Plum Island

She stayed silent a long time, then said, "Sounds like a bad movie-of-the-week." She added, "But I'll think about it."

Max called from the lower deck, "All ashore."

Beth moved toward the stairway, then asked me, "What's your cell phone number?"

I gave it to her, and she said, "We'll split up in the parking lot, and I'll call you in about twenty minutes."

We joined Max, Nash, and Foster on the stern deck, and we all walked off together with the six Plum Island employees. There were only three people on the dock for the return to Plum, and I was struck again by how isolated the island was.

In the parking field, Chief Sylvester Maxwell of the Southold PD said to everyone, "I'm satisfied that the most troubling part of this case has been cleared up. I have other duties, so I'm leaving Detective Penrose to work the homicide angle."

Mr. Ted Nash of the Central Intelligence Agency said, "I'm satisfied, too, and since there doesn't seem to be a national security breach or an international aspect to this situation, I'm going to recommend that my agency and I be relieved of this case."

Mr. George Foster of the Federal Bureau of Investigation said, "It appears that government property has been stolen, so the FBI will remain involved with the case. I'm heading back to Washington today to report. The local FBI office will take charge of this case, and someone will be contacting you, Chief." He looked at Beth. "Or you or your superior."

Detective Elizabeth Penrose of the Suffolk County PD replied, "Well, it looks like I'm it. I thank you all for your help."

We were ready to part, but Ted and I had to get in a few last friendly licks. He went first, and said to me, "I truly hope we meet again, Detective Corey."

"Oh, I'm sure we will, Ted. Next time try to impersonate a woman. That should be easier for you than an agriculture guy.'

He stared at me and said, "By the way, I forgot to mention that I know your boss, Detective Lieutenant Wolfe."

'Small world. He's an asshole, too. But put in a good word for me, will you, pal?"

"I'll be sure to report that you send him your regards and that you're looking very fit to return to duty."

Foster interrupted as usual and said, "It's been an interesting and intense twenty-four hours. I think this task force can be proud of its accomplishments, and I have no doubt the local police will bring this case to a satisfactory conclusion."

I said, "In summation, long day, good job, good luck."

Everyone was shaking hands now, even me, though I didn't know if I was out of a job, or if I ever had a job to be out of. Anyway, brief goodbyes were said, and no one got smarmy or promised to write or meet again, and no one kissed and hugged or anything. Within a minute, Max, Beth, Nash, and Foster were in their own cars and were gone, and I was standing alone in the parking field with my finger up my nose. Weird. Last night everyone thought the Apocalypse had arrived, the Pale Horseman had begun his terrible ride. And now, no one gave a rat's ass about two dead vaccine thieves in the morgue. Right?

I began walking to my car. Who was in on the cover-up? Obviously, Ted Nash and his people, and George Foster, since he'd also been on the earlier ferry with Nash and the four guys in suits who'd disappeared in the black Caprice. Probably Paul Stevens was in on it, too, and so was Dr. Zollner.

I was sure that certain agencies of the federal government had put together a cover, and it was good enough for the media, the nation, and the world. But it wasn't good enough for Detectives John Corey and Elizabeth Penrose. No sir, it was not. I wondered if Max was buying it. People generally want to believe good news, and Max was so paranoid about germs that he'd really love to believe Plum Island was spewing antibiotics and vaccine into the air, I should talk to Max later. Maybe.

The other question was this-if they were covering up, what were they covering up? It occurred to me that maybe they didn't know what they were covering up. They needed to change this case from high-profile horror to common thievery, and they had to do it quickly to get the heat off. Now they could start trying to figure out what the hell this was all about. Maybe Nash and Foster were as clueless as I was about why the Gordons were murdered.

Theory Two-they knew why and who murdered the Gordons, and maybe it was Nash and Foster themselves. I really had no idea who these clowns were.

With all this conspiracy stuff in mind, I remembered what Beth said regarding Nash… I wouldn't cross a man like that.

I stopped about twenty yards from my Jeep and looked around.

There were about a hundred Plum Island employee vehicles in the ferry parking field now, but there weren't any people around, so I positioned myself behind a van and held out my keypad. Another feature that I got for my forty thousand bucks was a remote ignition. I pressed the ignition button in a sequence, two longs and one short, and waited for the explosion. There was no explosion. The vehicle started. I let it run for a minute, then walked toward it, and got inside.

I wondered if I was being a little overly cautious. I guess if my vehicle had exploded, the answer is no. Better safe than sorry, I say. Until I knew who the killer or killers were, paranoia was my middle name.

CHAPTER 14

I drove west on Main Road, my engine humming, my radio tuned to easy listening, rural scenes sliding by, blue skies, gulls, the whole nine yards, the best that the third planet from the sun has to offer.

The car phone rang, and I answered, "Dial-a-stud. May I help you?"

"Meet me at the Murphy residence," said Detective Penrose.

"I don't think so," I replied.

"Why not?"

"I think I'm fired. If not, I quit."

"You were hired by the week. You have to finish out the week."

"Says who?"

"Murphy house." She hung up.

I hate bossy women. Nevertheless, I drove the twenty minutes to the Murphy house and spotted Detective Penrose parked out front, sitting in her unmarked black Ford LTD.

I parked my Jeep a few houses away, killed the engine, and got out. To the right of the Murphys' house, the crime scene was still taped off, and there was one Southold PD out front. The county mobile headquarters van was still on the lawn.

Beth was on the cell phone as I approached, and she hung up and got out. She said, "I just finished a long verbal to my boss. Everyone seems happy with the Ebola vaccine angle."

I asked, "Did you indicate to your boss that you think it's a crock of crap?"

"No… let's leave that thought alone. Let's solve a double murder."

We went to the Murphys' front door and rang the bell. The house was a 1960s ranch, original condition, as they say, pretty ugly, but decently maintained.

A woman of about seventy answered the door, and we introduced ourselves. She stared at my shorts, probably remarking to herself about how freshly laundered they looked and smelled. She smiled at Beth and showed us inside. She disappeared toward the back of the house and called out, "Ed! Police again.'"

She came back into the living room and indicated a love seat. I found myself cheek to cheek with Beth.

Mrs. Agnes Murphy asked us, "Would you like some Kool-Aid?"

I replied, "No, thank you, ma'am. I'm on duty."

Beth, too, declined.

Mrs. Murphy sat in a rocker facing us.

I looked around. The decorating style was what I call classical old fart: dark, musty, overstuffed furniture, six hundred ugly knickknacks, incredibly tacky souvenirs, photos of grandchildren, and so on. The walls were chalky green, like an after-dinner mint, and the carpet was… well, who cares?

Mrs. Murphy was dressed in a pink pants suit made of a synthetic material that would last three thousand years.

I asked Mrs. Murphy, "Did you like the Gordons?"

The question threw her, as it was supposed to. She got her thoughts together and replied, "We didn't know them very well, but they were mostly quiet."