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Sherlock said, “Are you Dr. B. B. Maddox’s son?”
“I am.”
“We would like to speak to your father, Dr. Maddox, then to Sylvie Vaughn and her mother, Hannah Fox.”
The wor
ry beads began threading more quickly through his long thin fingers. His blue eyes behind thick lenses were cold. “That won’t be possible, ladies.”
“Agents,” Connie said. “You’re too young to be so forgetful of titles, Dr. Maddox. Perhaps your pharmaceutical subsidiary, Badecker-Ziotec, could offer their help to you to improve your short-term memory.”
His head jerked back as if she’d slapped him.
A man’s hard voice said from behind him, “Dr. Maddox, is there something you’d like me to do?”
Maddox never turned. “No, it’s all right, Cargill. The ladies—excuse me, the special agents—wish to speak to my father, and of course that isn’t possible.”
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?”
