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“Eventually, yeah. Maybe I’ll have a word with Edgar Roberts first.”
J.J. frowned. “You don’t want to interview him together?”
“Covering more ground, right?” Jason reminded him.
He shrugged. “Your call.”
“Keep me posted.”
“You said that.”
Jason let the door to the office swing shut behind him.
Chapter Eight
Edgar “Doc” Roberts was trimming the wall of yellow roses surrounding his picture-perfect front yard when Jason parked before the gray and white 1920s bungalow, just a block away from busy Main Street in downtown Bozwin.
Roberts was a tall, slightly stooped elderly man in baggy denims and a faded turquoise Hawaiian shirt. He wore a wide-brimmed straw hat and lime-green flip-flops, and carried a deadly looking pair of gardening shears. As Jason got out of the car, Doc pulled his hat off, wiped his face on his arm, and replaced the hat.
“Howdy,” he called as Jason strode up the flagstone walk.
“Hi.” Jason flashed his badge. “Special Agent West, FBI. May I have a word, sir?”
“I figured you were some kind of cop.” Doc took the proffered leathe
r wallet. “FBI. Well, isn’t that something?” He took his time examining Jason’s ID and badge. “Looks just like it does in the movies,” he marveled.
Jason smothered a grin. He suspected Doc was pulling his leg a little, but he had a soft spot for old-timers like Doc. They reminded him of his grandfather.
Finally, Doc handed back the wallet. “I’ve been expecting you. Well, someone like you. Why don’t we go inside where it’s cooler?”
Jason followed Doc up the stone walk to the wide wooden porch, and they went inside. It was cooler inside, and the house smelled agreeably of lemon furniture polish and linseed oil.
The interior was as pristine as the front yard, also unexpectedly and charmingly updated with distressed hardwood floors, brick-colored accent walls, and faux brick panels. A geometrically precise arrangement of framed black and white photos adorned the entryway. Jason examined several shots of a grinning younger version of Doc.
“You were with the 101st Airborne?”
Doc looked surprised. “You know your military insignia. That’s right. The Screaming Eagles.”
Doc had been a paratrooper. He had not been with the 3rd Infantry Division when they took Engelshofen Castle. So that was one obvious possibility eliminated.
Jason considered a couple of wooden-framed oil paintings on the wall. Europe. Maybe Germany. Maybe Bavaria. Maybe not. They were nice, though. Not Old Masters nice, but pleasing to the eye and better than the usual amateur effort.
“Are these your work?” Jason asked.
Doc laughed delightedly. “Now how did you know that?”
“I’m FBI. We know everything,” Jason deadpanned.
Doc guffawed. “That’s a good one. What would you like to drink, Agent West? I’ve pretty much got everything. Would you like to try a Montana margarita?”
“Water would be great,” Jason said. “Ice tea if you have it.”
Doc stopped beaming. “Now, I meant a real drink. I have to tell you: I don’t trust a man who doesn’t like to drink.”
“I wouldn’t trust a man who drinks on the job,” Jason retorted.
Doc burst out laughing again. He beckoned Jason into the kitchen, where he set about throwing ice and tequila and margarita mix into a blender.
