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I said, “The records say a real estate investment trust in Baltimore owns it.”
“And Yarneco is majority owner of the REIT,” Bobby said. “Just thought you’d want to know. They own a lot of the property down there. Once they were produce warehouses. Now everybody wants the land. Even the county, to expand Chief Peralta’s jail.”
I felt a flush spreading into my cheeks, hoped the dark of the office concealed it.
Bobby said, “You are an intelligent man, David, not merely a prisoner of books and ideas like most intellectuals. Sometimes things are not as they seem. It would be worth your time to reconsider your assumptions about me, about many things.”
He stood up and bowed slightly. “Dr. Mapstone, it is always a pleasure. Do have a happy Thanksgiving.”
I wanted to have a smart-ass comeback but all I could think of was getting him out of the office.
“By the way, someone left you a present.”
“What are you talking about?”
I followed his gaze over to the court table I had set up for the Yarnell case.
“What the…”
It was a doll. An ordinary baby doll, maybe a foot tall, with a big head and a silly smile. It had a little blue bow tie and blue overalls. And a little sheriff’s star. It made my skin crawl.
“Are you mind-fucking me, Bobby?”
“Oh, the English language is wonderful, isn’t it?” he smiled, perfect teeth looking predatory in the half light. “Farsi has many wonderful words and sayings, but not like this. ‘Mind fuck.’ No, Dr. Mapstone, I am not mind-fucking you. This doll was sitting on your doorstep when I came in. No card attached. I merely brought it inside. It is from a friend with a peculiar sense of humor, perhaps?”
“Perhaps.”
“I have never liked dolls,” Bobby said. “Those dead eyes.”
Then he was gone, his footsteps echoing like gunshots down the hall.
Chapter Twelve
The worst sound in the world is a ringing telephone after midnight.
“Dave.”
Lindsey. “Are you all right?”
“Did you read the fourteenth Canto without me?” she asked. We’d been reading Dante to each other, a little bit at a time in bed. I said, “I’d rather wait for you.”
“That’s why you’re my History Shamus.”
A minute passed by with nothing but the electronic buzz of the phone line.
“Are you okay, Lindsey?”
“I guess I’m not.”
I sat up in bed, awake with worry, the house silent and dark around me.
I waited for her. She said, “So how was your day?”
Something bad. Lindsey is the most direct person I’ve ever known. When her conversation turns elliptical, it is a bad sign.
“I tried to call you,” I said. “I figured you were tied up.”
“Tell me about your day, Dave.”
