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their black belts hovered around like vultures over roadkill. His voluntary appearance at the FBI’s Washington Field Office had not earned him any brownie points, even with Alex Ford of the Secret Service accompanying him to the interview. Alex had told the agents in charge of Carter Gray’s homicide investigation about Stone’s recent heroics in foiling an espionage ring. However, the agents had brushed that off.
    One of them said to Alex, “I deal with murder and I got a big one hanging around my neck and a lot of pressure from upstairs to get results.” He plopped down in front of Stone at the small table.
    “Now let’s try the name thing one more time. What’s yours?”
    “Oliver Stone, like I told you the last four times you asked.”
    “Let me see some ID.”
    “And as I told you four times before, I don’t have any.”
    The other agent said incredulously, “How does anybody in the twenty-first century not have ID?”
    Stone looked at him, bemused. “I know who I am. And I don’t really care if no one else does.”
    “So you came all the way down here to tell us what—nothing other than the fact that you’re apparently a famous film director who dresses like a bum?”
    “Actually, I came down here to tell you that I visited Carter Gray at his home last night at
his
request. I arrived around nine and left about forty-five minutes later. He sent his driver for me. The man can certainly vouch for the fact that when I left, the house was still standing and the man inside that house was still alive.”
    Alex interjected, “Have you talked to the driver?”
    The two agents glanced at each other. One said to Stone, “What’d you two talk about?”
    “It was private. I’m certain it had nothing to do with what happened to Mr. Gray.” Stone of course had every reason to believe that what Gray had told him about the other three men dying was very much tied to Gray’s death.
    “I sense uncooperative behavior,” the same agent said.
    His partner added, “And I sense an obstruction charge coming. You like to sit in a jail cell, Mr. Stone, while we run down who you really are?”
    Stone said calmly, “If you believe you have enough to charge me then charge me. If you don’t I’m late for another appointment.”
    “You’re a busy man are you,
Mr.
Stone?” one of the agents remarked sarcastically.
    “I try to stay productive. But I’ll make a deal with you.”
    “We don’t do deals.”
    “I’ll go with you to the crime scene. If I see anything that strikes me funny, I’ll let you know.”
    “Strikes you funny? What the hell is that supposed to mean?” the first agent said.
    “Just what it sounds like.”
    “No way in hell are we taking you to the crime scene.”
    “If you killed the guy you might be looking to screw up some evidence,” the other agent said.
    Stone sighed. “Call the director of the FBI, please.”
    “Excuse me?” one agent snapped, looking incredulously at him.
    “Call the head of the FBI. He sent me a commendation letter recently. By coincidence I brought a copy of it with me. I called his office before coming down here. I told him if I had any trouble, I’d give him a call.”
    Stone handed the letter across to the agent. With his partner looking over his shoulder they read it word for word, then glanced at Alex, who merely shrugged.
    Stone said, “Do you call or do we choose not to bother the director and just go to the crime scene? I don’t have all day.”
    “No reason to bother the director,” one of the agents said finally.
    Stone rose. “Delighted to hear it.”

CHAPTER 17
    S TONE WALKED NEAR the wreckage of Carter Gray’s house with one of the FBI agents and Alex Ford.
    “Gas explosion?” Alex asked the agent.
    “That’s what it looks like, although I’m not sure how it was possible. The place wasn’t that old. And it had all the latest safety features.”
    Stone was staring at what was left of the house he’d been sitting in only last night.