by Mary Stone
“P6 was designed to increase fertility. It was also designed to mess with brain development. I could rabbit hole into the technical stuff, but the bottom line is that P6 was meant to target the orbitofrontal lobe.” She tapped between her eyebrows. “This part of the brain is linked to emotion and decision-making. Your mad scientist was trying to decrease brain matter in the orbitofrontal cortex to make nice, easygoing, malleable babies.”
Tracy opened the file and flipped through the pages again. It was enough to turn your stomach if you knew what you were looking at. And she read enough dystopian fiction and sci-fi that she could easily see the possibilities in mass population control with a drug like that.
“Instead of nice babies, though, the moron who developed P6 somehow designed a drug that caused a whole lot of physical and cognitive defects. As a bonus, it essentially killed the mothers within five to fifteen years. I can’t emphasize it enough: this stuff is bad. Not just the drug itself, but the fact that, judging by the dates on these records, even after results showed that P6 didn’t work, they continued to tweak it and administer it anyway. Unethical, to say the least. Downright sadistic would be a better description.”
Tracy didn’t feel bad about building up the drama on purpose—it had been a slow day in the lab, and this was probably the most excitement she’d see all week—but none of the agents looked appalled enough by her bombshell.
She leaned forward, frowning. “Maybe I’m not being clear enough. Kids exposed to this could suffer all kinds of brain malformations and physical side effects. Depending on the dosage, it could be like a chemical lobotomy. And that’s completely overlooking the fact that if a drug like this was successfully tweaked, developed, and mass-produced, it could create a whole generation of little Stepford children.”
27
Brian Kennedy looked like he wanted to rub his hands together in glee when he saw them standing on his postage stamp-sized front porch. He looked around the same age as his brother should have, had Botox not intervened. He’d inherited the same good looks, but unlike Scott, he didn’t leer at Winter, just grinned widely and welcomed them into his understated, two-story middle-class home.
“Tell me,” he ordered with vindictiveness, “that you all are finally going to nail him for something. What is it? Tax evasion? Corporate fraud? Screwing his family out of their rightful share of the family fortune?”
Noah grinned back at the man. “Can we come in and talk about that?”
“Sure.” Brian chuckled and stepped back, waving his hand for them to enter. “Sheri, will you bring our federal agents something to drink?”
A small, cheerful woman in her mid-fifties with steel-gray hair in a neat bob popped her head out of a doorway, presumably to the kitchen. “Brian insisted on chips and dip, like this was some kind of a Superbowl party.” She rolled her eyes indulgently. “Would any of you like a Pepsi? A beer?”
Winter shook her head and gave the woman a small smile in return. Aiden declined too. “I’ll take a Pepsi if it’s not too much trouble,” Noah replied, and Winter could see him fighting with his stomach about declining the chips and dip.
“Absolutely. Come on in,” Brian urged them. “We can talk in the living room.”
Not exactly a reluctant informant, Winter noted. They might have to sift through some bias, but hopefully, they’d learn something that would help them locate Scott.
The house was comfortable. Not overly expensive, but nicely decorated. No original Monet graced the walls, but there were tasteful art prints and inexpensive antiques that looked lovingly cared for. It was definitely more welcoming than the Kennedy estate had been.
Once they were seated on a set of plaid, cushy couches, Brian scooched forward in his chair expectantly. His eyes were a warmer shade of blue than Scott’s, and his face was scored with natural laugh lines. But his eyes were hard. “What’d he do?”
Aiden took out his notebook and Montblanc pen. “Actually, we’re still working on putting that together. We’re hoping we can get some information from you. Can you tell us the last time you spoke to your brother?”
Brian’s face fell a little, but he nodded. “I can tell you the exact date.” His voice was bitter. “It was January 2, 1981. Scott informed me that I was no longer allowed through the doors of our family’s company, just before he had security escort me from the building. He’d sold it. I’d sunk everything I had into that business.” He snapped his fingers. “And I was broke, just like that.”
Sheri entered the room with a tray and deposited it on the coffee table. She hurried to her husband’s side, her black flats making no noise on the carpet.
“Brian,” she warned him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t go there again.”
His face softened a little, and he grinned up at her, placing his hand over hers in an affectionate gesture. “Trust me. I don’t regret it. If I hadn’t been kicked to the curb and ended up drowning my sorrows at the same bar every night for a week afterward, I wouldn’t have caught the eye of a certain cute little waitress.”
“Whatever,” Sheri replied tolerantly, a twinkle in her eyes. “You were a sloppy drunk, crying in your beer. You asked me out, and I refused to date you until you quit feeling sorry for yourself, stopped drinking, and got another job.”
“If that’s how you remember it.” He shrugged and chuckled. “But you’ll all have to excuse me while I indulge in a little schadenfreude. Scottie’s got this coming, whatever it is.”
“Scott cheated you?” Aiden asked. “Did you take him to court?”
“You bet the bastard cheated me. I fell for it, too, along with a couple of cousins and an uncle who had inherited shares. We were all told that the company was going under, and he oh so generously said he’d do the family a favor and buy up their shares ahead of time.” He snorted. “At a loss, of course, so we wouldn’t be hit as hard. I refused, being young and idealistic. Instead, I talked him into letting me invest, and sold most of what I had to help turn things around.”
“Which it didn’t,” Winter surmised.
Brian scowled. “I played right into his hands. He took my contribution, and slick as shit, sold the company to the highest bidder. I ended up with a piddly amount that didn’t cover a fraction of what I’d put into the company. I threatened to sue, and he outlawyered me, knowing I didn’t have the money to fight him in a long legal battle. Do you know, he had the nerve to laugh about how badly I got screwed on that? Said I should have done my homework first.”
Even Sheri scowled at that. Scott Kennedy was not a well-liked man in this Kennedy household, as nice as the occupants seemed.
Noah eased the tension in the room slightly with a subject change. “Your father built himself a sizeable estate before he passed on. Do you know if he had any other properties besides your family home? Other houses or estates or vacation properties that your brother may have retained or still have access to?”
“Is Scottie on the lam?” Brian’s face visibly brightened at the thought. “God, that’d be great if you guys found him in some crappy hideout and had to drag him out in cuffs. I know my parents had a cottage up in Michigan. And I know that when we inherited, before he fuc—”
He stopped at a warning squeeze from his wife, her hand still on his shoulder. “Language,” she singsonged.
He cleared his throat. “Sorry. There was also a house in Florida. A little fifties beachside bungalow. We’d spend summer vacations there.”
Aiden’s pen scratched rapidly against his notepaper. “Can you think of any others? Anything in West Virginia, maybe?”
Brian shook his head. “Sorry, that’s all I can think of.”
“Does the name Wesley Archer sound familiar?” Winter tried not to let her growing frustration show. She’d been hoping for more, and they hadn’t managed to come up with anything other than additional evidence that Scott Kennedy was an asshole. “He served in the military with your brother.”
Again, Brian shook his head. “Scott and I we
re never really close, even though we were only three years apart in age. By high school, we were practically strangers. I didn’t even know he’d gone to war until my dad told me he’d shipped out.”
Noah reached for his glass of Pepsi and took a sip. “Have you ever heard of a drug called Progesteraline? Maybe developed back in your dad’s day?”
There wasn’t even a flicker of recognition on Brian’s face, and Winter was watching closely for any telltale sign. “Could have been a variation of the fertility drug my dad built the company around in the fifties, but it doesn’t sound familiar.”
The rest of their questions went about the same. Brian couldn’t provide anything helpful, and he didn’t bother to hide his disappointment. They were getting ready to leave, with Brian much more subdued than he’d been when they arrived.
“It’s probably wrong of me to want karma to catch up with him,” Brian said as he walked them to the door, Sheri hovering behind him.
Noah shook Brian’s hand, his expression sympathetic. “Don’t take it too hard. He sounds like one of those guys that karma will catch up to eventually. Let us know if you think of anything else that you think might be helpful.”
“I’ll rack my brain,” Brian promised.
Aiden and Noah had just climbed into the SUV and Winter had opened her door when Brian popped his head out of the house.
“Hold on,” he called out, shuffling into a pair of slippers and letting the screen door bang behind him as he trotted down the sidewalk. “You mentioned West Virginia, and it made me think of something.”
Winter felt a tingle at the base of her neck as she turned around.
“I don’t know how helpful this is, and I have no idea where he went, but I know that Scott did travel there, at least a couple of times. The day I tried to get in to see him and security was called? As I was leaving the room, I heard his secretary say something about West Virginia. That she’d made his hotel reservation for three days, like he’d asked, and at the same hotel as before.”
“Do you remember his secretary’s name? The town? The name of the hotel?” Winter asked, finally feeling a little surge of excitement. If they could put Kennedy near Harrisonburg…but when?
Brian shook his head regretfully. “I wish I could. All I know is his secretary was a mean old bat even back then. She’s probably dead by now. I know it’s not much.”
“It’s something,” Winter assured him. “And every little bit of information helps.”
Especially when she felt like they were still ten steps behind the game.
Aiden pulled the SUV into a parking place in the hotel parking garage. The smell of fast food burgers from the bags they’d picked up wasn’t the least bit appetizing, but his suggestion of Chinese had been voted down. It was looking like room service tonight. He hoped they had a decent wine menu.
He glanced up at the rearview mirror as he shut off the ignition. Winter was looking out her window, her face intent. “Hold on,” she snapped as Dalton started to open his door. “Wait a second.”
“What is it?” Aiden slid his hand inside his jacket, close to his weapon.
At Winter’s tone, Dalton did the same. The ramp was crowded, with no spots free until the third level. It was likely there was a convention or a social event happening at the hotel that evening. A couple made their way off the nearby elevator, nicely dressed, laughing at something with enough enthusiasm to imply that wherever they’d been had an open bar.
They stumbled past the back of the vehicle and headed for a white Lexus a few spaces down.
“There’s something wrong.” The words were hesitant, but Aiden didn’t doubt Winter’s intuition for a moment. He scanned the lot, looking for anything out of place. Most of the cars in this section were expensive models, but an older, silver Toyota caught his eye.
Behind the wheel, he could make out the outline of a driver. It was raining outside, a slow, sullen drizzle, but his car was dry. He’d either been in it for a while, or he was just leaving.
“The Toyota?”
Winter nodded. “He’s waiting for us.”
“Let him wait,” Noah said.
They watched as the guy behind the wheel shifted restlessly. Just over five minutes had passed when he opened his door and stepped out. He was trying to be subtle but was definitely looking in their direction.
The man was white, probably in his mid-twenties. Aiden couldn’t see his eyes, but he had a scruffy beard and wore a black hoodie, pulled up over a red baseball cap. “Crimson Tide?” Noah murmured. “Must be an Alabama fan.”
The guy was obviously nervous. He started moving toward the back of his car, and then stopped, hesitating.
“Y’all want to see what he wants?” Noah asked.
“Better than waiting here all night,” Aiden replied. “It doesn’t look like he’s ready to come over here and tell us himself. I’ll get out first, keep the vehicle between us. Winter, when I get past your door, go to the front of the car and cover me. Dalton, roll your window down while Winter gets in position, and create a distraction.”
At their agreement, Aiden reached back and turned the dome light off. He opened his door silently, just enough to slip out, and eased it closed without letting it latch. His adrenaline was already thrumming. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but since he’d been holed up in the Behavioral Analysis Unit he’d missed the rare moments of action that came with being in the field.
He slipped past Winter’s door, his weapon already drawn. She opened hers as quietly as he had. Their suspect, he could see through the back window, was watching their vehicle, his hands below the side of the car he stood beside.
Winter moved low, soundlessly into place and Aiden heard the whine of Dalton’s window.
“Hey, there.” Noah’s voice boomed out cheerily, the Texas twang thick. “You need some directions or something, son?”
Aiden was already moving when the guy brought up his gun. It was a .9 mm Luger, semi-automatic.
“FBI,” he yelled. “Drop your weapon and put your hands in the air.”
The kid—up close, he looked like a sweaty, scared eighteen- or nineteen-year-old—swung around, wide-eyed, and fired wild as Aiden ducked. He heard the truncated thud of a bullet hitting concrete. Another single shot took out the tire of a car across the aisle before the kid howled. Aiden rounded the vehicle he’d taken cover behind to see that Winter already had him on the ground, her knee in the middle of his back, calmly twisting his arm to snap him into cuffs.
Aiden nudged the Luger farther out of reach with his foot as Noah reached them, already calling the apprehension into the local PD. When Winter had finished securing the handcuffs and reading him his rights, Aiden rolled the kid over and hauled him by the collar into a sitting position.
He looked defiant, belligerent, and scared enough to shit his pants.
“How much did he pay you?” Aiden asked sympathetically, crouching down beside him. “Whatever it is, it wasn’t enough,” he added when the kid didn’t answer.
“Don’ know what you’re talking about.” He spat on the ground, near Aiden’s feet.
“Did he tell you there’d be three FBI agents? Seems like a pretty big job for one person. Especially one who’d never actually done a hit before.”
The kid, his face pale, glared at the pavement silently. Aiden could tell he was biting his tongue. His reputation as a hired gun was being called into question. A little more prodding would do it.
Winter made eye contact with Aiden over the kid’s head. “At least he didn’t use the same guy as last time. Jackass couldn’t drive for shit. My grandma could have put us over that guardrail with no problem. Instead, he ended up almost running himself off the road.”
“Fuckin’ liar,” the boy spat. His eyes glittered up at Winter with rage and his body all but vibrated with it. “You was the one that almost—”
He shut up quick, and his pale face flushed red. She smiled at him, her eyes hard.
Noah tapped his phone t
o disconnect the call and chuckled. “Glad I didn’t miss that part. Where’d he find you, kid? Craigslist?”
The boy didn’t answer, but the deepening red in his face did.
28
Apparently, you could hire a hitman on Craigslist.
Noah had a hard time keeping a straight face when it came out in questioning the night before that the young man who’d been hired to kill them—twice—had in fact answered a sketchy job ad online. Even without the aspiring criminal’s testimony, and the fact that he’d pulled Scott Kennedy’s picture out of a lineup, they would have eventually tied him to Kennedy by tracing the encrypted Craigslist email associated with the ad.
A signed and detailed confession from the failed crook made things much easier, though.
Noah cracked his knuckles, one by one, grinning when Parrish took his eyes off the road to shoot him a dirty look. Noah couldn’t help it. He’d been antsy the entire way back to Harrisonburg, and even knowing that the road trip was almost over wasn’t helping. Winter was either sleeping or meditating in the back seat, and since he didn’t figure he and Parrish had much in common, the SUV had been silent for most of the ride.
Plus, Parrish had shit taste in music.
He’d finished his knuckles and was starting on his finger joints when his phone rang. Florence Wade, the ME in Roanoke, sounded exhausted.
“You were right,” she said peremptorily. “I found an unidentified chemical compound in the remains of the soft tissue on our teenage Jane Doe. What the hell is going on up there, Dalton?”
“Still not sure,” Noah replied. “But it’s coming together. How are things down there, Wade?”
She snorted. “No thanks to you guys, I’ve got a helluva backlog. You got any other unreasonable requests to throw at me?”
“Nope. We appreciate you, Florence. Let us know if you find anything else. I promise, we almost have everything nailed down.”