or even newspapers. He doesn’t even have a TV. And if he keeps weapons here, they’re gone. The guy lives like a monk.”
Actually, as we wandered around, I was starting to wonder if anybody actually did live here. The place was clean as a whistle, so sterile and pristine I expected a Realtor to pop up from behind a couch. To the right was a tiny living room, connected to an even tinier dining area, and what is termed an efficiency kitchen—ordinarily an oxymoron, though in Jason’s case it proved to be a stunning understatement. The counters were clean, bare, and scrubbed, and I detected no clutter, no dirty dishes, not even watermarks in the sink. I peeked inside his fridge and everything was dress-right-dress, a perfectly linear parade ground of milk cartons, yogurts, salad dressings, a cornucopia of low-cal, low-fat, and low-flavor goodies. I felt guilty in the midst of all this order, cleanliness, and health consciousness.
Four guys and gals in blue windbreakers were milling around the ground floor, not aimlessly, though clearly nobody appeared to be sure what they were searching for. This was my bright idea and I didn’t have a clue what to look for. There would be something, though. Jason Barnes was not the benighted saint his boss thought he was. I was sure of it. Maybe.
Jennie said to me, “Upstairs.”
So up we went, and at the top of the stairs was a narrow hallway that twisted to the right, and three doors. We opened the first door and it was a tiny bathroom that smelled like a pine forest, with precisely folded, freshly laundered towels, a spotless mirror, and a toilet you could eat off, were one inclined to do such a stupid thing. Did anybody actually live in this house?
I stepped inside and looked around a moment. A narrow closet was hidden behind the door, and it struck me that this would be the perfect hidey-hole for Jason’s darkest secrets and filthiest habits. I swung it open and peeked inside, expecting a blow-up doll to fall out, a corpse, something. There were six shelves, and not a square inch of free space. Laid out on the shelves was a veritable armory of medicines, nasal sprays, antibacterial soaps and shampoos, skin care ointments, and various medical salves, balms, preventatives and devices, from enemas to ear wax cleaning solvents. There must’ve been three hundred bottles and vials and tubes, all neatly arranged, a harem of things to make sure you smelled good, slew galaxies of germs, and never experienced a constipated moment, or even ringworm.
Jennie, who was more familiar with these things, whistled. She said, “Here’s where his money went.”
“Hypochondriac?” I suggested.
She eyed the supplies a moment. “Aside from the aspirin, Band-Aids, and antibacterial ointments, these are all preventatives and body cleaning aids. Not a hypochondriac. Still, this is a little...odd.”
“More than a little.”
We backed out, and the next door led to the master bedroom, where two agents were busily defacing another temple of neatness. A massive and very ornate carved crucifix hung over the bed. The third door led to another, tinier bedroom that had been transformed into a compact office. Jennie said, “In here.”
A female agent was already pulling books off shelves, and she faced us when Jennie asked her, “Anything interesting?”
“Depends what you mean by interesting.” She elaborated, “Mostly horror novels and religious books. Lots of Stephen King and Anne Rice—all that spooky stuff. He’s got the full Tim LaHaye series...Armageddon and all that. I don’t know how he sleeps at night.”
I smiled at the agent and said, “Did you see anything called
How to Whack a President
?”
She smiled back. “Do you recall the author?” She added, “There’s some military manuals on weapons and munitions. I don’t know if that means anything. Leftovers from his military service, I guess.”
I regarded the manuals a moment. Actually, they meant nothing except that Mr.
Actually, as we wandered around, I was starting to wonder if anybody actually did live here. The place was clean as a whistle, so sterile and pristine I expected a Realtor to pop up from behind a couch. To the right was a tiny living room, connected to an even tinier dining area, and what is termed an efficiency kitchen—ordinarily an oxymoron, though in Jason’s case it proved to be a stunning understatement. The counters were clean, bare, and scrubbed, and I detected no clutter, no dirty dishes, not even watermarks in the sink. I peeked inside his fridge and everything was dress-right-dress, a perfectly linear parade ground of milk cartons, yogurts, salad dressings, a cornucopia of low-cal, low-fat, and low-flavor goodies. I felt guilty in the midst of all this order, cleanliness, and health consciousness.
Four guys and gals in blue windbreakers were milling around the ground floor, not aimlessly, though clearly nobody appeared to be sure what they were searching for. This was my bright idea and I didn’t have a clue what to look for. There would be something, though. Jason Barnes was not the benighted saint his boss thought he was. I was sure of it. Maybe.
Jennie said to me, “Upstairs.”
So up we went, and at the top of the stairs was a narrow hallway that twisted to the right, and three doors. We opened the first door and it was a tiny bathroom that smelled like a pine forest, with precisely folded, freshly laundered towels, a spotless mirror, and a toilet you could eat off, were one inclined to do such a stupid thing. Did anybody actually live in this house?
I stepped inside and looked around a moment. A narrow closet was hidden behind the door, and it struck me that this would be the perfect hidey-hole for Jason’s darkest secrets and filthiest habits. I swung it open and peeked inside, expecting a blow-up doll to fall out, a corpse, something. There were six shelves, and not a square inch of free space. Laid out on the shelves was a veritable armory of medicines, nasal sprays, antibacterial soaps and shampoos, skin care ointments, and various medical salves, balms, preventatives and devices, from enemas to ear wax cleaning solvents. There must’ve been three hundred bottles and vials and tubes, all neatly arranged, a harem of things to make sure you smelled good, slew galaxies of germs, and never experienced a constipated moment, or even ringworm.
Jennie, who was more familiar with these things, whistled. She said, “Here’s where his money went.”
“Hypochondriac?” I suggested.
She eyed the supplies a moment. “Aside from the aspirin, Band-Aids, and antibacterial ointments, these are all preventatives and body cleaning aids. Not a hypochondriac. Still, this is a little...odd.”
“More than a little.”
We backed out, and the next door led to the master bedroom, where two agents were busily defacing another temple of neatness. A massive and very ornate carved crucifix hung over the bed. The third door led to another, tinier bedroom that had been transformed into a compact office. Jennie said, “In here.”
A female agent was already pulling books off shelves, and she faced us when Jennie asked her, “Anything interesting?”
“Depends what you mean by interesting.” She elaborated, “Mostly horror novels and religious books. Lots of Stephen King and Anne Rice—all that spooky stuff. He’s got the full Tim LaHaye series...Armageddon and all that. I don’t know how he sleeps at night.”
I smiled at the agent and said, “Did you see anything called
How to Whack a President
?”
She smiled back. “Do you recall the author?” She added, “There’s some military manuals on weapons and munitions. I don’t know if that means anything. Leftovers from his military service, I guess.”
I regarded the manuals a moment. Actually, they meant nothing except that Mr.
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