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“Not a damned thing,” I lied. “He’s a lonely old man. You ought to invite him to a retirees party every now and then.”
“He’s talked to us,” Davies said.
“So.” I said, “you know he didn’t tell me anything. He’s a stand-up guy.” Stand-up enough to keep my confidences, I hoped.
The Feds looked at each other.
I asked, “What are you afraid he’d tell me?” They easily ignored this foolish civilian entreaty.
Another Fed: “Special Agent Maddox said you went to Renzetti’s house twice. That’s a lot of trips for nothing.”
“That happens sometimes in law enforcement,” I said. My career had been built on lots of trips for nothing.
“And the son?”
“He was a kid when his father died,” I said. “He doesn’t know anything.”
Sausage Face demanded, “Why did you remain in San Francisco four additional days after you assaulted Special Agent Maddox? You were gone an entire week, Mapstone.”
“I assaulted him? Jesus!” I wished I were facing toward the window. As it was, all I could see were hostile faces in golfing shirts. “You assholes decided to have him tail me-how smart is that?”
“Answer the question, please.”
“I was sightseeing,” I said. “Am I under arrest?”
Silence. Bureaucratic brains processed. I was sure if I tried, I could hear the clanking. Assistant Director Davies’ makeup looked odd, with rough meeting points for base and rouge. Hell, I was no expert. I stood and walked to a window. The gigantic pools were stocked with beautiful people and not so beautiful people with fat bankbooks. Others meandered on the putting green and bowling lawn. They were loving the ninety-nine-degree weather-back home it was probably forty-five degrees and the sun hadn’t shined for a month. If you could spring for several hundred dollars a night, you could live better than a Roman emperor.
I tried again, “What are you guys afraid of? That I’ve found photos of J. Edgar Hoover in a dress plotting the Kennedy assassination?”
That set them all off.
“…highly sensitive…”
“Who have you told about this case?”
“…national security…”
“…court order to check your hard drive…”
“OK,” Davies said. “Let’s hear it from the top. From the moment you last met Eric. Everything you’ve done. Including your meeting at the park with the retired Phoenix detective, Wolfe.”
I gave them a sanitized version, but even so it took about an hour with their questions. I left out some of Wolfe’s conversation and lots from Renzetti. I didn’t tell them my sightseeing was across the Bay, to the University of California library’s special collections. One of the archivists was another protege of Milton. It was a valuable connection. When I was finished telling the story, it didn’t seem as if I’d accomplished much at all. They seemed to agree, if you could judge by the bored faces in the room. All except Pham, who looked as if he had been constipated for a month.
But Davies wasn’t done.
“Weren’t you once involved romantically with a newspaper reporter?” she demanded.
“Yes, about twenty-five years ago,” I said. “Is that the best you can do? What the hell are you so afraid of?” My worry instincts told me these folks could use some new antiterrorism statute to toss me in jail forever. I pushed past them and said, “I thought the Bureau was convinced that John Pilgrim was a suicide.”
“That’s correct,” Davies said, a note of discomfort creeping into her voice.
I continued, “So I’m just looking for the way his badge ended up on a homeless guy in Maricopa County. And right now I’m not making any progress.”
Davies gave a chilly smile. “I don’t know if there’s progress to be made, Dr. Mapstone.”
“I could make more progress if I could get Bureau help in tracking down records on Pilgrim’s death.”
She shrugged. “Sometimes we just have to live with mysteries.” Then she nodded toward Biff and Muffy, who put hands on my shoulders. “These agents will drive you home, Dr. Mapstone. Thank you for your time.”
