Riggs tensed and sat up straighter. “Yes, of course. Mr. Figoni. How can I help you?”
“I need to talk. I read about Dr. Frankenstein this morning.”
“Do you know something about that?”
“Yeah, man.”
Riggs thought he sounded like he’d been drinking. His words were slurred, and she knew he smoked pot. Still, she flashed back to Figoni’s history. He’d left med school to help care for his parents. His mother remained in critical care from a brain injury. He’d paid her expenses at the Rose Garden Nursing Home in Pleasanton, California, since the accident five years ago. It was a tragic twist to his academic accomplishments and a heavy burden for a young man to carry. If he was somehow mixed up in the stem cell treatments, he was not exactly the criminal sort. If he was involved, he might well want out now that murders plagued the treatments.
“Why are you suddenly willing to talk?” Riggs asked. “Has something happened? Are you being threatened? We can bring you in for protection.”
“Nah, it’s not about me. It’s about my mom. I need protection for her.”
For a moment, Riggs wondered if he was lucid. “You want to talk about Dr. Wilhelm so you can protect your mother?”
“No. I don’t know who that is. I want to talk about Dr. Frankenstein.”
“Figoni, are you high?”
“Maybe.”
“Listen, why don’t you call back in the morning, and we can set a time so you can come in and tell us what you know.” With Wilhelm dead and Heinemann on the run, she didn’t see the point. At least not tonight.
“I kinda need to talk tonight. Can you come to my hotel? My mom needs help, so like, it’s important tonight.”
“What does your mother have to do with it?”
“She has one of those teratomas too. At least I think she does.” He suddenly broke into tearful laughter. “It’s sick, man. Dr. Frankenstein collects those teratomas. His trophies.”
Riggs sighed. Could the day get any weirder? After all the years of being a detective, she knew better than to discount a lead, no matter how crazy it sounded. “Okay, Figoni. I’m going to send some officers over to bring you in for questioning.” She had to follow the cadavers for chain of custody, so she couldn’t go herself. “Where are you at?”
Figoni gave her the name of his hotel and room number.
Riggs hung up and called Blackwell. “Figoni wants to talk.”
“That’s about the prettiest thing I’ve ever heard you say. Almost as good as my dream of Shania Twain singing sweet nothin’s in my ear. I might even actually light my cigar.”
“You still have a thing for her?”
He snorted. “What man in his right mind wouldn’t?”
She made a turn onto Highway 99, following the rain-drizzled red taillights of the caravan toward the morgue. “He’s at the Hilton Garden. Room two twelve.”
“Hell, we need this. So far we’ve got a dead suspect, a confession to a journalist of all things, and a fourth vic in a coma. Basically zip … like a dog chasin’ his tail.”
“This is weird, but Figoni said he didn’t know who Wilhelm is, so I’m not sure what he might contribute. He sounds high. Interestingly, he also said his mother has a teratoma.”
“Hell, I’ll listen to anything right now.”
“Well, we can’t overlook Figoni’s employment with Human Resources. It makes sense that he’s somehow mixed up in this.”
“We’ll find out soon enough. The chief will be shittin’ bricks when I tell him we’re a step ahead of the FBI.”
“Any sign of Heinemann?”
“No. The little bastard has gone to ground like the rodent he is. I’ll let you know about Figoni.”
She hung up just as she was pulling into the state police parking lot, then waited as they were cleared through the electric gates and drove around back. She was tired. Bone weary, like after her third round of chemo. The stress and lack of sleep were catching up to her. Richard was practically a stranger lately, had chastised her for working so many hours. As a state prosecutor, he could tally hours away from home too, but his concern was always for her health. She wondered if perhaps he was right. Was she risking the reaper’s return by pushing herself so hard? She faced at least three hours of autopsy with two cadavers in a high-profile investigation. Going home and going to sleep was not an option, but she promised herself to spend time evaluating her job over the next few weeks.
Panetta was waiting at the morgue already in scrubs, leaning against the counter scrolling on his phone.
“What are you reading?”
He showed her the latest Chronicle story. “Have you read it?”
She shook her head. “No, but Whit debriefed me before she wrote it. I hope there’s nothing in it that we don’t already have on the books. That would send Blackwell into another tizzy.”
“The article confirmed your intel on Celeste Cordero. Quite the little investigator, your friend McKenna. Beat us to the punch a few times.”
“Yes, she’s very good at her job.”
“I contacted a friend in my old FBI office. He ran a profile on her. War zone junky until she had kids. She’s reported from some pretty nasty places. Accumulated a nice batch of headlines over the years. Then there’s the tragedy in Afghanistan. She would be dead now but for a special ops recon mission in the Korangal Valley. It was pure luck that they were there at that moment. I’d say somebody’s looking out for her.”
“It sure sounds like it.” She stared at him a moment. “Why did you check up on her?”
He shrugged. “Thought we should know who we’re trading info with. Every time you work a trade, you’re putting your career on the line. And since I’m working with you, mine too.”
“That’s it? Protecting your interests?”
He had the grace to blush a little, a lopsided grin on his face. “I kind of like her style, I guess.”
Her brows rose at that. “It doesn’t hurt that she’s drop-dead gorgeous either.”
“Yeah, well. Can’t help but notice that. I’m also fully aware that she is grieving her husband’s death, so let’s just call it curiosity.”
Riggs sighed. “She’s working through it the best she can. Covering this story has been difficult for her, but I think it’s helped her process some things.” The scent of fresh soap drifted from Panetta. “You smell pretty good for a guy who spent the better part of the day out in a-hundred-and-eight-degree weather.”
He smiled sheepishly. “I availed myself of your locker room showers. Got here early and couldn’t stand my own stench. I keep a change of clothes in the car. I almost feel human now.”
The shower had refreshed him, but Riggs noted the bloodshot eyes. “I know. I dozed in my car this evening while I waited for the x-ray tech to get back from dinner.”
“Lucky you.”
She filled him in on the Figoni lead.
“Damn, I’d like to be there,” he said as he followed her into the locker room and sat on a bench by the door.
She proceeded around a dividing wall to the privacy of her locker. While she stripped down to bra and panties, she asked, “What’s on your mind?”
“How did you know something was on my mind?”
“Because you have never followed me into the locker room before. I assume it’s because you want to talk.” She shrugged into a long-sleeved T-shirt and sweat pants. Although the night was still a balmy ninety-eight degrees, the autopsy bay was always cold.
“Actually, I’ve been thinking. Now that my divorce is final and my son is in Eugene at University of Oregon on a football scholarship, I might get back with the FBI.”
“Really?” He was one of the few detectives she truly respected. “Where to? Back to Langley?”
“No. I’d like to stay closer to my son. We haven’t had the best relationship the past few years. He blamed me for his mother’s … condition. If it’s not too late, I want to build a new relationship with him, as adults. When I left the Bureau, they gave me an o
pen-door option. I talked with them last week when Tucker and I got into it. They’d like me to be Bureau chief in the Portland office.”
Dressed now, Riggs bent and slipped on her tennis shoes. “I’d hate to see you go, but it sounds like a good opportunity. It isn’t that thing with Tucker, is it?”
“No. Just another reason among many.”
“So you’re not happy here, as a detective?”
“I don’t really fit in with the guys. They resent me, I think. Now that Ellen is no longer in the picture, I thought it’d be good for me to move on, literally and figuratively.”
Riggs stepped around to stand in front of him. Those deep brown eyes were soul searching. As fatigued as she was, she empathized. Hadn’t she just been contemplating a change?
“As much as I’d like you to stay, I think it’s a wise choice. It would be a big loss for the department, but God knows, with Portland’s crime rate, they could use you more. And it’s only an hour from Eugene, so you could see your son more often. Opportunities don’t come along like that every day. But before you go for it, you might consider the FBI office here.”
He nodded slowly, as if coming to a final decision, and rose to his feet. “I’ll check it out, and I’ll notify the chief after this investigation is over.”
They heard the outer door open and headed to the autopsy bay. Riggs said, “That must be the new ME.” Tonight they would work with a medical examiner from Josephine County, since Dr. Weldon was on forced leave. She wondered if he wasn’t the lucky one, probably sitting on the porch of his winery eating gourmet cheese and drinking a fine Merlot.
CHAPTER
35
WHIT FELT A heavy fatigue as she stepped out onto Main Street from Four Daughters, the music still rowdy but muted as the doors closed behind her. George and the others had ordered another round of drinks, but she’d insisted on going home to see her girls. Jordan had texted earlier to say she was home safe from the coast. She wanted to embrace them and feel their warmth. After today’s brutal experience, she could think of nothing more comforting than being with her children.
It was still raining heavily, so she broke out the umbrella and headed toward her car. Her shoulder and stomach muscles had begun to stiffen from her fall at the cabin. No doubt she’d be seriously bruised in the morning, especially around her throat. All things considered, that was not so bad.
The puddles along the sidewalk were deeper now. She rounded the corner down the side street. Quieter here, the rain drummed on her umbrella, and her feet and ankles were getting soaked. Stepping off the curb into the alleyway, she landed in a deep rut and nearly slipped out of her sandals. Two glasses of wine was probably a glass more than she should have had. Noticing a dark shadow in the doorway of an abandoned pawnshop, the windows boarded up with plywood decorated with a liberal amount of graffiti, she sidestepped onto the street. She hurried past a wino sitting in the doorway leaning against the wall, head lulling to the side.
Poor bastard.
Nearly to her car, she dug about in her purse for her keys; finding them, she clicked to open the doors. Her headlights flashed briefly and the dome light came on. She opened the door, tossed her purse in, and then fumbled with the umbrella, cursing as it pinched her finger.
The sudden stabbing pain in her neck shocked her. She responded with a sharply indrawn breath. Before she could turn to see what had happened, her legs collapsed.
* * *
She lay still, listening.
Soft scratching sounds.
A constant hum to her right that was almost soothing.
Sleep beckoned. Sooo drowsy …
Something awakened her.
Eyelids heavy, she fought to open them as a growing unease filled her soul.
Her head ached … dull, throbbing.
She opened her eyes, expecting to see the pale-yellow walls in her bedroom, but nothing was familiar.
Murky shadows were relieved only by a dull light from a computer screen.
Rain pelted against a row of transom windows high on the wall.
Was she in a hospital?
What could have happened?
An accident?
Yes. She had left the pub. Made it to her car.
So thirsty.
She licked dry lips with a dry tongue.
No relief.
Her head felt heavy. She tried to lift her hands but felt resistance.
Through a glass sliding door to her left, in the dreary haze, were pale-green walls and black counters littered with tubes, glass jars, buzzing machinery, and stacks of clear plastic containers imprisoning white furry mice; a pair of red eyes stared out at her.
Sudden panic shot through her, careening her heart into a wild thing in her chest.
Twisting her head awkwardly, she saw a beehive of computers humming along the farthest wall.
Lightning blanched the room white, staining her retinas. In the seconds that followed, thunder growled in the sullen gloom.
She had a terrible conviction that something horrible was about to happen.
She tried to recall her last memory. She saw the wino in the doorway …
“You’re awake. That’s very good.” Glaring lights flicked on overhead. “I’ve been waiting. Afraid I’d given you too much sodium barbital. You had, after all, two glasses of wine.”
She blinked at the sudden blaze of lights and turned her head toward the voice, encountering a bald man with dark brows and vivid blue eyes set in a pale face. He was slender and wore a white lab coat. “Who are you?”
“You of all people should know.” His lips stretched into a mirthless smile and his eyes burned pure hatred. “As your article stated, I’m Dr. Frankenstein.”
“I … I thought that was … Wilhelm.”
He seemed pleased. “Yes. Because that’s what I wanted you to think.” With slow, steady steps, Kessler approached the bed. “You have destroyed my chances of conducting my research undetected. If you hadn’t blasted the front pages of the newspaper with blow-by-blow accounts, I could have simply disposed of a few bodies and continued my research.”
“The police would have found a connection.”
He shrugged. “Maybe. Wilhelm was sloppy. Still, I studied your history. You don’t quit. You would have kept digging and digging until you found me. The police would have been satisfied with Wilhelm. Not you. So you see, you’ve left me no choice.” He leaned over her and smiled wickedly. “A mistake you’ll have to pay for with your life.”
Of all the ways she’d imagined she’d die, this had never been among them. She realized her hands were strapped down and tried to free them, but the grips were too tight.
“You can’t escape. Don’t try.” He pushed a chair next to the single bed and sat down, pulling a scalpel from his lab coat pocket. “I’ve used this room to sleep during long nights spent in the lab. I never envisioned using it like this, but as fate would have it … You’re lying on plastic to protect my bedding and to wrap you up in when I’ve finished. While you bleed to death, I’ll give you your last exclusive. The irony is that you won’t be around to write it.” He chuckled at that.
Desperate for an edge, she appealed to his obvious ego. “But wouldn’t you want me to write it? Even just as a keepsake?”
He reached for her wrist. “I’m going to slice through the radial artery so that you bleed slowly. I want you to have time to hear my story.”
With quick flicks of the scalpel, he sliced first her right wrist, then her left.
Whit squeezed her eyes shut against the piercing pain, refusing to give him the satisfaction of crying out.
Sick bastard!
“You’re behaving exactly as I imagined you would. The tough journalist finally meets her end.”
She opened her eyes, lifted her head, and watched blood, warm and slick, stream from the wounds, her heart hammering a rapid rhythm against her chest. Resting her head, eyes closed against the seeming inevitability of death, she pictured Emma and Jordan. They
would be parentless. The rest of their lives, they would have only each other and her parents. They hadn’t really had the chance to mourn their father’s death. How would they cope with this nightmare?
God, please … they still need me.
Whit felt rage. It swept through her, bringing a flush to her face. He wasn’t just taking her life; he was forever marring her children. If she’d had a weapon, she would have gladly killed him.
“Let’s begin, shall we?” From his pocket he set out a small recorder. “You see, I don’t need you to write the story, because I’m recording it. Feel free to ask whatever burning questions you have.”
He wanted to play. He was enjoying it. If she refused to participate, he would probably just kill her and get it over with. The longer she could keep him talking, the more likely she would be to survive. She desperately hoped someone had seen the abduction. Her kids were expecting her. They’d call the newspaper. She had to buy some time.
“What about Wilhelm?” she asked. “What exactly was his role in this? Just the money?”
“It starts with Heinemann. He had all those weak-minded people as clients that Wilhelm and his lover Celeste were able to manipulate into the trial. It was really quite easy. All the women liked Wilhelm.” He shrugged. “So he used his power of persuasion. And Celeste, with her introductions—well, she also knew how to pull a few strings to get her way.”
“How did you know Wilhelm?”
He laughed. “I actually met him a few years ago after I injured my back in a skiing accident on Mount Ashland. He became my masseur. With regular visits, we got to know each other. I discovered he was short on cash because of a lawsuit from some escapade of his in New York. A few clients were suing him. That’s when I came up with the idea of setting up a human trial for my Regeneration Elixir. My formula was working very well with the mice, so I thought it was time. By then Wilhelm was having an affair with Celeste, so he could quite easily manipulate her as well.”
“So, Wilhelm and Celeste brought you the clients. What about Heinemann?”
“Heinemann unwittingly provided the facilities for our secret trial. He is so conceited that we worked right under his nose, completely unaware. All the participants were sworn to silence or faced jail time.”
A Desperate Place Page 27