Plum Island by Nelson DeMille Read Free Book Online Page A

had more questions and while he was hesitating about asking, Detective Penrose said, “Detective
     Corey is writing a full report on what he knew of the Gordons which I will share with all concerned agencies.”
    That was news to me.
    Mr. Nash was leaning against a kitchen counter looking at me. We stared at each other, the two dominant males in the room,
     if you will, and we decided without a word that we didn’t like each other, and that one of us had to go. I mean, the air was
     so thick with testosterone that the wallpaper was getting soggy.
    I turned my attention to Max and Penrose and asked, “Have we determined that this is more than a homicide? Is that why the
     federal government is here?”
    No one replied.
    I continued, “Or are we just
assuming
that it is more? Did I miss a meeting or something?”
    Mr. Ted Nash finally replied coolly, “We are being cautious, Detective. We have no concrete evidence that this homicide is
     connected to matters of … well, to be blunt, matters of national security.”
    I remarked, “I never realized the Department of Agriculture was involved in national security. Do you have, like, undercover
     cows?”
    Mr. Nash gave me a nice fuck-you smile and said, “We have wolves in sheep’s clothing.”
    “Touche.” Prick.
    Mr. Foster butted in before it got nasty and said, “We’re here as a precautionary measure, Detective. We’d be very remiss
     if we didn’t check it out. We all hope it was just a murder with no Plum Island connection.”
    I regarded George Foster a moment. He was thirtyish, typical clean-cut, bright-eyed FBI type, wearing the FBI dark suit, white
     shirt, muted tie, black sturdy shoes, and halo.
    I shifted my attention to Ted Nash wearing the aforementioned denims; he was closer to my age, tanned, curly salt-and-pepper
     hair, blue-gray eyes, impressive build, and all in all what the ladies would call a hunk, which is one of the reasons I didn’t
     like him, I guess. I mean, how many hunks do you need in one room?
    I might have been more pleasant to him except that he was throwing glances at Elizabeth Penrose, who was catching them and
     pitching them back. I don’t mean they were leering and drooling; just real quick eye-to-eye flashes and neutral expressions,
     but you’d have to be blind not to figure out what was going through their dirty minds. Jeez, the whole friggin’ planet was
     about to get anthrax and die or something, and these two are like dogs in heat, eye-fucking each other when we had important
     business at hand. Really disgusting.
    Max interrupted my thoughts and said to me, “John, we have still not recovered the two bullets fired through their heads,
     but we can assume they went into the bay, and we’ll be dredging and diving early tomorrow.” He added, “There were no shell
     casings found.”
    I nodded. An automatic pistol would spit out shell casings whereas a revolver would not. If the weapon was an automatic, then
     the murderer was cool enough to bend down and gather the two shell casings.
    So far, we had basically nothing. Two head shots, no bullets, no casings, no noise heard next door.
    I regarded Mr. Nash again. He looked like a worried man, and I was happy to see that between thoughts of popping Ms. Penrose,
     he was thinking about saving the planet. In fact, everyone in the kitchen seemed to be thinking about things, probably germs,
     and they were probably wondering if they were going to wake up with red blotches or something.
    Ted Nash reached into the cardboard box and asked Detective Penrose, “Another coffee, Beth?”
    Beth?
What the hell …?
    She smiled, “No, thank you.”
    My stomach had settled down so I went to the refrigerator for a beer. The shelves were nearly empty and I asked, “Max, did
     you take things out of here?”
    “The lab took everything that was not factory sealed.”
    “Do you want a beer?” No one answered, so I took a Coors Light, popped the top, and took a swig.
    I noticed eight