Get me something .” She spread her hands.
“That’s enough,” Sinclair said sharply. “All of you.”
Polk folded his arms on the table. Pouting.
Shaking her head, Casey took the seat across from me, giving me a brief, wry smile as she settled in.
“Let’s not forget why we’re here, people,” Sinclair said calmly. Then, turning to me: “Dr. Rinaldi, Sergeant Polk and Detective Lowrey reported the details of their interview with you last night. Including the conclusion you all came to regarding the killer’s intended target.”
“Me,” I said. “Right?”
“A reasonable assumption, given the evidence. And believe me, we’re not ruling that scenario out.”
“That’s right,” Biegler said. He rubbed his thin nose. “But there’s also a second possibility, which I think we ought to keep on the table.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “That’s the one where I’m the killer.”
Sinclair smiled patiently. “We have to look at everyone, Doctor. That’s how it works.”
“Then maybe I ought to shut up and call a lawyer,” I said evenly. “That’s part of how it works, too.”
Sinclair and I exchanged cool looks. I got the feeling he figured there was room for only one alpha male in this particular patch of jungle, and he was it.
Angie reached over and tapped my arm. “Cool it, Danny. Nobody here seriously thinks you did it.”
“Not too seriously, anyway,” Polk grumbled. He sat glumly under a “No Smoking” sign, meticulously tearing an empty Camel pack into tiny pieces.
Lt. Biegler shifted nervously in his seat. “Listen, we’re getting off the friggin’ track here. Right now, the killer isn’t the problem. It’s the victim.”
I looked from Biegler to Sinclair. “Speaking of which, I hear my patient’s name is not Kevin Merrick…?”
Casey Walters spoke for the first time since sitting down. She aimed her blue eyes at me.
“His name may very well be Merrick. At least, that’s what he’s called himself for years.”
She checked the file folder she’d just drawn from her slender briefcase. “It’s the name on his driver’s license, credit cards, everything. Maybe he even had his name legally changed to Merrick. But if so, it wasn’t in this state. We’re on that already, though it’ll take some time. The point is, Merrick wasn’t the name he had at birth, or when he was growing up in Banford.”
“So what was his name?”
“Wingfield. Same as his father’s.”
I started, letting the name sink in. “Now you’re going to tell me—”
“That’s right. Kevin’s father is Miles Wingfield, founder and CEO of Wingfield BioTech. Cutting-edge genetic research, facilities worldwide. Real media magnet, too. Covers of Time, Newsweek, you name it. CNN devoted a whole hour to him. Personal worth conservatively estimated at six to seven billion.”
“Jesus,” Polk said, though it was more like a moan.
“Yeah,” Lowrey said wryly, “but is he really happy?”
Biegler snorted. “I’d say goddam ecstatic. Guy’s sixty-five years old, he goes through supermodels like Kleenex. Throw in the dozen houses, fleet of jets, and his very own island, and I’d say, yeah, definitely feeling pretty damn good about life when he gets up in the morning.”
“All right, children.” Sinclair shook his head. “Now that we’ve genuflected before Wingfield’s wealth and celebrity, let’s not lose sight of the real issue. Namely, the cost of having him as an adversary.”
I could guess what was coming next.
“He’s putting the pressure on to find Kevin’s killer.”
“Pressure?” Biegler grimaced. “Like Def-Com Four. Wingfield hears about it on the news, realizes it’s his kid, and starts making phone calls—”
“Which is how we found out who your patient really was,” Casey explained to me.
“Wingfield called the White House, for God’s sake,” Angie said. “Then the Governor’s mansion. He woke the mayor up at five this morning.”
“Who called
“That’s enough,” Sinclair said sharply. “All of you.”
Polk folded his arms on the table. Pouting.
Shaking her head, Casey took the seat across from me, giving me a brief, wry smile as she settled in.
“Let’s not forget why we’re here, people,” Sinclair said calmly. Then, turning to me: “Dr. Rinaldi, Sergeant Polk and Detective Lowrey reported the details of their interview with you last night. Including the conclusion you all came to regarding the killer’s intended target.”
“Me,” I said. “Right?”
“A reasonable assumption, given the evidence. And believe me, we’re not ruling that scenario out.”
“That’s right,” Biegler said. He rubbed his thin nose. “But there’s also a second possibility, which I think we ought to keep on the table.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “That’s the one where I’m the killer.”
Sinclair smiled patiently. “We have to look at everyone, Doctor. That’s how it works.”
“Then maybe I ought to shut up and call a lawyer,” I said evenly. “That’s part of how it works, too.”
Sinclair and I exchanged cool looks. I got the feeling he figured there was room for only one alpha male in this particular patch of jungle, and he was it.
Angie reached over and tapped my arm. “Cool it, Danny. Nobody here seriously thinks you did it.”
“Not too seriously, anyway,” Polk grumbled. He sat glumly under a “No Smoking” sign, meticulously tearing an empty Camel pack into tiny pieces.
Lt. Biegler shifted nervously in his seat. “Listen, we’re getting off the friggin’ track here. Right now, the killer isn’t the problem. It’s the victim.”
I looked from Biegler to Sinclair. “Speaking of which, I hear my patient’s name is not Kevin Merrick…?”
Casey Walters spoke for the first time since sitting down. She aimed her blue eyes at me.
“His name may very well be Merrick. At least, that’s what he’s called himself for years.”
She checked the file folder she’d just drawn from her slender briefcase. “It’s the name on his driver’s license, credit cards, everything. Maybe he even had his name legally changed to Merrick. But if so, it wasn’t in this state. We’re on that already, though it’ll take some time. The point is, Merrick wasn’t the name he had at birth, or when he was growing up in Banford.”
“So what was his name?”
“Wingfield. Same as his father’s.”
I started, letting the name sink in. “Now you’re going to tell me—”
“That’s right. Kevin’s father is Miles Wingfield, founder and CEO of Wingfield BioTech. Cutting-edge genetic research, facilities worldwide. Real media magnet, too. Covers of Time, Newsweek, you name it. CNN devoted a whole hour to him. Personal worth conservatively estimated at six to seven billion.”
“Jesus,” Polk said, though it was more like a moan.
“Yeah,” Lowrey said wryly, “but is he really happy?”
Biegler snorted. “I’d say goddam ecstatic. Guy’s sixty-five years old, he goes through supermodels like Kleenex. Throw in the dozen houses, fleet of jets, and his very own island, and I’d say, yeah, definitely feeling pretty damn good about life when he gets up in the morning.”
“All right, children.” Sinclair shook his head. “Now that we’ve genuflected before Wingfield’s wealth and celebrity, let’s not lose sight of the real issue. Namely, the cost of having him as an adversary.”
I could guess what was coming next.
“He’s putting the pressure on to find Kevin’s killer.”
“Pressure?” Biegler grimaced. “Like Def-Com Four. Wingfield hears about it on the news, realizes it’s his kid, and starts making phone calls—”
“Which is how we found out who your patient really was,” Casey explained to me.
“Wingfield called the White House, for God’s sake,” Angie said. “Then the Governor’s mansion. He woke the mayor up at five this morning.”
“Who called
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