The Tree of Knowledge Daniel Miller (best android ereader TXT) 📖

ignore the mob as he entered the station, but their ridiculous questions still seeped into his brain: “Did you see this coming? Did you identify the attacker’s face? Was al-Qaeda involved?”

Weatherspoon had answered with a curt “No,” “No,” and “What are you, an idiot?”

Things got worse as he entered the station. A daunting barricade of balloons, flowers, and get-well cards surrounded his desk, and every person in the station felt the need to check in on his health and emotional well-being.

The men said things like “How you feelin’, champ?” or “Man, if I ever get my hands on the guy who did this . . .” The women asked, “Are you alright, sweetheart? We were so worried about you” or offered encouragement: “I’m sure you’ll track down the murderer in no time.”

The one good thing about all these balloons is at least now I’ve got a place to hide out.

The detective’s hope vanished when he saw a long, suit-clad arm reach through the sea of balloons. Weatherspoon glanced up to see what fool dared to break his balloon wall of peace.

In front of his desk stood a young, short, clean-cut blond man in a modern, overly tight blue suit. The man wore black Wayfarer sunglasses despite the dim lighting inside the station. A woman in an all-black pants suit with dark, luminescent eyes stood to his left.

“Detective Weatherspoon?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Special Agent Scott Beel. FBI. Do you have a moment?”

“Do I have a choice?”

The agent smirked. “Not really.” He pulled up a chair, but spun it around backward so that he was straddling the front. The woman in black quietly sat down next to him and placed her fedora on his desk.

“Detective, we have reason to believe that the gentleman who attacked your police station the other day is the same man who robbed the Bank of Princeton, and whom we also suspect of other related crimes.”

“Oh really,” said Weatherspoon, raising an eyebrow. “And who do you think this man is?”

The agent slid his chair closer to Weatherspoon’s desk and leaned in. “I think you already know.”

Weatherspoon leaned right back. “I might, but I’d like to hear you tell me.”

Eva sighed, stretching out one Chanel-clad foot and flexing it. Men—they always have to have their little playground turf wars. “Detective, we believe that a Princeton professor named Albert Puddles has stolen several national treasures and is responsible for the murder at the bank.”

“I’m sorry, who are you?” asked Weatherspoon, growing increasingly uncomfortable with the exchange. The woman was neither intimidated by the setting nor appropriately businesslike. In fact, she wore an expression of faint amusement, as if the station were her playground.

“My name is Eva Fix. I’m the head of security for Fix Industries. We believe that Dr. Puddles has stolen numerous pieces of our intellectual property. We have been working closely with the FBI on this case and have a major interest in determining his whereabouts.”

“I’m sure you do,” said Weatherspoon evenly, rising from his swivel chair, which spun and slid a half-dozen inches. “Would you two excuse me for a minute?”

The detective stormed into his captain’s office and slammed the door.

“Pete, what the hell are they doing here?” he shouted, pointing at the two unwelcome visitors through the clear office.

Captain Willard glanced up from his paperwork and took off his glasses. He massaged the bridge of his nose with his bony forefinger. “Who’s ‘they’?”

“You know who I’m talking about. Sonny and Cher sitting at my desk.”

The captain grumbled and returned his eyes to his paperwork. “Some big muckety-mucks in DC want this case resolved, so they sent an agent down. Just play nice and keep them in the loop.”

“But don’t you think it’s a little odd that an FBI agent and a defense contractor are taking an interest in a murder-burglary here?”

The captain had known Michael Weatherspoon long enough to sense that the detective wasn’t going to go away until he got his full attention, so once again, he took off his glasses, stood up, put both hands on the table, and leaned over with a full glare. His bright-blue eyes held Weatherspoon’s.

“Look, of course I think it’s odd. But apparently this guy Puddles has stolen defense secrets, so she and the FBI are very interested. I don’t know the details, and quite frankly, I don’t want to know. All they’re asking right now is for us to keep them informed so that they can be helpful if necessary. And since the professor has probably crossed state lines, we’re likely going to need them anyway.”

Weatherspoon knew when his friend was pulling rank. “OK, but I’m telling you, Pete, there’s something going on here.”

The captain just grunted and returned to his reports.

Weatherspoon stomped back to his desk, but continued standing so that his visitors knew that the conversation was over. Through gritted teeth, he stated, “I appreciate you two coming down. I will be sure to keep you in the loop.” He handed out two business cards from the stack on his desk. “Here’s my card. Please feel free to call me if you need anything.” Then he made his face as blank and forbidding as he could to make sure they knew he didn’t mean a word of it.

The detective watched Agent Beel open his mouth in protest, and then shut it like a mousetrap with the simple touch of Eva Fix’s hand on his shoulder.

The woman in black cracked a gentle smile. “Thank you so much for your time, Detective. We’ll get out of your hair now.”

The former offensive tackle reclaimed his desk chair and watched the odd couple exit the station.

Something’s not right there.

Outside the station, Agent Beel fumed. “Why did you let him run over us like that?”

Eva just kept walking to the car without looking back. “Because that old cop wasn’t going to let us in without a lot of effort and time that we don’t have. Besides, we’ve got his cell phone number, which is all we need. Haven’t you and the boys down at the FBI