“Shit. With all this extra cash coming in, he was sucking in almost eighty grand a year,” Marino said. “Not bad.”
Wesley left the printer and walked over to where I stood.
He quietly placed a page in my hand.
“The obituary for Dwain Shapiro,” he said. “Washington Post, October sixteenth of last year.”
The article was brief and simply stated that Shapiro had been a mechanic at a Ford dealership in D.C., and was shot to death in a carjacking while on his way home from a bar late at night. He was survived by people who lived nowhere near Virginia, and the New Zionists were not mentioned.
“Eddings didn’t write this,” I said. “A reporter for the Post did.”
“Then how did he get the Book?” Marino said. “And why the hell was it under his bed?”
“He might have been reading it,” I answered simply.
“And maybe he didn’t want anyone else-a housekeeper, for example-to see it.”
“These are notes now.” Lucy was engrossed in the screen, opening one file after another and hitting the print command. “Okay, now we’re getting to the good stuff.
Damn.” She was getting excited as text scrolled by and the LaserJet hummed and clicked. “How wild.” She stopped what she was doing and turned around to Wesley.
“He’s got all this stuff about North Korea mixed in with info about Joel Hand and the New Zionists.”
“What about North Korea?” He was reading pages while Marino went through another drawer.
“The problem our government had with theirs several years ago when they were trying to make weapons-grade plutonium at one of their nuclear power plants.”
“Supposedly, Hand is very interested in fusion, energy, that sort of thing,” I said.
“There’s an allusion to that in the Book.”
“Okay,” said Wesley, “then maybe this is just a big profile on him. Or better stated, the raw makings of a big piece on him.”
“Why would Eddings delete the file of a big article he had not yet finished?” I wanted to know. “And is it a coincidence that he did this the night he died?”
“That could be consistent with someone planning to commit suicide,” Wesley said.
“And we really can’t be certain he didn’t do that.”
“Right,” Lucy said. “He wipes out all his work so that after he’s gone, no one’s going to see anything he doesn’t want them to see. Then he stages his death to look like an accident. Maybe it mattered a lot to him that people not think he killed himself.”
“A strong possibility,” Wesley agreed. “He may have been involved in something he couldn’t get out of, thus explaining the money wired to his bank account every month.
Or he could have suffered from depression or from an intense personal loss that we know nothing of.”
“Someone else could have deleted the files and taken any backup disks or printouts,” I said. “Someone may have done this after he was already dead.”
“Then this person had a key, knew codes and combinations,” he said. “He knew Eddings wasn’t home and wasn’t going to be.” He glanced up at me.
“Yes,” I said.
“That’s pretty complicated.”
“This case is very complicated,” I said, “but I can tell you with certainty that if Eddings were poisoned underwater with cyanide gas, he could not have done this to
himself And I want to know why he had so many guns. I want to know why the one he was carrying in his johnboat has a Birdsong coating and was loaded with KTWs.”
Wesley glanced again at me, and his unflappability was hitting me hard. “Certainly, one could view his survivalist tendencies as an indicator of instability,” he said.
“Or fear of being murdered,” I said.
Then we went into that room. Submachine guns were on a rack on the wall, and pistols, revolvers and ammunition were inside the Browning safe that police had opened this morning. Ted Eddings had equipped a small bedroom with an arbor press, digital scale, case trimmer, reloading dies and everything else needed to keep him in cartridges. Copper tubing and primers were stored in a drawer. Gunpowder was in an old military case, and it seemed he had been fond of laser sights and spotting scopes.