were there to see him. Wilson ran his fingers through his unkempt hair and tucked in his shirt as he got up from the chair. He met the two men in the corridor outside his father’s room. Both men stood over six feet and looked extremely fit, with eyes that seemed to take in everything. One was Caucasian, the other African American. These have to be Hap’s men, Wilson thought.
They introduced themselves as Driggs and Savoy, confirming that they worked for Hap Greene. Four other team members were already establishing a base of operations near the hospital. Hap had briefed them last night, but they wanted Wilson to give them some additional background.
Thirty minutes later, Wilson and Savoy left the hospital for Brattle House, where three packages of electronic surveillance-busting equipment were waiting for them. For the next two hours, Wilson and Savoy searched the house for electronic bugging devices using a handheld state-of-the-art surveillance buster, with enough detection power to ferret out any electronic bug within thirty feet of its sensory nodes. They found eight bugs distributed throughout Brattle House.
With Savoy’s concurrence, Wilson decided to leave each of the bugs in place, allowing the surveillance crowd to believe the devices had not yet been discovered. The only bug they removed was the one in the belfry library, carefully transferring it to the family room. The library would become the one secure room in the house, and just to make sure, they unpacked the most sophisticated piece of equipment that Hap Greene had sent. It was a hi-tech nullifying device that looked like a Sharper Image sound machine, five inches in diameter and five inches tall, with a nine-inch cube recharging base-much smaller than the one Carter Emerson had given Wilson the day before. According to Savoy, the nullifier could eliminate all possibility of voice detection or recording for a radius of fifty feet around the device. There were two nullifiers in the package. The last package contained four small telephone scramblers designed to prevent electronic surveillance on one or both sides of a telephone conversation.
When his mother and Rachel arrived at the house, having picked up Rachel’s husband Darrin at the airport, Wilson gave them hand-written notes. The notes advised them of the listening devices and directed them to the belfry library. The looks of anxiety on their faces were sobering. I have to protect them, Wilson said to himself. Anita, the house manager, took four-year-old Mary, Rachel and Darrin’s only child, to the playroom.
Once everyone was in the library with the nullifier on, Wilson introduced Savoy, informed them about the expanded surveillance, and described the equipment Hap Greene had sent. After angrily speculating about how, when, and by whom the bugs had been planted, they agreed that it must have happened when they were in Sun Valley. Wilson then told them about his conversation with Carter and what had happened earlier with his father at the hospital. His mother’s eyes widened as he spoke, but she said nothing.
Rachel broke the stillness that had descended on the room.
“How long are we going to leave the bugs in place?”
“At some point, they’ll expect us to find and remove them. But for the next week or so, we need to use their bugs to let them know that we’re worried enough about our safety to back off and leave them alone.”
Nodding his agreement, Savoy said, “You’re dealing with what seem to be very unpredictable and dangerous people. We need time to assess the threat and prepare an adequate defense. If they think their listening devices are working, they won’t be as likely to employ more sophisticated equipment such as thermal imaging, wall- penetrating cameras, and denullifiers.”
Just then Anita opened the door to the library. She and little Mary entered. “Sorry for the interruption,” Anita said. “There’s a Detective Zemke from Sun Valley, who wants to talk to Mr. Fielder. I asked him to wait in the study.”
“Thank you, Anita. I’ll take care of it,” Wilson said, surprised by Zemke’s presence in Boston, but even more surprised by the unannounced visit. Looking at Savoy in frustration, he said, “Guess we can’t use the nullifier, can we?”
“Not if you expect them to believe you,” Savoy said.
Seconds later, Wilson strode into his father’s Victorian-style study, furnished with cherry wood shelves and heavy drapes. “Detective Zemke,” he said as he closed the double doors behind him.
“Didn’t want to bother you, but figured you’d appreciate the latest update on our investigation. I know I would, if it were my father in a coma,” Zemke said as he shook Wilson’s hand.
“Thank you, detective. Can I get you something to drink?” Wilson asked.
“Oh no, I won’t be long,” he said as he gazed around the two-story study with its book-lined walls. Then he looked more closely at some of the titles. “Impressive collection,” Zemke said.
“My father has been collecting first editions of early American literature ever since I can remember.”
“Must be worth a fortune,” Zemke returned with a slightly sarcastic edge.
Wilson remained quiet, standing in front of one of the study’s brown leather sofas, waiting for Zemke to join him. The detective’s congenial curiosity contrasted sharply with the gruff disinterest Wilson had experienced in Sun Valley.
“Smart guy, your father. Guess he could buy anything he wanted.”
Wilson’s heart beat faster. He didn’t respond.
Zemke continued to look around the study for a few moments before he sat down on a matching brown leather sofa across from Wilson. He looked more official this time-light gray slacks and a golf shirt, the same color as his wiry hair, paired with a navy blue blazer. But the same cynical insolence radiated from his penetrating eyes, despite the outward pleasantness.
“We’ve uncovered a piece of new information since we last talked. The two executed women were daughters of one of your father’s business associates,” Zemke said, watching closely for Wilson’s reaction.
“From Fielder amp; Company?” Wilson blurted, shocked by the news.
“No. One of your father’s clients. Davis Zollinger, Chairman and CEO of Dutton Industries. Know him?”
“No,” Wilson said, his head was spinning. “Was he at White Horse?”
“No chance of that. Died six months ago. Apparent suicide. Boston PD’s looking into it again.”
Reeling with new questions about Zollinger and his daughters and what they had to do with his father, Wilson waited in anguish for Zemke to tell him more.
“Zollinger allegedly shot himself in the head with a.22 LR caliber pistol. Same type of gun used at White Horse. They found him the next day in his office on the twenty-ninth floor of the Dutton Industries Building, downtown Boston.”
“You’re assuming his death is related to the murder attempt on my father?” Wilson said, leaning forward.
“Won’t know that for a while,” Zemke said, maintaining his relaxed, authoritative position on the couch, but his bright blue eyes were actively probing Wilson. “There’s more here than I thought, especially after your father’s attorney was killed. We’re stepping up our investigation.”
“Good,” Wilson managed to say, but without much conviction.
“Boston PD is getting ready to close its investigation into the accident that killed Mr. Redd and Ms. O’Grady. With nothing at the scene of the accident and no charges from Fielder amp; Company or KaneWeller, there’s little reason to keep the case open. If we find a connection to what happened in Sun Valley, they promised to reopen the case,” Zemke’s sharp eyes were still trained on Wilson, watchful for any reaction.
Wilson’s grief and anger over Daniel and his cold-blooded murder, while in the service of Fielder amp; Company, returned with a vengeance, making him feel guilty and-irrationally-complicit in some way. But Wilson wasn’t yet ready to tell the police or any other law enforcement agency about Fielder amp; Company’s dark side. Daniel’s words rang in his head:
Zemke studied Wilson for several moments. “By the way,” he finally said, raising his chin and looking down his nose at Wilson. “I meant to thank you for the tip you gave me about your father hating guns and favoring his left hand-doesn’t make sense that he’d shoot those two women and himself with his right hand. We’re considering the possibility that someone tried to make it look like a murder-suicide.”
“I continue to believe he’s innocent, detective,” Wilson said as Daniel’s words reverberated in his head. At times like these, Wilson regretted his penchant for bully busting. The way he’d handled Zemke in Sun Valley had not only empowered the detective, but the Boston PD as well. It would only be a matter of time before they began investigating his father’s financial and business activities, he thought. “Do you have any other leads?” Wilson asked.
