Plum Island Read Online Free PDF

illuminating me and the front of the house. Video cameras
     rolled, reporters called out to me. Just like old times. I coughed into my hand in case the disability board was watching,
     not to mention my ex-wife.
    A uniformed cop from the backyard caught up to me, and we got into a marked Southold Township PD, and off we went. He said
     his name was Bob Johnson, and he asked me, “What do you think, Detective?”
    “They were murdered.”
    “Yeah, no kidding.” He hesitated, then inquired, “Hey, do you think it has to do with Plum Island or not?”
    “Not.”
    “Tell you what—I’ve seen burglaries, and this wasn’t burglary. It was supposed to look like a burglary, but it was a search—you
     know? They were looking for something.”
    “I didn’t look inside.”
    “Germs.” He glanced at me. “Germs. Biological warfare germs. That’s what I think. Right?”
    I made no reply.
    Johnson continued, “That’s what happened to the ice chest. I heard you say that.”
    Again, I made no reply.
    “There were vials or something in the chest. Right? I mean, Jesus Christ, there could be enough stuff out there to wipe out
     Long Island … New York City.”
    Probably the planet, Bob, depending on which kind of bug it was and how much could be grown from the original stuff.
    I leaned toward Officer Johnson and held his arm to get his attention. I said, “Do not breathe one fucking word of this to
     anyone.
Do you understand?
”
    He nodded.
    We drove in silence back to my place.

C HAPTER 3
    E veryone needs a hangout, at least guys do. When I’m in the city, I hang out at the National Arts Club and sip sherry with
     people of culture and refinement. My ex-wife had trouble believing that, too.
    When I’m out here, I frequent a place called the Olde Towne Taverne, though I usually avoid places with that many silent “e’s.”
     I think the government should allocate one thousand silent “e’s” to New England and Long Island, and when they’re used up,
     no one can have any more. Anyway, the Olde Towne Taverne is in downtown (or downetowne) Mattituck, which is about a block
     long, and really charming. The OTT is okay, the motif is sort of early ship, despite the fact that it’s a town tavern and
     a mile from the water. The wood is very dark and the floor is oak planking, and the thing that I love is the amber glass lanterns
     that cast this really mellow, mood-altering glow over the whole place.
    So there I was in the OTT, and it was getting on to ten P.M. , and the Monday night crowd was watching The Game—Dallas vs. New York at the Meadowlands. My mind was hopping between the
     game, the double murder, my food, and the waitress with the NordicTrack ass.
    I was more nattily dressed than earlier, having changed into evening attire of tan Levi’s jeans, blue polo by Ralph, genuine
     Sperry Top-Siders, and Hanes all-cotton briefs. I looked like an ad for something.
    I was sitting on a stool at one of those chest-high tables near the bar, and I had a good view of the TV, and I had my favorite
     meal in front of me—cheeseburger, french fries, stuffed potato skins, nachos, buffalo wings, and a Budweiser; a good balance
     of brown and yellow things.
    Detective Penrose of the county police department sort of snuck up on me from behind, and the next thing I knew she was sitting
     on the stool facing me, a beer in her hand, and her head blocking the screen. She regarded my dinner, and I saw her eyebrows
     arch.
    She turned her attention back to me and said, “Max thought I might find you here.”
    “Would you like some french fries?”
    “No, thank you.” She hesitated, then said, “I think we got off on the wrong foot back there.”
    “Nonsense. I don’t mind having my own gun pulled on me.”
    “Look, I’ve been speaking to Max, and I’ve been thinking … if the town wants you as a consultant, that’s okay with me, and
     if you wanted to pass on to me anything that you think is useful, feel free to