wondering that myself. It could be anything from extortion to espionage to someone trying to be a Good Samaritan."
Savich said, "Question is, what does she do with the files now that Blauvelt got himself murdered right out back at about the same time? Even if she didn't have anything to do with Blauvelt's murder herself, she's got to be scared. She's got to be praying we'll find the murderer soon so she'll be free to act."
Bowie said, "Or maybe she murdered Blauvelt, before or after she copied some files."
Savich said slowly, "She knew what she wanted, that's for sure. She wouldn't risk breaking in on a fishing expedition. I'll bet the German bosses are very well aware of what she copied by now, but without a direct link to the murder, we don't have a chance of talking anyone into a warrant." He swished the tea leaves at the bottom of his cup, and looked thoughtful.
Sherlock knew that look and smiled. "We've got to find her, see what's she's got before we arrest her for breaking and entering. I'm thinking once we know that, we'll know why Blauvelt was here."
Bowie looked out the window to see an ancient pink Cadillac cruise down High Street. "I'm not so sure about that. There doesn't necessarily have to be a tie-in."
"Maybe not," Sherlock said, "but somehow, it just feels right, like it's all part of the whole." She looked down at her watch. "Bowie, what about that German policeman? Andreas Kesselring of the German intelligence agency? Isn't he due in at JFK about now?"
Bowie grinned. "Yep, he surely is. I sent Special Agent Dolores Cliff to pick him up. She's got quite a talent for prying information out of people. Give her an oyster and she'll come away with the pearl. By the time she gets him back here, he'll have told her the color of his underwear and what he bought his wife for her birthday."
When they pulled into the parking lot of the Stone Bridge Police Department five minutes later, Bowie was rubbing his hands together with anticipation. "Caskie Royal's got to be scared spitless at this official invitation to cop central."
"Particularly since that woman has material that could fry his butt as well as the collective butts of the higher-ups in Schiffer Hartwin," Sherlock said. "But you know, it's Blauvelt who's the key. It all comes back to him and why he was here."
17
STONE BRIDGE, CONNECTICUT
Tuesday morning
Savich watched Caskie Royal come into the conference room, two Schiffer Hartwin lawyers following close on his heels. If the older man had worn a robe and sported a beard, he'd have looked like some medieval alchemist. His eyes were intense, his look resolute, ready to take on the devil himself. It had to be Bender the Elder, Savich thought. As for the younger lawyer, he was an interesting mix of apprentice and hip professional in his electric yellow tie and conservative suit. Royal looked like the successful CEO he was, in a lightweight gray suit, pristine white shirt, and sharp Italian loafers, the look both understated and expensive, sure to impress those lower on the food chain. He looked both angry and harried.
The alchemist took a pair of aviator glasses from his breast pocket and put them on his long narrow nose, adding at least fifty IQ points to the package. Savich watched him lightly touch a white hand to Royal's shoulder, lean close to whisper something in his ear. Royal jerked, gave the lawyer a searching look, then nodded slowly.
There was no hand-shaking, only curt nods to accompany the introductions, the barest sheen of civility. Both Harold Bender and Andrew Toms settled in, each withdrawing a yellow pad from their leather briefcases, expensive pens at the ready.
Bowie took papers out of his own briefcase, ignoring them for a good minute. He smiled when he finally looked up at Caskie Royal and his lawyers. "We appreciate you gentlemen coming in on this fine day." He leaned forward, and the smile fell off his face. "We are, as you all know, investigating the murder Sunday night
Savich said, "Question is, what does she do with the files now that Blauvelt got himself murdered right out back at about the same time? Even if she didn't have anything to do with Blauvelt's murder herself, she's got to be scared. She's got to be praying we'll find the murderer soon so she'll be free to act."
Bowie said, "Or maybe she murdered Blauvelt, before or after she copied some files."
Savich said slowly, "She knew what she wanted, that's for sure. She wouldn't risk breaking in on a fishing expedition. I'll bet the German bosses are very well aware of what she copied by now, but without a direct link to the murder, we don't have a chance of talking anyone into a warrant." He swished the tea leaves at the bottom of his cup, and looked thoughtful.
Sherlock knew that look and smiled. "We've got to find her, see what's she's got before we arrest her for breaking and entering. I'm thinking once we know that, we'll know why Blauvelt was here."
Bowie looked out the window to see an ancient pink Cadillac cruise down High Street. "I'm not so sure about that. There doesn't necessarily have to be a tie-in."
"Maybe not," Sherlock said, "but somehow, it just feels right, like it's all part of the whole." She looked down at her watch. "Bowie, what about that German policeman? Andreas Kesselring of the German intelligence agency? Isn't he due in at JFK about now?"
Bowie grinned. "Yep, he surely is. I sent Special Agent Dolores Cliff to pick him up. She's got quite a talent for prying information out of people. Give her an oyster and she'll come away with the pearl. By the time she gets him back here, he'll have told her the color of his underwear and what he bought his wife for her birthday."
When they pulled into the parking lot of the Stone Bridge Police Department five minutes later, Bowie was rubbing his hands together with anticipation. "Caskie Royal's got to be scared spitless at this official invitation to cop central."
"Particularly since that woman has material that could fry his butt as well as the collective butts of the higher-ups in Schiffer Hartwin," Sherlock said. "But you know, it's Blauvelt who's the key. It all comes back to him and why he was here."
17
STONE BRIDGE, CONNECTICUT
Tuesday morning
Savich watched Caskie Royal come into the conference room, two Schiffer Hartwin lawyers following close on his heels. If the older man had worn a robe and sported a beard, he'd have looked like some medieval alchemist. His eyes were intense, his look resolute, ready to take on the devil himself. It had to be Bender the Elder, Savich thought. As for the younger lawyer, he was an interesting mix of apprentice and hip professional in his electric yellow tie and conservative suit. Royal looked like the successful CEO he was, in a lightweight gray suit, pristine white shirt, and sharp Italian loafers, the look both understated and expensive, sure to impress those lower on the food chain. He looked both angry and harried.
The alchemist took a pair of aviator glasses from his breast pocket and put them on his long narrow nose, adding at least fifty IQ points to the package. Savich watched him lightly touch a white hand to Royal's shoulder, lean close to whisper something in his ear. Royal jerked, gave the lawyer a searching look, then nodded slowly.
There was no hand-shaking, only curt nods to accompany the introductions, the barest sheen of civility. Both Harold Bender and Andrew Toms settled in, each withdrawing a yellow pad from their leather briefcases, expensive pens at the ready.
Bowie took papers out of his own briefcase, ignoring them for a good minute. He smiled when he finally looked up at Caskie Royal and his lawyers. "We appreciate you gentlemen coming in on this fine day." He leaned forward, and the smile fell off his face. "We are, as you all know, investigating the murder Sunday night
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