was a murder?” she asked.
“Easy — I never believed it. For all the pain in the ass that he was, he was a brilliant scientist, a great collaborator, and I respected him. We were close to finding out the genetic basis for CID. A cure might come quickly after that. He wouldn’t have bailed on me now. I needed him and he knew it. I know that my reaction to his death is not all touchy-feely like most people. I’m not that kind of gal. I’m not a girly-girl like you. I get by with what I got. Ron would understand. Ron knew me. I’m going to miss the little twerp for his mind and his contribution to our work. He made me think and wasn’t afraid to disagree with me like most people are. It pissed me off sometimes, especially because he was always so nice about it, but it was good for me all the same. I never told him that. I didn’t have to; he knew it.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that you were at the CID offices when Ron died?” I asked, closing my last open switch.
“Because I wasn’t there, I had already left. I left the building about ten minutes before he died.”
“I can’t tell when you left. The security log showed that you never signed out.”
“Because I didn’t, I never do. I just walked out. Doesn’t everyone? Ask that shrew, Margaret Townsend.”
“Townsend?” I asked.
“She was with me in the elevator and left at the same time I did.”
This made no sense. The security system that registered her RFID tag didn’t show her leaving before the system reset at midnight. I assumed that she had been there with the police until after that.
“Did you notice if Townsend went back upstairs?”
“No, I know that she didn’t.”
“How do you know this?” Marilena joined the conversation.
“Townsend told me that she left her purse upstairs and didn’t have cab fare on her. She didn’t want to go back up for it because her security tag thingy was in it, and the guards would make her fill out some long form and have to accompany her upstairs as if they didn’t know her. She said she’d deal with that tomorrow and asked if we could share a cab, with me paying, of course. I agreed just so she’d stop yakking about it, and we detoured out of the way to take her home. We were together in the cab when Ron died.”
She hesitated for a moment, thinking hard and then coming to a decision. Marilena remained quiet knowing more was coming.
“Let me show you something.” She walked to her desk and opened a drawer. My hand moved to my gun, just in case. Marilena saw my action, yet her hands remained at her sides. Little consulted a list, maybe a directory of some kind, from the open drawer and then poked awkwardly at her keyboard. A printer next to her desk started up. She took the printed page out and handed it to us. Marilena read it while I watched Little. When she finished, she passed the page to me. With a nod in Little’s direction, I passed observational responsibility back to Marilena and looked at the paper. It was a letter to her board. I read the first two paragraphs where she informed them about the status of her work and the fact that the critical elements to her collaborative effort with Dr. Briggs were his discoveries, not hers, and that the Marklin was in the society’s debt. Her writing was sincere and artful. Caroline Little had more than one side to her personality.
When I looked up from the letter, I was sure that my face registered some surprise, surprise noted by Dr. Little who was still seated, not moving from her desk chair.
“I needed your brother’s help. I made sure that everyone knew what he had contributed and not just for his sake, either. The man simply didn’t care who got credit; he just wanted to end CID. If it’s possible, I may be a bigger pain in the ass than he was, but I wasn’t going to let him duck the credit he was due. He deserved it, and I also wanted others to know that despite rumors to the contrary, it is possible to work with me. A great man, Ron Briggs, had worked with me. It would have been stupid to send this letter, letting everyone know that he was key to our work, and then kill him to be the sole researcher on the project. You can check my board; they got this letter last week.”
She had a point.
“I know that I am not an easy person to get along with, but I’m good at my job and so was Ron. We were a good team in other ways also. Well, he was better for me than I was for him, I guess. I could call and yell at him to blow off some steam after some piss ant here got me wound up. I would yell at him and call him terrible things, and he just ignored all of the crap, knowing that he was helping.”
She paused again, looked at me and continued, “I wish he were alive so that I could call him all the same terrible things all over again.” Then, the large, strong, offensive woman started to
lose control. Her eyes began to fill up, and her lower lip was quivering. She was fighting hard to keep it together.
It’s never easy for me to watch anyone whose emotions have taken over. This comes from being someone whose feelings are kept inside and not on display except as an intentional part of some communication, like yelling at a new recruit, something a Marine does well. Fortunately, Marilena was more evolved and better equipped. She pulled a chair over to Little’s and sat next to her. For some measured period, based on what I don’t know, she was quiet but letting Caroline Little, Ph.D., M.D., know by her closeness that she was not alone. Then she started talking to her softly, calmly, a different kind of outlet for Little than Ron had been, but one just as important. It appeared that a recovery was underway and an embarrassing moment was to be avoided. I hoped that I would be as much comfort when I sent her the data from the USB stick. She may be different, but she didn’t kill my brother.
I walked away. Caroline Little and I had something in common. My emotions about Ron’s death were also very near the surface.
*
We had a tail. It was more than a feeling — I had spotted the car. I was sitting in row two again and had turned sideways to face Marilena. My position allowed me to face her as we talked about Caroline Little but also let me look out the rear window from time to time. She knew what I was doing, what I had been doing since we left to see Dr. Little, and wasn’t offended by my divided attention. I figured that if anyone were interested in us, he would pick us up as we left the compound, and I had been vigilant ever since. I hadn’t told anyone at the society that we were traveling by train, so the earlier ride from the station was probably without unwanted company. As we had hoped to evoke a reaction, it was time to become more careful. The near miss with the cab in Manhattan had almost eliminated the remaining Briggs brother, not to mention his pretty girlfriend.
“Gus. We’re being followed.” Marilena heard me but continued to look forward, not wanting to alert our follower with a sudden look behind us. For someone whose assignment was mostly diplomatic, she had good fieldcraft instincts.
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