Simple Genius

“Not really. He wasn’t big on me being a cop actually.”

“And how’d that make you feel?”

“I understood. Daddy’s little girl and all. My mom didn’t like any of us being cops. But I did it anyway. I’m sort of independent.”

“You’ll be stunned to learn that one I’d already diagnosed,” Horatio said.

“So I take it you love your parents very much?”

“I’d do anything for them.”

Horatio looked a bit curious at this statement. “Would you give me permission to talk to them about you?”

“Not my parents, no!”

“How about one of your brothers?”

“You can talk to Bill, he’s the oldest, a state trooper in Florida.”

“Whatever you wish, milady.”

“I wish I wasn’t here,” Michelle blurted out.

“You can leave anytime you want. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“You can leave right now, get up and walk out. If that’s what you want. Get the hell on with your independent life. No one’s stopping you. There’s the door.”

There was a long moment of silence and then she said, “I think I’ll stay, for now.”

“I think that’s an excellent choice, Michelle.”

After they finished their discussion Michelle followed Horatio out. As they stood in the doorway Barry walked by, but didn’t look at them.

Michelle said, “What do you know about that guy?”

“Not much. Why?”

“Just curious.”

“Now why don’t I believe that?”

“You doubting my word, Horatio?”

“I was thinking of a more technical phrase, like liar, liar, pants on fire.”

CHAPTER 11

BEALE PENINSULA IS A WEDGE of land that juts out into the York River on the Gloucester County side midway between Clay Bank and Wicomico in Virginia’s picturesque Tidewater. Like much of Virginia, Beale had been settled early in colonial times. It was filled with the first glories of the new country that over a century later would become the United States. Less than ten miles to the south, at Yorktown in 1781, British General Cornwallis had turned both his sword and thousands of humbled redcoats over to George Washington’s ragtag Continental Army. This effectively ended the American War for Independence on a distinctly high note for the victorious yanks, who, up until that point, had rarely seen a battle they could not somehow manage to lose in the end.

From the cleared fields of those early days had risen magnificent brick and clapboard plantations that depended on legions of slaves to run them properly. Less than a hundred years later, depleted soil and the Civil War ended these sleepy days of southern aristocracy forever.

A second wave of prosperity hit when the newly minted wealth of the Industrial Age found its way to this tranquil spot on the York, enticed by its clean water, good fishing, temperate climate and pastoral setting. It was also deemed a restorative place for those with consumption, due to its low elevation and water breezes and abundance of longleaf yellow pine that was thought to be good for tubercular lungs. And once one or two of these exalted families began putting down expensive roots, others had quickly followed.

For this reason, at its peak, six private railway lines stretched down from the north and three more from the west terminating at this doughy fist of Virginia red clay with its steady river breezes.

Now, years later, a few of these palaces had been turned into bed-andbreakfasts or small hotels. The majority though, like the southern plantations before them, had fallen into ruins, which at least provided adventure-filled places for the children to roam during the long, humid days of a Tidewater summer.

Directly across the river on the York County side the United States government’s imprint was heavy with Camp Peary, next to a naval supply center and a weapons station. Together this triumvirate took up the entire waterfront from Yorktown to on past Lightfoot, Virginia. It was said that the folks at Camp Peary, an ultra-secretive training center for CIA agents and nicknamed the “Farm,” had technology that could discern a person’s eye color from across the wide river in the dead of night. And it was also accepted as fact by the locals that every person who had ever come within a four-mile radius of the place had been spied on from outer space. No one had proven that this was so, but it was very much true that no visitor ever left the area without hearing that story at least three times.

Beale had endured the ups and downs of the economy and the whims of the rich, while its more moderately well-off citizens went about their ordinary lives in ways that occurred throughout much of the country. That was so except for one recent development in the area.

And that was a place called Babbage Town.

Sean King’s small plane landed smoothly on the asphalt of the lone runway and came to a stop, its twin props winding down. A slate blue Hummer pulled up to the aircraft and a young, lanky black man in a private security uniform got out and helped Sean with his bags.