Bob and Bob glowered at me, then they saluted the colonel and sulked their way out of the operations center. I made a mental note to send them a nice fruit basket.
“Well, Colonel,” I said as I turned toward him, “I appreciate being shown around and all, but I think I’ll be going now, if you don’t mind.”
Barris crossed his arms, still watching me carefully. “No, no, I’m afraid I domind, Mr. Rosen.” His voice was pleasant, but there was an edge beneath his erudite politeness. “My men have gone to considerable trouble to bring you here. I apologize for any rough treatment you may have experienced, but we still have a number of things to discuss before we let you go.”
“No one charged me with anything-” I began.
“No sir,” he went on, “but we certainly could if we wish. Theft of police evidence, for starters.” Barris looked over his shoulder at the balcony just above us. “Lieutenant Farrentino, if you’ll join us …?”
Surprise, surprise. All my friends had come down to the club to see me tonight.
I looked up as Mike Farrentino stepped out of the shadows. He leaned over the railing, a sullen smile spread across his lean face. “Hello, Gerry,” he said quietly. “I see you didn’t get a chance to change your pants after all.”
“Things got in the way, Mike,” I said. “Sorry about the bag, but y’know how things are.”
I assayed a sheepish shrug and a dopey grin as the three men stared at me. I wondered if it wasn’t too late to catch up with Bob and Bob and see if that offer of a ride home was still valid.
“You’re not being charged with anything,” Barris said, “so long as you’re willing to cooperate with us. We have a small crisis here, and we need your cooperation. Is that clear?”
“Like mud.” I sighed and rubbed the back of my neck. “Look, I don’t have the slightest idea what’s going on around here-”
“You’re full of it,” Huygens muttered.
“Back off, Huygens,” I said. “I’m not taking any shit from you right now.”
Controllers cast brief glances over their shoulders at me; out of the corner of my eye, I could see another ERA trooper starting toward us, his right hand on the holstered butt of his shockrod.
I could have cared less. “Look, guys,” I went on, trying to keep my temper and not doing a good job of it, “I’ve had a long day. My best friend has just been killed, my place was trashed, I was dragged down here by a couple of morons, and Prince Anal here”-I jabbed a finger at Huygens-“decided to throw me out of his party for no reason at all. So unless you’ve got something to say to me-”
“Be quiet!” Barris snapped.
Leave it to a military man to know how to get someone to shut up. I went silent, remembering exactly where I was and whom I was dealing with.
“Now listen up,” he said, a little more quietly now, yet with hardness in his voice. “We’ve been polite with you so far …”
I started to open my mouth, intending to make some smart-aleck remark about Miss Manners’s advice on how to properly put someone in handcuffs and give them a ride in a tank, but Barris stepped a little closer to put his face near mine. “If you persist,” he said in a half-whisper, “I’ll have you taken someplace where some of my men will enjoy making you more cooperative. Do you understand me, Mr. Rosen?”
I shut up, my wiseass remarks dying stillborn. There was no mistaking what he meant. Down there, beneath the stadium, were cold rooms with concrete walls, postmodern catacombs where someone could get lost forever. People had a habit of disappearing in Busch Stadium lately. I had heard the rumors, as had everyone else in the city, and Colonel Barris no longer looked like a retired bank clerk who sat around the house listening to old Carpenters records.
“Do you understand me?” he repeated.
I nodded my head.
“Good,” he said. “Now if you’ll follow me, we’ll go to my office where we can talk in private. We have someone waiting for us.”
He turned on his heel and began walking away, leading the way toward a short stairway to the club’s upper level. Huygens fell in behind me, and Farrentino met us at the top of the steps. Neither of them said a word to me, but Farrentino shot me a brief look of warning: don’t screw around with this guy … he means business.
The colonel’s office was located in the left rear corner of the club, a small cubicle formed by hastily erected sheets of drywall. A desk, a couple of chairs, a computer terminal, a wall map of the city spotted with colored thumbtacks. Very military, very spartan. The only decoration was a glass snowball on the desk, a miniature replica of the Arch sealed in with a liquid blizzard.
A man was seated in a chair in front of Barris’s desk. He was dressed casually yet welclass="underline" pressed jeans, a cotton polo shirt, and a suede leather jacket. It was for that reason that I didn’t immediately recognize him when he turned around to look at us as a trooper opened the door to let us inside. It wasn’t until he stood up and held out his hand that I realized who he was.
“Mr. Rosen,” he said, “I’m happy to meet you. I’m Cale McLaughlin.”
I shook the hand of the last person I expected to see in Barris’s office; although I tried to keep cool, my discomfiture must have been obvious. “You’re no doubt wondering what I’m doing here,” Tiptree’s CEO said, favoring me with a fatherly smile.
I shrugged. “Not really. You’re probably the only person here who has a membership card.”
“Good point.” McLaughlin gave a short laugh, then waved me to the chair next to him. Farrentino sat down on the other side, while Huygens leaned against a file cabinet. “But the fact of the matter is that your friend’s murder is of vital interest to my company. When he learned of what happened tonight, Paul called me and I came down here.”
“It must have been on short notice,” I murmured, glancing at my watch. “It’s been barely three hours since John was shot.”
“Hmm … yes, it was short notice. And believe me, I’d much rather be in bed right now.” McLaughlin’s face became serious. “But, as I said, my company is greatly interested in what happened.” He glanced at Barris. “Perhaps I should let the colonel begin, though. George?”
“You already know that your friend was investigating a recent murder when he was killed,” Barris said as he took his own seat behind the desk. “What you don’t know is why he was killed, nor who did it.”
“And neither do you,” I replied.
“No,” Farrentino said. “That we do know-”
“We’re way ahead of you, Gerry,” Huygens interrupted. “You’re good, sport, but not as good as we are.”
“Yeah, right. Sure you do.” I gently massaged my wrists, still feeling the chafe left by the handcuffs. “If you’re so swift, then why do you need my help?”
Huygens opened his mouth as if to retort, but Barris cleared his throat; the other man shut up. McLaughlin remained quiet, a forefinger curled contemplatively around his chin as he listened. “What Mr. Huygens means is that we now have a suspect,” the colonel said as he opened a desk drawer and pulled out a thick file folder. “What we have to do is catch him …”
He opened the folder, unclipped an eight-by-ten photo from a sheaf of paper, and slid it across the desk. I recognized the face as soon as I picked up the picture: the distinguished-looking gentleman with the gray Vandyke beard I had spotted at the Tiptree Corporation reception.
“You may have seen him when you visited my company this morning,” McLaughlin said. “His name’s Richard Payson-Smith. He’s a senior research scientist at Tiptree … one of the top people behind our Sentinel R amp;D program, in fact.”
“Born 1967 in Glasgow, Scotland,” Barris continued, reading from the dossier. “Received his B.S. from the University of Glasgow, then immigrated to the United States in 1987, where he went on to receive both his master’s degree and Ph.D. from the University of California-Irvine. After he became a naturalized citizen he went to work for DARPA at Los Alamos, where he was involved with various research projects until 2003, when he was recruited by Tiptree to head up a skunk-works team involved with the Sentinel program.”