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.
55
BADECKER-ZIOTEC PHARMACEUTICALS
SUBSIDIARY OF GEN-CORE TECHNOLOGIES
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
LATE WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON
Savich parked the Porsche in the visitor’s slot right in front of the main entrance to Badecker-Ziotec. It sat on the far edge of the Gen-Core Technologies main campus, three modern utilitarian glass-and-steel buildings, none of them with the architectural prestige of the Gen-Core Technologies headquarters a quarter-mile distant. He walked into a utilitarian space that held one tall fake palm tree and a large curving counter with two women seated behind it, working on computers. One of the women whose name tag identified her as Millicent Flowers looked up and smiled at him.
“You’re FBI Agent Savich?”
He nodded, handed her his creds.
She rose, handed back his creds. “I’m Millicent Flowers. Follow me, Agent Savich. I’ll take you to Dr. Zyon.”