Plum Island by Nelson DeMille Read Free Book Online Page B

eyes on me, like they were waiting for something to happen. People get weird when they think they’re in an
     infected environment. I had a crazy urge to clutch my throat, fall on the floor, and go into convulsions. But I wasn’t with
     my buds in Manhattan North, chicks and dicks who would get a kick out of sick humor, so I passed on the opportunity to add
     some comic relief to the grimness. I said to Max, “Please continue.”
    He said, “We’ve searched the entire house and turned up nothing unusual or significant, except that half the drawers were
     intact, some closets didn’t even look like they’d been searched, the books on the bookshelves weren’t pulled out. A very amateur
     job of pretending it was a burglary.”
    I said, “It still could have been a junkie, strung out and not real focused.” I added, “Or maybe the perp was interrupted,
     or the perp was looking for one thing and found it.”
    “Maybe,” Max agreed.
    Everyone looked pensive, which is good cover-up for clueless.
    The striking thing about this double homicide, I thought, was still the outdoor shooting, the bang, bang, right on the deck
     without much preamble. There was nothing the killer needed or wanted from the Gordons, except that they be dead. So, yes,
     the killer either had what he wanted from inside the house, and/or the Gordons were carrying what the killer wanted, in plain
     view, i.e., the ice chest. It came back to the missing ice chest.
    And the killer knew the Gordons and they knew him. I was convinced of that.
Hi Tom, Hi Judy. Bang, bang.
They fall, the ice chest falls … no, it’s got vials of deadly virus in it.
Hi Tom, Hi Judy. Put that chest down. Bang, bang.
They fall. The bullets sail through their skulls into the bay.
    Also, he
had
to have a silencer. No pro would pop off two big boomers outdoors. And it was probably an automatic, because revolvers don’t
     adapt well to a silencer.
    I asked Max, “Do the Murphys own a dog?”
    “Nope.”
    “Okay…. Did you find any money, wallets, or anything on the victims?”
    “Yes. They each had matching sports wallets; each had their Plum Island ID, driver’s license, credit cards, and such. Tom
     had thirty-seven dollars in cash, Judy had fourteen.” He added, “Each had a photo of the other.”
    It’s little things, sometimes, that bring it all home, that make it personal. Then you have to remember Rule One: don’t get
     emotionally involved—it doesn’t matter, Corey, if it’s a little kid who got greased, or a nice old lady, or pretty Judy who
     winked at you once, and Tom who wanted you to love the wines he loved and who cooked your steak just so. For the homicide
     dick, it does not matter who the victim is, it only matters who the killer is.
    Max said, “I guess you figured out that we never found that ice chest. You’re sure about the chest?”
    I nodded.
    Mr. Foster gave me his considered opinion. “We think the Gordons were carrying the chest, and the killer or killers wanted
     what was inside, and what was inside was you-know-what.” He added, “I think the Gordons were selling the stuff and the deal
     went bad.”
    I looked around at the meeting of the kitchen cabinet. It’s hard to read the faces of people whose job it is to read other
     people’s faces. Still, I had the feeling that George Foster’s statement represented the consensus.
    So, if these people were right, that would presuppose two things—one, the Gordons were really stupid, never considering that
     anyone who would want enough virus and bacteria to kill a zillion people might not hesitate to kill them, and two, it presupposed
     the Gordons were totally indifferent to the consequences of their selling death for gold. What I knew for sure about Tom and
     Judy was that they were neither stupid, nor heartless.
    I would also assume that the killer was not stupid, and I wondered if he knew or could tell if what was in the chest was the
     real thing. How could he possibly know?
Hi