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“Connie, if Dillon ever falls down on the job, will you marry me? I think it’s time we meet Mr. B. B. Maddox and his family and have a little chat. I’ll meet you at the Willows in forty minutes. We’ve got a double-pronged approach going here, Connie. Dillon is on his way to Baltimore, to the university. He’ll let us know what he discovers.”
54
OUTSIDE THE WILLOWS
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
WEDNESDAY LATE AFTERNOON
Sherlock opened the passenger door of her stalwart Volvo, and Connie Butler slid in. Their cars were parked at the south end of the stone-walled compound called the Willows. “Sylvie Vaughn’s still inside,” Connie said and looked down at her iWatch. “Over two hours now. Bolt called to say he’s headed back to Baltimore to interview Josh Vaughn at his investment firm. Then he’s going back to his list of the others at the party.” She paused a moment. “Not many people know it, but Bolt’s own baby son was kidnapped out of a hospital. That was before there were guards and cameras everywhere. He and his wife were very young, didn’t have a dime, and had to mortgage their lives to get their son back, which thankfully they did. It’s why he has a fire in his belly, why he’s in the CARD unit, and why he’ll do everything he can to get Alex Moody back.”
Sherlock nodded. “If they were young and didn’t have any money, why would kidnappers target their baby for ransom?”
“Bolt’s in-laws were very wealthy, but they’d disowned their daughter when she went against their wishes and married him, a poor boy from a working-class background. The kidnappers hadn’t realized the Bolt’s in-laws wouldn’t pay them a dime. The FBI agents working the case were shocked when the kidnappers believed them and lowered the ransom. They were never caught. But what’s important is that David Haller, Bolt’s son, is a happy sixteen-year old boy, at home with his folks.”
“I was wondering why you’re in CARD, Connie.”
Connie Butler shook her head. “The idea that anyone could steal a child, it makes me rabid. I’ll tell you my own story some other time. You ready to roll?”
Sherlock drove the Volvo to the closed gates of the Willows and pressed the intercom button, both she and Connie well aware of the cameras pointed at their faces. They held up their creds to the lens.
There was a full minute of empty silence, then a man’s voice said, “Agents Sherlock and Butler, you may park in front of the house.”
“Don’t you love such efficiency?” The gates slowly swung open, and Sherlock drove the Volvo through.
Connie said, “Those gates—I doubt a tank could bust through, that’s really high-grade steel. And these walls. Looks like they want to keep out the walking dead.”
“And other assorted riffraff.”
They drove down a wide graveled drive circling a vast well-tended lawn shaded by three huge oak trees, flower beds around each of them. The central core of the three-story dark redbrick house was flanked by two brick wings, with large formal English gardens on either side. Sherlock had read the house was built to resemble Restoration House in Kent, England, and pulled up a photo of it.
“Wowza. Connie, it does look like that old house in Kent. Do you feel like you’ve been transported to jolly old England?”
“It’s amazing, all right. Look at the gardens and that lawn, Sherlock. They must have an army of gardeners.”
“Speaking of an army,” Sherlock said, looking around, “I wonder how many security guards Dr. Maddox employs.”
“I guess we’re about to find out.”
Sherlock parked the Volvo in front of the entrance. They saw Sylvie Vaughn’s Jaguar parked outside a six-port garage some twenty feet away, set next to the north wing of the house. All the bays were closed. An old green Mercedes sedan was parked next to it.
They walked up flagstone steps to a front door that looked strong enough to withstand a battering ram. Connie said as Sherlock thwacked the lion’s head knocker, “The article I read said two of the rooms are exact replicas of their counterparts in Restoration House. It took nearly fifteen years because of all the portraits that had to be copied. B. B. Maddox doesn’t have any worries about money.”
The front door wasn’t opened by a butler or a maid, but by a slender middle-aged man wearing a slouchy cardigan and chinos. He had longish straight blond hair threaded with white, and eyes as light a blue as Sherlock’s, his covered with black-framed thick glasses. He was tall, but his shoulders were a bit slumped, as if he spent too much time hunched over at a desk or a computer. They recognized Dr. Lister Maddox, son of the founder of Gen-Core Technologies, B. B. Maddox. Oddly, he had worry beads in his hands, and was sliding them smoothly through his fingers.
“I take it you are the two FBI agents Cargill said were requesting entrance.”
“That’s right,” Sherlock said, stepped forward, gave him her patented sunny smile, and introduced herself and Connie. They handed him their creds.
He took the creds and studied them even as he continued to block the front door. He handed them back. “May I ask what this is all about, Agents?”
“That would depend on who you are, sir,” Sherlock said.
“I am Dr. Lister Maddox. I am in charge of this house.”
Connie said in a precise schoolteacher voice, “But this home belongs to Dr. B. B. Maddox, doesn’t it? Why isn’t he in charge?”
Maddox blinked, took a step back, then straightened to block the door again. “Our family’s affairs are none of your business. Why are you here? What do you want?”
