Flu

Chapter 103

"What explains a lot, Wigdor?" Kate demands.

"Confidentiality requires that I obtain permission from Sir Lancelot before I divulge anything more on that matter," Wigdor insists. "However, I suspect that your investigation may bring much of it out into the open anyway. My client will want to be able to control the flow of information. I need to make a call – in private."

"You can use Fremont's bedroom. It's been cleared," Kate suggests. "But make it quick. He's probably on the run, and we've lost a lot of time already."

"A f***ing murder!" Sandy Wellsop shouts into his phone. "We're involved in a f***ing murder?"

"It would appear that way, Sir, " Wigdor replies calmly. "And if the investigation drags on, there's a strong chance of the press getting wind of Fremont's ties to Sir Lancelot. I believe that it would be in the company's best interest to cooperate fully and get through this as quickly as possible. Discretion will also be in the N.Y.P.D.'s best interest. They won't want Fremont to know what they have. I should tell them about the lab, Sir. What they find may also be the key to putting a stop to Sir Lancelot's present difficulties."

Wellsop's desk chair squeaks its protest as he drops into it hard. "Fine, Wigdor, tell the police but keep the circle small. Also, get their assurances that nothing will come out in the press or, worse, on social media. If Sir Lancelot gets a black eye with the foodies, we might as well close the company down."

"Understood, Sir."

"As soon as I get some assurances, in writing, I'm prepared to reveal what I know about certain occurrences at Sir Lancelot," Wigdor announces, returning to the search team.

"You'll get those back at the precinct," Kate promises. "I've still got a BOLO out on Fremont, aka Snigley. And I'll leave a unit watching this place in case he turns up."

To Bernie, the lounge is more comfortable than Interrogation, but Detective Beckett is every bit as intense in her questioning. "Start at the beginning, Wigdor."

"I'm not entirely sure when that was. Neither is Sir Lancelot. Some time ago, small issues began to pop up in the laboratory at the Vermont facility. Balances went out of calibration. Reagents weren't food grade. Samples were contaminated and had to be rerun. The quality manager tried to stay on top of all of that. But the problems kept coming – until the big one."

"What big one?" Kate questions.

"A fire, about two months ago. The staff put it out, and no one was seriously hurt. Unfortunately, the smoke contaminated everything in the lab. The board decided to close it down and use outside analysis. But the in-house facilities are a big part of the Sir Lancelot story, the legend if you will. So the switch was secret. Alston Fremont was in charge of finding the right lab and delivering quality control reports to Vermont. He told the board that he found a facility in New York and brought the reports along with pictures and videos of operations there. Everything seemed fine until the complaints started coming in."

"Let me guess," Castle inserts, "too much protein in the pastry flour."

"Among other things," Wigdor confirms. "Fremont kept insisting that he was on top of things. But what I don't understand is how a murder comes into it."

"We know the victim discovered the discrepancy with the pastry flour," Kate explains, "and that the D.N.A. phenotype of the killer fits Alston Fremont. But other than that, we don't have anything. I had a team search the victim's apartment, but it didn't come up with any evidence that Fremont went after him."

Rick strokes his roughening jawline. "Maybe they were looking in the wrong place. I should have thought about this sooner, but I was, uh, distracted. We have little cubbies at Imagination Patch where the writers can keep their notes, favorite pens, that kind of thing, so they don't have to lug them home if they're coming back in the morning. Bus, um – the victim – had one. Maybe he was weaving the mystery into one of his stories. We should have a look. This is the first day Mark and Chef have everything back up to speed. Auchincloss found another flour vendor, and he's making pot pies, just to stick pins in Chef Lester. We might even be able to grab a meal."

"I love pot pies," Wigdor offers.

Rick points his thumb at Wigdor. "We might as well take him with us. That way, you can keep an eye on him."

Kate shrugs. "We've put him in the loop this far. Sure, he can come."

Rick leads the way to a storage closet between the Imagination Patch's restrooms. "The writers' stashes are in here. They would have had to go through the kitchen to get anywhere more isolated, and Auchincloss wasn't about to put up with that."

"Kate pulls out her flashlight to scan the contents. She shines a beam on a space labeled, B.C. "This must be his."

"It looks like his stuff," Rick agrees. "I recognize that little notebook. I had one a lot like it when I first started writing. We can look through it at the proprietor's table. Want me to get you your daily allowance of caffeinated bliss?"

"Please."

"Find anything?" Rick asks as he hands Kate a fragrant mug of steaming brew.

Kate taps her fingernail against a page of Busby's pad. "I can't make anything out of this."

"Neither can I," Bernie confides.

Rick takes a seat beside Kate. "Let me see. Ah. Right. He was putting down his personal stream of consciousness. I had a professor once who was into this technique. Bus – the victim – must have adopted it too."

"I know you've been trying to keep it to yourselves, but you might as well use his name," Bernie advises. "I've heard Busby whispered around here at least three times since we arrived."

Kate nods at Rick, who continues his explanation. "Busby was writing down his thoughts as they came, so he could organize them later. He would have been using abbreviations too, so he could put ideas down faster." Rick flips through the pages. "Here, look, S.L. for Sir Lancelot. He wrote 'fake, confront A.F.' Maybe he was going to have a character challenge someone like Fremont and decided to act it out himself. But Fremont wasn't going to let Busby pull the brake on his gravy train."

"So, he killed him," Kate concludes. "But there's a lot more there."

Rick studies the scribbled handwriting. "Busby made notes on how he figured out clues, how to organize the story, other characters, whatever came to him. I can put together a rough translation, but he would have put a lot more detail into what he wrote on his laptop."

"We never found his computer," Kate realizes. "The team didn't turn it up at Busby's apartment, and it wasn't here either. Maybe Fremont took it."

"If he did, and he still has it, the cat slipped a bell around his own neck," Rick proclaims triumphantly.

"I'm not following," Bernie admits.

"Busby was always afraid of losing his laptop, or of having someone steal it. So he had an app on his phone to track it." Rick looks at Kate. "His cell is with his effects, isn't it?"

"Yeah, Perlmutter found it on him. It was in a pocket covered up by his apron. I don't suppose you know his password."

"I have a good guess. He was very attached to his protagonist, Spurtle. He's named after one of Busby's favorite kitchen tools. But we have a way in even if I'm wrong. Perlmutter is still keeping Busby tucked in. If we use his print to unlock the key to his killer, he can still point a finger – or thumb – at his murderer."

Kate sets her coffee on the table. "I'm hoping we can stick with Spurtle."