“So while you weren’t sleeping, did you think anymore about our ‘nightcap’ with Donovan Carter?” asked Knox.
“Carter gave us an excuse to go back and talk to Reynolds again.”
“The visit your brother made to Reynolds?”
“Exactly.”
“She’ll be at work now most likely.”
“She works for DoD. I’m a duly assigned military investigator. Nothing prohibits us from interviewing her while she’s at work.”
“What are you going to ask her?”
“I want her take on the encounter with Bobby. And I want to watch her while she answers the questions.”
“Body language cues?”
“They often tell more than what the person actually says.”
Puller had called ahead and Susan Reynolds met them in her office, a modest space that looked, oddly enough, both cluttered and organized. Her security lanyard was around her neck, her features were placid, and she greeted them politely and indicated chairs for them to take.
She sat down and waited.
As Puller lowered himself into the chair he let his gaze sweep her office. He saw no items that were not work-related. The woman didn’t even have any plants.
As his gaze came back to her, he found that she was staring at him. And Puller could tell she knew exactly what he had been doing.
“I like to keep things streamlined and separate,” she said. “Professional and personal.”
“I can understand that.” He pointed at one photo showing a younger Reynolds in a line of all men on what appeared to be an airstrip. “That looks interesting.”
She turned to look at it. “Back in the 1990s I was part of a START verification team when the U.S. and the Soviets were whittling down their nuclear stockpiles. As you can see from the photo, I was the only woman on either team, and the youngest by far. Quite a feather in my cap. But I had worked hard for the opportunity.”
“Interesting work?” asked Knox.
“Yes. Although by seven o’clock each night the Russians had drunk enough vodka to float an aircraft carrier. So I’m not sure how accurate their verification was. But I never touched a drop and I crossed every t and dotted every i,” she added emphatically.
“I’m sure you did,” said Puller. “Now, we’ve been told that Robert Puller—”
Reynolds cut in. “Your brother, you mean. I knew it the first time we met.”
Puller continued, “We were told that Robert Puller came to see you?”
“Came to kill me, more likely.”
“But he didn’t kill you.”
“I was able to get away, found a gun, and he ran like the coward he obviously is.”
“So he tied you up?”
“No, he put a gun to my head and then injected me with what he said was poison. I couldn’t believe the bastard had done that. Maybe prison made him crazy.”
“So you were able to overpower him and get to your gun?”
“I didn’t say I overpowered him. He’s a man and, as you know, he’s far larger than I am. But I’m not exactly a weakling. I managed to hit him in the face with a lamp. Before he could recover I got to the bookcase. I keep a forty-five pistol there. I drew it. When he realized I was armed and ready to shoot, he turned and ran. I tried to stop him, but he was too fast. I called the police but they couldn’t find him.”
“You hit him in the face with a lamp?”
“I did.”
“That must have hurt.”
“I hope it hurt like hell,” she said. “He deserved to be hurt a lot.”
“Bruised and bloody probably.”
“Yes. He was. And surprised, I’m sure.”
“And what did he want?” asked Puller.
“He threatened me. He wanted me to confess that I had done something wrong.”
“Ironically enough, this time it really was more what she said than how she said it.”
“What do you mean?”
Puller knew she hadn’t hit his brother with a lamp. He was neither bruised nor bloody. But he couldn’t tell Knox that without revealing that he and his brother had met. Yet there was something else.
“I checked the toxicology report that they did on Reynolds after my brother supposedly injected her with poison. Remember that Carter said they had done one? Well, I got a copy emailed to me this morning.”
“But it didn’t find poison.”