54
OUTSIDE THE WILLOWS
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
WEDNESDAY LATE AFTERNOON
Sherlock opened the passenger door of her stalwart Volvo, and Connie Butler slid in. Their cars were parked at the south end of the stone-walled compound called the Willows. “Sylvie Vaughn’s still inside,” Connie said and looked down at her iWatch. “Over two hours now. Bolt called to say he’s headed back to Baltimore to interview Josh Vaughn at his investment firm. Then he’s going back to his list of the others at the party.” She paused a moment. “Not many people know it, but Bolt’s own baby son was kidnapped out of a hospital. That was before there were guards and cameras everywhere. He and his wife were very young, didn’t have a dime, and had to mortgage their lives to get their son back, which thankfully they did. It’s why he has a fire in his belly, why he’s in the CARD unit, and why he’ll do everything he can to get Alex Moody back.”
Sherlock nodded. “If they were young and didn’t have any money, why would kidnappers target their baby for ransom?”
“Bolt’s in-laws were very wealthy, but they’d disowned their daughter when she went against their wishes and married him, a poor boy from a working-class background. The kidnappers hadn’t realized the Bolt’s in-laws wouldn’t pay them a dime. The FBI agents working the case were shocked when the kidnappers believed them and lowered the ransom. They were never caught. But what’s important is that David Haller, Bolt’s son, is a happy sixteen-year old boy, at home with his folks.”
“I was wondering why you’re in CARD, Connie.”
Connie Butler shook her head. “The idea that anyone could steal a child, it makes me rabid. I’ll tell you my own story some other time. You ready to roll?”
Sherlock drove the Volvo to the closed gates of the Willows and pressed the intercom button, both she and Connie well aware of the cameras pointed at their faces. They held up their creds to the lens.
There was a full minute of empty silence, then a man’s voice said, “Agents Sherlock and Butler, you may park in front of the house.”
“Don’t you love such efficiency?” The gates slowly swung open, and Sherlock drove the Volvo through.
Connie said, “Those gates—I doubt a tank could bust through, that’s really high-grade steel. And these walls. Looks like they want to keep out the walking dead.”
“And other assorted riffraff.”
They drove down a wide graveled drive circling a vast well-tended lawn shaded by three huge oak trees, flower beds around each of them. The central core of the three-story dark redbrick house was flanked by two brick wings, with large formal English gardens on either side. Sherlock had read the house was built to resemble Restoration House in Kent, England, and pulled up a photo of it.
“Wowza. Connie, it does look like that old house in Kent. Do you feel like you’ve been transported to jolly old England?”
“It’s amazing, all right. Look at the gardens and that lawn, Sherlock. They must have an army of gardeners.”
“Speaking of an army,” Sherlock said, looking around, “I wonder how many security guards Dr. Maddox employs.”
“I guess we’re about to find out.”
Sherlock parked the Volvo in front of the entrance. They saw Sylvie Vaughn’s Jaguar parked outside a six-port garage some twenty feet away, set next to the north wing of the house. All the bays were closed. An old green Mercedes sedan was parked next to it.
They walked up flagstone steps to a front door that looked strong enough to withstand a battering ram. Connie said as Sherlock thwacked the lion’s head knocker, “The article I read said two of the rooms are exact replicas of their counterparts in Restoration House. It took nearly fifteen years because of all the portraits that had to be copied. B. B. Maddox doesn’t have any worries about money.”
The front door wasn’t opened by a butler or a maid, but by a slender middle-aged man wearing a slouchy cardigan and chinos. He had longish straight blond hair threaded with white, and eyes as light a blue as Sherlock’s, his covered with black-framed thick glasses. He was tall, but his shoulders were a bit slumped, as if he spent too much time hunched over at a desk or a computer. They recognized Dr. Lister Maddox, son of the founder of Gen-Core Technologies, B. B. Maddox. Oddly, he had worry beads in his hands, and was sliding them smoothly through his fingers.
“I take it you are the two FBI agents Cargill said were requesting entrance.”
“That’s right,” Sherlock said, stepped forward, gave him her patented sunny smile, and introduced herself and Connie. They handed him their creds.
He took the creds and studied them even as he continued to block the front door. He handed them back. “May I ask what this is all about, Agents?”
“That would depend on who you are, sir,” Sherlock said.
“I am Dr. Lister Maddox. I am in charge of this house.”
Connie said in a precise schoolteacher voice, “But this home belongs to Dr. B. B. Maddox, doesn’t it? Why isn’t he in charge?”
Maddox blinked, took a step back, then straightened to block the door again. “Our family’s affairs are none of your business. Why are you here? What do you want?”
Sherlock said, “Are you Dr. B. B. Maddox’s son?”
“I am.”
“We would like to speak to your father, Dr. Maddox, then to Sylvie Vaughn and her mother, Hannah Fox.”
The worry beads began threading more quickly through his long thin fingers. His blue eyes behind thick lenses were cold. “That won’t be possible, ladies.”
“Agents,” Connie said. “You’re too young to be so forgetful of titles, Dr. Maddox. Perhaps your pharmaceutical subsidiary, Badecker-Ziotec, could offer their help to you to improve your short-term memory.”
His head jerked back as if she’d slapped him.
A man’s hard voice said from behind him, “Dr. Maddox, is there something you’d like me to do?”
Maddox never turned. “No, it’s all right, Cargill. The ladies—excuse me, the special agents—wish to speak to my father, and of course that isn’t possible.”
The man nodded but remained standing where he was, his arms over his chest, watchful. Sherlock saw the bulge in his jacket. He was carrying. Why would Maddox need armed security?
Connie continued in her full schoolmarm mode, “Dr. Maddox, we have only a few questions for your father. It won’t take long.”
“I told you it isn’t possible. His ill health precludes it. I would like you both to leave now. If you have questions for me, you can contact our lawyers.”
Sherlock jumped in. They needed to question him, not have him kick them out and sic his lawyers on them. “Dr. Maddox, actually it’s not necessary we speak with your father. After all, you’ve been the CEO of Gen-Core Technologies since your father stepped down fifteen years ago, and, as you say, you are the master of this exquisite home. We would be grateful, sir, if you could spend a couple of minutes with us and answer the questions we were going to ask your father.” She’d really laid it on with a trowel, but at least it gave him another option, a chance to reconsider. She watched his desire to know why they were there and what they knew overcome his annoyance, until finally, he nodded. “Very well, I have a few minutes before I have to be in a meeting. Come this way.” Lister led them through a time portal into a wealthy seventeenth-century salon.
He walked to the middle of the room and turned to face them, his arms outspread. “Since you are interested in my home, I’ll tell you that it began when my father traced our lineage back to Henry Clerke, a rich lawyer in the early sixteen hundreds. Clerke joined two houses together to create Restoration House in Rochester, Kent. My father fancies he lived a past life in that house. He’s visited many times over the years, and indeed, is a close friend of the current owner. His bedroom—the King’s Bedchamber—and this room, are exact replicas. The rest of the house is quite modern. You are correct: the house is my father’s. He conceived and built it.” He paused, waiting for what? Praise? Applause?
Sherlock obliged him. “A fascinating story, Dr. Maddox.”
Connie pointed to the portraits covering the walls. “Are these people any relation to you, Dr. Maddox?”
“I believe Mr. Clerke simply bought many of the original portraits to fill the walls of Restoration House, so no one knows who they are. My father never concerned himself with finding out. It was enough for him that they were in Restoration House for them to be here as well.” He waved a hand toward a gilt chair. “It won’t break, go ahead, sit down and ask your questions.” He looked down at his watch.
The chair was surprisingly comfortable. Sherlock said, “Dr. Maddox, on Monday afternoon a baby was stolen from the maternity ward of Washington Memorial Hospital. His name is Alex Moody. One of the cars the kidnappers used was traced to this neighborhood. A white delivery van. We’ve learned that your company, Gen-Core Technologies, owns six such white vans.”
Lister blinked at her, the worry beads stilled in his hands. “Many companies use vans, Agent Sherlock. Why would you come here to point that out?”
Connie said, “We know you’re not directly involved with managing all your company’s vans, Dr. Maddox. This is a large property, and it’s possible one of the vans might be kept here. Would you mind if we looked around, perhaps checked your garage?”
“Don’t be absurd. Of course you may not go traipsing around my property.”
Sherlock said, “Perhaps then we can get your permission to check your fleet of white vans at Gen-Core, see if one is missing?”
“Not without a warrant, Agent. If you are concerned one of our vans was used illegally, I’ll have to contact our lawyers, let them start an internal investigation.”
Connie pulled up photos of the man and woman who’d kidnapped Alex Moody from the hospital. “Do you know either of these people, Dr. Maddox?”
Lister felt his heart kettledrum. Of course they’d have photos of Burley and Quince from the hospital videos, but Quince had assured him they’d been very careful changing vehicles, so how had they spotted the white van? He forced himself to look at the two photos on the agent’s cell phone. He shook his head. “Sorry, I’ve never seen either of these people in my life.”
Sherlock watched the worry beads quicken between his fingers. She smiled. “Dr. Maddox, we’ve discovered an interesting coincidence. Sylvie Vaughn is the daughter of one of your employees, Hannah Fox. Ms. Vaughn is also one of Kara Moody’s best friends, the mother of the stolen baby. We saw Ms. Vaughn’s car outside. We’d like to speak with her and her mother.”
Lister said, “I fear that you will get neither of your wishes. As I told you, my father isn’t well and cannot be disturbed. Sylvie is out on the boat with her mother.” He looked down at a thin Piaget watch yet a second time. “They won’t be back for several hours. Sylvie always takes her to the Inner Harbor, for dinner at Marvin’s.”
Sherlock pulled up a photo of John Doe. “Tell me if you know this man.”
He shook his head and looked bored, but the worry beads gave him away, threading faster and faster through his fingers. “I’m sorry, Agent, I’ve never seen this man in my life, either. Who is he?”
“Did you hear about the crazy man who burst into a house in Georgetown on Sunday?”
“Of course not. I have no interest in local news in Washington, D.C.”
“This is that man. He’s currently in a coma at Washington Memorial Hospital.”
Connie picked it up. “Someone tried to murder him Monday night. We’re asking you about him because it turns out he’s closely connected to Kara Moody as well. He’s her baby’s father. Would you know anything about it, Dr. Maddox?”
“Look, Agents, I’ve been patient, I’ve listened to your questions, tried to remain civil. I do not see why you would think we would allow a white van you’re looking for, into the Willows. I do not know why you would believe I’ve met any of those people. I want you to leave now. I will be calling my lawyers. I’m sure they’ll want any further communication to go through them.”
He turned and walked straight out of the seventeenth-century salon, across the modern entrance hall, directly to the front door. He opened it, and stood aside, waiting like a doorman for them to leave.
“Thank you for your time, Dr. Maddox,” Sherlock said as she walked past him.
Lister didn’t say anything. He nodded to Cargill, who hurried to follow them through the front door.
He waited until they’d left, then said, “Cargill, you will never allow those two agents in again.”
“No sir,” Cargill said. He wanted to ask what he should do if they returned with a warrant, but knew enough to keep his mouth shut.