agitator.
Sacco returned and pointed mutely toward the rear. Alex Weller stood at his corner office door, arms folded, forcing a smile. He was tall and lanky, late thirties, hair pulled into a hippie ponytail, casual in jeans, pullover and running shoes. To Cyrus’s ear he had an unvarnished British accent, like Ringo’s. He launched into a voluble barrage. “Davis Fox passed along your message. Welcome. Should I call you Mister O’Malley, Agent O’Malley, or Cyrus?”
Cyrus bristled at the way Weller was trying to take charge. “It’s Special Agent O’Malley.”
The tall man shrugged in a suit-yourself way. “Well, I’m more informal. I’m just Alex.”
Alex closed the door, offered a chair and squeezed back behind his desk. The airless office was impossibly small, so jammed with journals and papers as to be almost comical.
“Sorry for the mess,” he said, resting his feet on the one bare patch of desktop. The sneaker soles were worn from serious roadwork. “I don’t know how I can help. As I said, I already spoke with the police.”
Cyrus awkwardly stripped off his overcoat without standing up and let it drape back over the chair. “You were the last person to speak with Thomas Quinn on his mobile. I’m hoping you can be of further assistance to the investigation.”
“Has there been any progress?”
“I’d say yes,” he replied enigmatically, trying to ferret out some kind of response, verbal or nonverbal; but Alex was impassive. “I want you to walk me through your last phone calls with Thomas. That Thursday you spoke with him at three-fifteen for about a minute and again at five-twenty for three minutes.”
Cyrus detected a smirk of sorts. “Glad to; but first, I’m curious why the FBI would be involved. I grew up in Britain so perhaps I don’t understand these things as well as I should.”
He wasn’t about to humor him so he replied curtly, “The police asked for our help. The phone calls?”
Alex shrugged again and told him that both calls involved planning for their next Saturday meeting. Thomas helped organize biweekly salons at his house. They had discussed who was coming, the ever important matter of refreshments, and whether they would have a guest speaker. As memory served him, their first call was interrupted when Thomas had to take care of something in the recovery room, and the second call, a continuation of the first occurred during Thomas’s evening commute.
Had he seen Thomas in person at any time on Thursday or Friday? Alex said no, emphatically.
Cyrus looked at his notepad. He had written the word
salon
in capital letters and had underlined it twice. “Tell me about these salons. What are they?”
Alex gestured grandly as if he were about to impart a great teaching. “Well, a salon is a gathering of like-minded intellectuals who meet to—”
Cyrus cut him off irritably. “
Your
salons. What do
you
like-minded intellectuals discuss at
your
house?”
Alex innocently smiled back. “My friends and I are interested in all manner of topics relating to philosophy, religion, and biology. Specifically, we share a fascination in cultural concepts of the afterlife. It’s a subject I’ve been toying with ever since my university days. Several years ago I founded a small private society, the Uroboros Society—no more than an informal salon, really—to stimulate discussions.”
“What does that mean,
Uroboros
?”
“It’s an ancient mythological symbol, the serpent swallowing its own tail. It represents eternal return, life after death, self-renewal; immortality. It may sound pretentious, I know—and believe me, I’m not a pretentious bloke—but it encapsulates the scope of our interests.”
“Immortality and life after death. Is that what neuroscientists think about in their spare time?”
“This one does. The intersection between science, philosophy, and religion is blurred but fascinating. I’m immersed in that intersection.”
“What kind of
Sacco returned and pointed mutely toward the rear. Alex Weller stood at his corner office door, arms folded, forcing a smile. He was tall and lanky, late thirties, hair pulled into a hippie ponytail, casual in jeans, pullover and running shoes. To Cyrus’s ear he had an unvarnished British accent, like Ringo’s. He launched into a voluble barrage. “Davis Fox passed along your message. Welcome. Should I call you Mister O’Malley, Agent O’Malley, or Cyrus?”
Cyrus bristled at the way Weller was trying to take charge. “It’s Special Agent O’Malley.”
The tall man shrugged in a suit-yourself way. “Well, I’m more informal. I’m just Alex.”
Alex closed the door, offered a chair and squeezed back behind his desk. The airless office was impossibly small, so jammed with journals and papers as to be almost comical.
“Sorry for the mess,” he said, resting his feet on the one bare patch of desktop. The sneaker soles were worn from serious roadwork. “I don’t know how I can help. As I said, I already spoke with the police.”
Cyrus awkwardly stripped off his overcoat without standing up and let it drape back over the chair. “You were the last person to speak with Thomas Quinn on his mobile. I’m hoping you can be of further assistance to the investigation.”
“Has there been any progress?”
“I’d say yes,” he replied enigmatically, trying to ferret out some kind of response, verbal or nonverbal; but Alex was impassive. “I want you to walk me through your last phone calls with Thomas. That Thursday you spoke with him at three-fifteen for about a minute and again at five-twenty for three minutes.”
Cyrus detected a smirk of sorts. “Glad to; but first, I’m curious why the FBI would be involved. I grew up in Britain so perhaps I don’t understand these things as well as I should.”
He wasn’t about to humor him so he replied curtly, “The police asked for our help. The phone calls?”
Alex shrugged again and told him that both calls involved planning for their next Saturday meeting. Thomas helped organize biweekly salons at his house. They had discussed who was coming, the ever important matter of refreshments, and whether they would have a guest speaker. As memory served him, their first call was interrupted when Thomas had to take care of something in the recovery room, and the second call, a continuation of the first occurred during Thomas’s evening commute.
Had he seen Thomas in person at any time on Thursday or Friday? Alex said no, emphatically.
Cyrus looked at his notepad. He had written the word
salon
in capital letters and had underlined it twice. “Tell me about these salons. What are they?”
Alex gestured grandly as if he were about to impart a great teaching. “Well, a salon is a gathering of like-minded intellectuals who meet to—”
Cyrus cut him off irritably. “
Your
salons. What do
you
like-minded intellectuals discuss at
your
house?”
Alex innocently smiled back. “My friends and I are interested in all manner of topics relating to philosophy, religion, and biology. Specifically, we share a fascination in cultural concepts of the afterlife. It’s a subject I’ve been toying with ever since my university days. Several years ago I founded a small private society, the Uroboros Society—no more than an informal salon, really—to stimulate discussions.”
“What does that mean,
Uroboros
?”
“It’s an ancient mythological symbol, the serpent swallowing its own tail. It represents eternal return, life after death, self-renewal; immortality. It may sound pretentious, I know—and believe me, I’m not a pretentious bloke—but it encapsulates the scope of our interests.”
“Immortality and life after death. Is that what neuroscientists think about in their spare time?”
“This one does. The intersection between science, philosophy, and religion is blurred but fascinating. I’m immersed in that intersection.”
“What kind of
Similar Books
