Distant Thunder

7

Stone was at his desk the following morning when Joan buzzed. “Two gentlemen in suits and ties,” she said. “They flashed badges.”

“Send them in, I guess.”

Joan led two men into his office. Stone looked them over: too well dressed to be NYPD. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said. “What can I do for the FBI today?”

They exchanged glances. “We’d like to ask you a few questions,” one of them said.

Stone waved them to seats. “Coffee?”

Both shook their heads.

“Okay, shoot,” Stone said, then raised his hands. “Though not literally.”

“We believe you are acquainted with a gentleman called John Collins.”

“At this point, no one is acquainted with Mr. Collins,” Stone said.

The two exchanged another glance.

“We believe he was a guest in your home in Maine a few days ago.”

Stone smiled. “Not exactly,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that Mr. Collins was more the guest of the Maine State Police, and he spent a night on the floor of my garage, packed in ice, awaiting transport to their ME.”

They both stared at Stone blankly.

“Were you gentlemen not aware that Mr. Collins is deceased?”

“We were asked to investigate a murder and were given his name simply as a starting point, not as the victim.”

“Your superiors really should try to keep up, instead of wasting your time.”

“We were wondering why we were asked to investigate a murder, since that is not a federal crime.”

“It was in this case, because Mr. Collins was a federal employee. Still, not knowing that he was dead was rather a serious oversight.”

“Do you know how Mr. Collins met his death?”

“He was shot twice in the head while aboard the ferry that runs from Lincolnville, Maine, to the island of Islesboro. There seemed to be some doubt as to when his death occurred. I’m afraid I don’t have any further knowledge than that.”

“Do you know what part of the federal government employed Mr. Collins?”

“I was led to believe that it was the Central Intelligence Agency.”

They exchanged yet another glance.

“For further information,” Stone said, “I refer you to Mr. Lance Cabot, director of the CIA. He’s at Langley, except when he wishes to be elsewhere. I happen to know that he was in New York last evening.”

“And how would you know that?”

“Because we share a mutual acquaintance who would know.”

“Who was?”

“I’m afraid that is confidential.”

“And where are Mr. Collins’s remains?”

“At the bottom of the sea,” Stone said. “They were scattered by his widow yesterday, I believe.”

“We won’t trouble you further, then,” one of the men said. “Thank you for your assistance.” They stood and left.

Joan came in. “What did they want?”

“They didn’t seem to know,” Stone replied. “I had to explain it to them.”

“Lance Cabot is on one.”

Stone picked up the phone. “Lance,” he said, “what a surprise!”

“Have you heard from the FBI about our mutual acquaintance?”

“They just left, knowing little more than when they arrived,” Stone replied. “And I think ‘acquaintance’ is a bit of a stretch, when one of the two parties got dead early in the game, a fact of which the two FBI gentlemen had not been apprised by their superiors.”

“They never cease to surprise me,” Lance said.

“Before you go, Lance, I would be grateful if you would explain why John Collins was in Maine on your instructions and why you don’t want anybody to know that.”

“I compartmentalize,” Lance replied, “and Mr. Collins and everybody else were in different compartments.”

“Is there any other information about the man that you would like me to disseminate the next time I’m asked about him?”

Lance seemed to think for a moment. “I believe not,” he said, then hung up.

Stone buzzed Joan.

“Yes, sir?”

“Joan, if you should receive any calls from people seeking information about one John Collins, please deny all knowledge of him and hang up.”

“Got it,” she said.