Page 40 of Holmes, Margaret and Poe

“Or maybe he has nothing to hide,” I said. “Think about it. Where does he get the wherewithal to build a remote-controlled machine gun?”

“Maybe he’s got an accomplice who built the gun,” Sampson said.

“And the bomb,” Mahoney said.

“Still, it’s a bold move if he invites us to search his house,” I said.

We put on disposable booties, gloves, and caps, entered the grand foyer, and took in the sweeping spiral staircase with a tiger maple banister and dark green granite floor. The high-end finishes carried on throughout the house, with restaurant-grade appliances in the kitchen and tile and stone in every bathroom.

There were four bedrooms, three up and one down that Davis used as an office. That one was organized with military precision and featured little that spoke to the coach’s past in the NFL or the air force. Indeed, most of the shelves were empty, and the files in the desk were all from recent months.

“It’s like Davis never really moved in,” I said.

“Like a visitor,” Sampson agreed.

“Computer’s password-protected,” Mahoney said. “So’s the laptop.”

One of the upstairs bedrooms was empty. The second held flattened moving boxes. The primary bedroom suite featured a big stall shower and a bed facing a balcony overlooking woods. We did find a row of Baltimore Ravens jackets and hoodies in the closet but not the one the deputy had seen the van driver wearing in Gravelly Point Park.

Overall, the upstairs was as cold and impersonal as the ground floor and the basement, which had been transformed into a sprawling man cave with a large television, movie-theater chairs, and nothing on the wall or floors.

“Like he ran out of ideas on how to spend his money,” Sampson said.

“No pictures of the little girl anywhere,” Mahoney said.

“There are a couple of empty picture frames on the wall in the kitchen,” I said.

“Maybe he can’t bear the sight of them,” Sampson said.

“Too painful.”

“Or too rage-provoking,” Mahoney said.

But we found nothing to say that Davis was the man behind the remote-controlled machine gun anywhere in the house or basement, which left the four-bay garage.

We didn’t expect to find what we found: five expensive carswith a complicated hydraulic rack system that kept four of the vehicles stored in stacks of two and a 1963 split-window Corvette up on a lift in the third bay. The fourth bay was empty and spotless.

“This guy doesn’t fool around, does he?” Sampson said. “He’s got a gizmo and a gadget for everything and his own machine tool shop. That sounds like someone who could build a remote-controlled machine gun.”

“Or at least get the hardware to build it,” Ned said. “That curved track it was on.”

“Maybe,” I said, wandering over to the old Corvette, which was in immaculate condition. In front of the car, against the wall, was a steel locker flanked by two obsessively organized workbenches.

I opened the locker and found five mechanic’s jumpsuits hanging there, three blue and two tan. One tan suit had grease and oil on it. Another tan suit bore grass and mud stains at the knees. One of the blue jumpsuits had a big stain on the front that smelled like chemicals.

Then I noticed the shoulders and neck of that same blue coverall were bunched up. I reached up with gloved hands and unzipped it, and what we saw pretty much ended our suspicions about Captain Davis.

And confirmed them.

CHAPTER 38

BREE SAT IN SILENCEafter Jannie related what her friend Iliana Meadows had told her in strictest confidence.

“And she doesn’t know who’s behind it?”

“Just that they have the video. She figures it’s someone from Paxson State,” Jannie said, referring to the college in rural Maryland.

“And the video?”

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