Four Blind Mice

by James Patterson

  “Do you have any names?” I asked. “Who was on this team?” I could feel the adrenaline ripping through my body now.

  Ms. Nguyen sighed and shook her head. Finally, she rose from her desk.

  “There are more boxes on the fifth floor. Come with me, Detective. You say that people are still being killed?”

  I nodded, then followed Thi Nguyen upstairs. There was an entire wall of boxes, and I helped her carry several of them down to her office.

  The two of us worked late on Wednesday, then again on Thursday night, and we even got together during her lunch hour on Friday. She was hooked now too. We learned that some of the Rangers sent to the An Lao Valley were military assassins. Unfortunately, none of the paperwork had been organized according to dates. It had just been thrown into boxes and left to collect dust, never to be read by anyone again.

  About two-fifteen on Friday we opened another few boxes crammed with papers pertaining to the investigation in the An Lao Valley.

  Thi Nguyen looked up at me. “I have names for the assassins,” she said. “And I think I have a code name for the operation. I believe it was called Three Blind Mice.”

  Part Four

  EXIT WOUNDS

  Chapter 79

  I HAD THREE names now — three men who had been dispatched to the An Lao Valley to stop the murder of civilians there. I needed to be extremely careful with the information, and it took Sampson and me another week to track the men down and find out as much as we could about them.

  The final confirmation that I needed came from Ron Burns at the FBI. He told me that the Bureau had been suspicious of these men for two other professional hits: one a politician in Cincinnati, the second a union leader’s wife in Santa Barbara, California.

  The names were:

  Thomas Starkey

  Brownley Harris

  Warren Griffin

  The Three Blind Mice

  That Friday after work, Sampson and I went to Rocky Mount, North Carolina. We were chasing men who had played a part in mysterious violence in the An Lao Valley thirty years before. What in hell had really happened there? Why were people still dying now?

  Less than five miles outside the city limits of Rocky Mount, tracts of farmland and crossroad country groceries still dominated the landscape. Sampson and I drove out into the country, then back to town again, passing the Rocky Mount–Wilson Airport and Nash General Hospital, as well as the offices of Heckler & Koch, where Starkey, Harris, and Griffin worked as the sales team for several military bases, including Fort Bragg.

  Sampson and I entered Heels, a local sports bar, at about six o’clock. Race-car drivers as well as a few basketball players from the Charlotte Hornets frequented the place, so it was racially mixed. We were able to fit in with the crowd, which was noisy and active. At least a dozen TVs blared from raised platforms.

  The sports bar was less than a mile from Heckler & Koch U.S., where some of these men and women worked. Other than the thriving high-tech business community, Heckler & Koch (pronounced “coke”) was one of the largest employers in town, just behind Abbott Laboratories and Consolidated Diesel. I wondered if the gun company might have some connection to the murders. Probably not, but maybe.

  I struck up a conversation with a plant supervisor from H&K at the bar. We talked about the plight of the Carolina Panthers, and then I worked in the subject of the gun manufacturer. He was positive about his company, which he referred to as “like a family” and “definitely one of the best places to work in North Carolina, which is a good state to work in.” Then we talked about guns, the MP5 submachine gun in particular. He told me the MP5 was used by the Navy SEALs and elite SWAT teams, but it had also found its way into inner-city gangs. I already knew that about the MP5.

  I mentioned Starkey, Harris, and Griffin, casually.

  “I’m surprised Tom and Brownie aren’t here already. They usually stop in on a Friday. How do you know those boys?” he asked, but didn’t seem surprised that I did.

  “We served together long time ago,” said Sampson. “Back in ’sixty-nine and ’seventy.”

  The supervisor nodded. “You Rangers too?” he asked.

  “No, just regular army,” said Sampson. “Just foot soldiers.”

  We talked to some other H&K employees, and they spoke positively about the company. The guys we talked to knew Starkey, Harris, and Griffin, and everybody knew they’d been Rangers. I got the impression that the three men were popular and might even be local heroes.

  About quarter past seven, Sampson leaned in close and whispered in my ear. “Front door. Look who just blew in,” he said. “Three business suits. Don’t much look like killers.”

  I turned slowly and looked. No, they didn’t look like killers.

  “But that’s what they are,” I said to Sampson. “Army assassins who look like the nicest guys in the bar, maybe in all of North Carolina.”

  We watched the three of them for the rest of the night — just watched the trio of hit men.

  Chapter 80

  SAMPSON AND I were staying out at a Holiday Inn near the Interstate. We were up the next morning by six.

  We had a potentially heart-stopping but rather tasty breakfast at a nearby Denny’s (omelettes and “home fries covered and smothered”). Then we planned out our big day. We’d learned the night before that Heckler & Koch had a big family-style picnic that day. We were planning to crash it. Cause a little trouble if we could.

  After breakfast, we took a spin past the houses of the three murder suspects. A slick group we liked called Maze was playing from the CD. Nice contrast to the folksiness of Rocky Mount. City meets country.

  The killers’ houses were in upscale developments called Knob Hill, Falling River Walk, and Greystone. It looked as if a lot of young professionals with families lived there. The New South. Quiet, tasteful, civilized as hell.

  “They know how to blend in,” Sampson said as we drove by Warren Griffin’s two-and-a-half-story Colonial. “Our three killer boys.”

  “Good at what they do,” I said. “Never been caught. I really want to have a chat with them.”

  About eight, we went back to the Holiday Inn to get ready for the picnic and whatever else might happen today. It was hard to believe that the three killers fit so well into Rocky Mount. It made me wonder about pretty, innocent-looking small towns and what might be lurking behind their facades. Maybe nothing, maybe a whole lot of everything.

  Sampson and I were originally from North Carolina, but we hadn’t spent that much time here as adults, and unfortunately, much of it had been working on a couple of celebrated murder cases. The gun-company picnic was scheduled to start at eleven, and we figured we would show up about one, when the crowd was large. We knew from the night before that just about everybody from H&K, from the mailroom to the stockroom to the corporate suite, would be on hand for the big day.

  That included Starkey, Harris, Griffin — and their families.

  And, of course, Sampson and me.

  It was time for a little payback.

  Chapter 81

  IT WAS A hot, humid day and even the cooks at the company picnic were checking the grill infrequently. They much preferred to stay in the shade and sip cold Dr Pepper soft drinks in their BBQ FROM HEAVEN aprons. Everybody seemed to be taking it easy, having a good time on a pretty Saturday. Another cat’s-eye marble bites the dust.

  Sampson and I sat under an ancient, leafy oak tree and listened to the symphony of local birds. We drank iced tea from Lucite cups that looked like real glass. We wore H&K RULES T-shirts and looked as if we belonged, and always had.

  The smell of ribs was strong in the air. Actually, the smoke from the grills was probably keeping the bugs from becoming an immediate problem.

  “They sure know how to cook those ribs,” Sampson said.

  That they did, and so did I. Ribs, to cook properly, need indirect heat, and the fires had been built with two piles of charcoal — one in front, one in the back, none in the middle w
here the racks with the ribs had been placed. I had learned about ribs, and all kinds of cooking, from Nana. She’d wanted me to be as good in the kitchen as she was. That wasn’t going to happen anytime soon, but I was decent at least. I could fill in when needed.

  I even knew that there was a standing argument in the grilling world about the relative merits of the “dry rub” versus the “wet mop.” The dry rub was a mixture of salt, pepper, paprika, and brown sugar, which was said to have both the heat and the sweetness to bring out the true flavor of the meat. The wet-mop mix had a base of apple cider, and added shallots, jalapeño peppers, ketchup, brown sugar, and tomato paste. I liked the mop and the rub just fine — as long as the meat was cooked until it just about fell off the bone.

  “Everybody is having such a good, all-American time,” Sampson said as we sat and watched the world go by. “Remind me to tell you about Billie in Jersey.”

  “Billie?” I asked. “Who’s Billie?”

  “Tell you later, partner. We’re working now. On the trail of three stone-cold killers.”

  That we were. We were busy watching the families of Starkey, Harris, and Griffin from a safe distance. I noticed that Thomas Starkey looked our way once or twice. Had he spotted us? If he had, he didn’t seem overly concerned or worried.

  “You think they’re the ones who killed Colonel Handler? Think they know who we are, sugar?” Sampson asked.

  “If they don’t, they probably will soon.”

  Sampson didn’t seem to mind. “That’s your big plan? Get us killed down here in Rocky Mount?”

  “They won’t do anything with their families around,” I said.

  “You sure?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m not sure. But that’s what my gut tells me.”

  “They’re killers, Alex.”

  “Professional killers. Don’t worry, they’ll pick their spot.”

  “Oh, I’m not worried,” Sampson said. “I’m just anxious to get it on with these boys.”

  As the afternoon progressed, we talked casually to some more H&K employees and their families. The people were easy to talk to, and we were real friendly. Most of them said they liked where they worked a lot. Sampson and I passed ourselves off as new to the company, and nobody questioned it. In fact, most everyone was cordial and welcoming, almost to a fault. Hard not to like the folks in Rocky Mount, most of them anyway.

  Lunch was followed by team sports and other competitive games: swimming races, volleyball, soccer, softball, and organized contests for the kids.

  Starkey, Harris, and Griffin eventually headed off toward one of the adjoining softball fields.

  Sampson and I followed at a distance.

  Let the games begin.

  Chapter 82

  “NEED A COUPLE more to fill out this team. You big fellows play any ball?” an old man wearing a dusty Atlanta Braves shirt and ball cap asked us. “You’re welcome to join in. It’s a friendly little game.”

  I glanced over at Sampson. He smiled and said, “Sure, we’ll play some ball.”

  The two of us were put on the same team, which seemed the more ragtag and needier of the two. Starkey, Harris, and Griffin were on the other team. Our worthy opponents for the friendly game.

  “Looks like we’re the underdogs,” Sampson said.

  “We’re not down here to win a softball game,” I said.

  He grinned. “Yeah, and we’re not here to lose one either.”

  The game was good-natured on the surface, but everything was heavily stacked against our team. Starkey and Harris were good athletes, and everybody on their team seemed decent and knew how to play. Our group was uneven, and they exploited our weaknesses. We were behind by two runs after the first inning, and four runs after the third.

  As we jogged off the field to take our turn at bat, Sampson patted my butt. “Definitely not down here to lose,” he said.

  Sampson was due up third that inning. I would bat fourth if somebody got on base. A skinny, older Mexican man led off with a bunt single and got razzed by our macho opponents for not having any cojones. The next batter, a big-bellied accountant, blooped a single just over the second baseman’s head. More semi-good-natured razzing came from our opponents.

  “Rather be lucky than good,” our guy yelled back from first base as he slapped his big beer belly.

  Now Sampson stepped to the plate. He never took a practice swing, just touched the rubber base with the tip of the longest and heaviest bat he could find on the rack.

  “Big power hitter. Better move back those fences!” Starkey called from shortstop. He looked like a ballplayer, moved easily and fluidly at bat and in the field, the peak of his cap bent just so.

  Sampson just stood there with the bat on his shoulder. Nobody knew what to expect from the big man except me, and even I couldn’t always tell with him. The two of us had played a lot of ball together when we were kids. Sampson had been an all-city receiver as a junior in high school, but he didn’t even go out for the football team his senior year. He was an even better baseball player, but he never played organized ball after Little League.

  I stood on deck, trying to figure how he would play it. Actually, there weren’t any fences at the field, so he couldn’t hit one out of the park if he wanted to. So what would he do?

  The first pitch floated up to the plate, fat and juicy, but Sampson never took his bat off his shoulder. It was hard to imagine a more tempting pitch would come his way.

  Warren Griffin was doing the pitching for their team. He was a decent-enough athlete too, fielded his position well.

  “Didn’t like that one?” he called to Sampson. “What’s the matter with it?”

  “No challenge.”

  Griffin smiled. He signaled for Harris to come out to the mound. Brownley Harris was doing the catching, and he looked like a slightly shorter version of the old Red Sox great Carlton Fisk. Pudge.

  On the next pitch, Griffin wound up and delivered a windmill-style fastball toward home plate. He was real quick, what they call sneaky fast.

  But so was Sampson.

  He dropped his bat and sent a near-perfect bunt down the third-base line. They were so surprised, he could have walked to first base and made it easily. He was on, the bases full.

  “Up to you, sugar,” Sampson called from first base. He was grinning at me, winking, pointing an imaginary six-gun my way.

  I started to smile as I strolled to the plate. He’d put me on the spot, just as he’d planned it.

  “You like a challenge too?” Warren Griffin called from the pitcher’s mound.

  “You a bunter or a hitter?” Starkey taunted from his spot at shortstop.

  The catcher, Brownley Harris, settled in behind me. “What’s it going to be, hotshot? How you want it?”

  I looked back at him. “Surprise me,” I said.

  Griffin set up for a windmill-style pitch, so I figured he was coming with heat. What the hell? I thought. Just a friendly little game.

  The fast pitch came in a little high, but it was close enough to my wheelhouse that I couldn’t resist taking a whack. The bat cracked and the ball shot straight over the pitcher’s head, still picking up speed and altitude. It flew over the center fielder’s head too. Our team of misfits was going crazy screaming and cheering from the bench. Suddenly, there was some joy in Mudville.

  I was on my horse, rounding the bases. Starkey gave me a look as I touched second and raced past him. It was as if he knew something. Did he?

  I made it to third and saw Sampson ahead of me; he was waving me home. I didn’t even look toward the outfield — I was coming no matter what happened out there.

  I curled around third base, and then I accelerated. I probably hadn’t moved this fast in years. I was really motoring.

  Brownley Harris was waiting for me at home plate — but where was the ball? I was moving like a runaway train when I saw the throw from the outfield skipping through the infield on two hops. Hell, it was going to beat me home. Goddamn it.


  Harris held his ground as he took the perfect throw from the center fielder. He had me dead to rights.

  I kept barreling toward him. Harris was blocking home plate with his beefy body. If I hit him hard, it might knock the ball loose. His dark, hooded eyes held mine. He was ready for impact, whatever I could give him. He looked as though he’d played some football, still looked tough and in shape. Army Ranger. Killer. His eyes bordered on mean.

  I was bearing down on Harris, and as I got close I lowered my shoulder. Let him see what was coming his way.

  Then, at the last possible instant, I went wide and low. I did a pretty hook slide around the catcher. With my left hand, I touched home plate between his thick legs and muddy cleats.

  “Safe!” the umpire yelled, and spread his arms wide.

  As I was getting up, I caught sight of Harris out of the corner of my eye. He was moving toward me fast. This could be trouble. No more friendly little game.

  His right arm suddenly shot forward and he slapped me five.

  “Nice play,” he said. “You got us that time, partner. Be ready for you next time. Hell, we’re all on the same team anyway, right? H and K all the way.”

  Jesus, he actually seemed like a nice guy.

  For a killer.

  Chapter 83

  “YOU RUN PRETTY good for a washed-up cop in his early forties,” Sampson said as we walked through a dusty lot filled mostly with minivans and trucks. We’d seen enough at the company picnic. After our show of respectability, we’d lost the softball game by seven runs — and it could have been even worse.

  “At least I don’t have to bunt to get on base,” I said.

  “Last thing they expected, sugar. Worked, didn’t it? Pissed’m off too.”

  “We lost the game.”

  “But not the war,” said Sampson.

  “This is true. Not the war. Not yet anyway.”

  I drove from the picnic site, out to the Falling River Walk development. I parked right around the corner from Thomas Starkey’s house. The house was redbrick with white trim on the windows, black shutters. The lot looked to be about an acre and was landscaped with rhododendron, hemlock, and mountain laurel. It was well kept. We walked past a mess of yellow chrysanthemums to the side door.