Straits of Fortune - Anthony Gagliano [64]
“I’m sorry,” Hackbart said. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Jack Vaughn,” I said, hoping that my name—at least as of yet—would mean nothing to him.
“I see. You’re…”
“A friend. I just flew in from Rochester this afternoon. I didn’t think Sue would call the FBI on me so soon though.” I glanced over at Susan and grinned. “Say, you guys want a beer?”
Hackbart looked at me with an expression that was nearly sympathetic.
“None for me,” he said. I had succeeded in diluting his suspicions. He turned back to Susan.
“May I sit down?” he asked.
“Of course.”
Hackbart told his men to wait downstairs. After they left, he sat in one of the wicker chairs that flanked the coffee table.
“Would that be Rochester, New York?” he asked.
“No, sir, Rochester, Minnesota. You know, where the clinic is.”
“Clinic?”
“Sure, the Mayo Clinic.”
Susan came back and sat in the other wicker chair. Hackbart wanted me out of there, but he couldn’t think of a polite way to say so. He scanned my face as though trying to assess the exact degree of my stupidity, whether I in any way posed a risk to his investigation. Then he turned his attention back to Susan.
“You know a DEA agent named Harry Duncan?” Hackbart asked.
Susan almost glanced at me then but caught herself just in time. Still, I think Hackbart sensed something. He gave me the stare treatment again. I pretended not to notice.
“We worked together when I was with the D.A.’s office,” Susan told him. “What of it?”
“When was the last time you saw him?” Hackbart asked.
“That’s not exactly an answer to my question.”
Hackbart smiled. “I forgot. You’re an attorney. You’re the one who gets to ask all the questions, right? Okay, Duncan’s under investigation. Your name was in his Rolodex. He also sent you a half dozen or so e-mails asking you for a date. As far as we could tell from your replies, that never happened, but even so, we need to check you out. You understand that, don’t you?”
Susan took a chocolate from a box on the table and began to unwrap it. She looked over the nougat, then popped it into her mouth. She was still buying time, trying to get it together.
“You must have seized his computer to know all this,” she said. “What kind of investigation are we talking about here?”
Hackbart didn’t answer. He was back to giving me the once-over. The best cops are nearly psychic in their ability to catch even the slightest fluctuation in a person’s demeanor, and unfortunately for me, Hackbart was of them.
“May I ask how long you’ll be in Miami, Mr. Vaughn?” Hackbart asked.
“I head down to the Keys tomorrow. Gonna do a little snorkeling, a little fishing. Then I’m off to Costa Rica for some windsurfing.”
“I see,” he said. “You understand that everything you hear tonight is confidential? Otherwise I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
“Look, Hackbart,” Susan said, “you can’t come into my house and tell anybody what to do. Understand? You want to talk to me alone? Fine. I’ll come by the Bureau tomorrow. I know where it is. If you don’t know where Duncan is, then neither do I. In which case neither of us is of any use to the other. Now if you have something to ask, ask, but don’t be rude to my friends.”
“Uh-oh,” I said, “now you’ve made her mad! Better get your gun out, sir!”
Hackbart was silent for a moment. “All right, I apologize. Let’s start over. Did Mr. Duncan ever speak with you about his work?”
“What else do feds talk about when they’re working together?”
“How long have you known him?”
“About a year. He testified in some of the cases back when I was with the D.A.”
“Did he ever tell you where he was born?” Hackbart asked.
“I think he mentioned New Jersey, Union City. Maybe Newark. Someplace like that.”
“I don’t think