Vineyard Enigma Read Online Free PDF Page A

bullet in the back of his head. Hadn’t something similar happened to Jesse James?
    I went back up onto the porch. The young cop looked uncomfortable and annoyed. I’d felt the same way fairly often when I’d been a young cop, so I said, “I didn’t touch anything but the office doorknob,” and he looked slightly relieved.
    The police were inside the house for quite a while before Agganis finally came out. He nodded toward his cruiser and we followed him there. I could feel the eyes of the young cop on our backs as he wished he could hear our conversation.
    Agganis got a tape recorder out of the car. “You mind if I use this? If you do, say so and I’ll chuck it.”
    “You want to give us the Miranda first?” I asked.
    “No, I don’t want to give you the damned Miranda, but I will if you want it. Do you?”
    “What is this Miranda?” asked Mahsimba.
    We explained. “It’s an official warning that if we don’t want to say anything, we don’t have to until we get ourselves some lawyers to advise us. But if we do talk, what we say can be used as evidence in case the DA decides to charge us with something.”
    Mahsimba’s smile was gone as quick as it came. “I don’t think I’ve been in your country long enough to have committed any major crimes, Officer.”
    John waved an airy hand. “Miranda us all, Sergeant Agganis. Maybe you can solve this crime right here and now and save yourself and the state a lot of investigation time.”
    “Fat chance of that,” said Agganis. “Even if you confessed this second we’d still have to investigate just to make sure you weren’t lying. Perps have more rights than the victims these days.” He gave us the Miranda warning and then held up the tape recorder again. “Now, anybody mind if I use this?”
    Nobody minded, and Agganis listened to the story of how we happened to find the remains of Matthew Duarte, and to my hypothesis that there might be a relationship between Mahsimba’s e-mail and Duarte’s death.
    Dom, understandably, didn’t seem to be too taken with my theory. “This ain’t a television show,” he said. “Chances are that Duarte got plugged for some simple, down-to-earth reason, like most people. A woman, or money, or dope, or some combination of the three. When we start digging, you can bet we’ll find something like that, not anything to do with stolen eagles from Africa. Where can I find you if I need to, Mr. Mahsimba?”
    “He’s staying with me,” said John.
    “Until I find the eagles or go west to San Francisco,” said Mahsimba.
    “And how long will that be?” asked Agganis.
    Mahsimba shrugged a small shrug. “The death of Mr. Duarte makes my work here more complicated and my success more unlikely.”
    “Well, don’t leave without telling me.”
    Mahsimba gave a slight bow. “I will inform you, Sergeant.”
    “And I will inform you in the unlikely chance that we stumble across any information about your Zimbabwe eagles. All right, men, I guess we’re through here for now. You can get on about your business.” Agganis put his tape recorder back into the cruiser and walked into the house.
    The three of us drove back to John’s farm. There, John said, “J.W., why don’t you and Zee come over for dinner tonight? One of the twins can baby-sit the kids at your place.”
    As any cook will tell you, a meal prepared by someone else is always welcome. My bluefish supper could wait until tomorrow. “Sure,” I said, “we’ll be glad to.”
    Much had happened since Stan Crandel’s morning call, but there was still a lot of day left before the kids came home from school, so I headed for the Edgartown library. I was glad to be working.

5
    Libraries are treasure houses. They are full of books, information, and entertainment, and are manned by people who actually like to help you find what you’re looking for. Little in history has caused me more despair about mankind than tales of the destruction of libraries. The ancient