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Updated: May 20, 2025
"That's what I thought he said." Rand recognized the singsong accent he had heard on the phone. "You know him?" "Know him?" McKenna stepped aside quickly, to avoid being overrun by the two privates with the equipment-box. He sighed resignedly. "Aarvo, this is the notorious Jefferson Davis Rand. Tri-State Agency, in New Belfast." He gestured toward the Finn.
"Now, suppose you show me these things you found, back at the rear ... Aarvo, you and the boys start taking pictures," he told the corporal, then he followed Rand back through the shop. He tested the temperature of the water in the ice-bowl with his finger. He looked at the ashtray, and bent over and sniffed at each of the two glasses. "I see one of them's been emptied out," he commented.
"So go ahead and search; if you don't find anything, you'll plant something. I want to call my lawyer." "That's your right," McKenna told him. "Aarvo, take him to a phone; let him call the White House if he wants to." He turned to Walters. "Now, where would he have this stuff stashed?" "In the garret, sir. I know the way." As Kavaalen accompanied Gwinnett to the phone, Walters started upstairs.
"Corporal Aarvo Kavaalen," he introduced. "And Privates Skinner and Jameson.... Well, where is it?" "Right inside." Rand stepped backward, gesturing them in. "Careful; it's just inside the doorway." McKenna and the corporal entered; the two privates set down their box outside and followed. They all drew up in a semicircle around the late Arnold Rivers and looked at him critically. "Jesus!"
Kavaalen looked wide-eyed at Rand, then at McKenna, and then back at Rand. Rand laughed. "Now, Mick!" he reproved. "You know I never kill anybody unless I have a clear case of self-defense, and a flock of witnesses to back it up." McKenna nodded and reassured his corporal. "That's right, Aarvo; when Jeff Rand kills anybody, it's always self-defense. And he doesn't generally make messes like this."
The driver, a stocky, blue-eyed Finn with a corporal's chevrons, followed him, and two privates got out from behind, dragging after them a box about the size and shape of an Army footlocker. McKenna was halfway up the drive before he recognized Rand. Then he stopped short. "Well, Jaysus-me-beads!" He turned suddenly to the corporal. "My God, Aarvo; you said his name was Grant!"
About a half-mile from Gresham's he caught an advancing gleam of white on the highway ahead of him and pulled to the side of the road, waiting until the State Police car drew up and stopped. In it were Mick McKenna, Aarvo Kavaalen, and a third man, a Nordic type, in an untidy brown suit. "Hi, Jeff," McKenna greeted him, as Rand got out of his car and came across the road.
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