by Jaye Watson
With lipstick refreshed and the worst of the street dirt wiped from her skirt, she drew a deep breath and headed for the auditorium. Her bare legs felt strange, but naked knees were a lot better than shredded pantyhose.
* * * *
"Excellent paper, Em. We don't often see work of that quality coming out of independent labs."
She forced herself to smile at Jon Crabtree. He'd been a pompous ass when they were both in graduate school, and twenty years in academia hadn't improved him. "Thank you, Jon. I pride myself that our little lab works to the highest standards. How is Susan?"
"Oh, she and I split about five years ago. I found myself growing beyond her, and..."
She tuned him out, having heard the script before. Older professor, young, sexy student unburdened by family, demanding job, caring for a pompous ass. Stop it. You don't know that's what happened. "I'm sorry to hear that. I liked Susan." She turned away and scanned the room for someone interesting to speak to. "Excuse me, Jon. I see Phillipa Bergstrom over there. I'd been hoping to catch up with her." Without waiting for his reply, she slipped between two conversational clusters and escaped. Too bad Phillipa didn't exist.
Suddenly tired beyond belief, she decided to head back to her hotel. She'd order room service, relax for the evening. Making nice could be exhausting.
This time she took a cab.
Chapter Five
The message light was blinking when she got to her room.
"Dr. Banister? Gwendolyn Pine here. I did a little digging and found a few answers for you. And a whole lot I can't tell you. Ordinarily I wouldn't admit the latter, but the situation is just peculiar enough that I think you deserve to know that yes, indeed, there is a connection with law enforcement, but not the Portland Police. And that's all I am at liberty to say.
"As for the package, it arrived at our office by messenger, with handwritten instructions as to where and when to send it. We have the instructions, but I'm afraid I can't let you see them without a warrant. I hope you understand. Apparently Mr. Jor--oh, dear, forget I said that. Apparently the sender didn't want any connection between himself and the package."
If Ms. Pine's slip of the tongue was accidental, Emaline would eat her fleece cap. She noted the phone number Pine recited before hanging up and added it to her contacts list. While she probably had all the information she was going to get, this was a connection she wanted to maintain. Just in case.
So Harry had been in the Seattle area in February. He'd called from this area code three weeks ago. Was he still here? In hiding? Or skulking about the underside of town, risking his life by playing a very dangerous game?
She used the in-room coffeemaker to brew herself a pot of chamomile tea. Nasty stuff, but it might help her relax. She had a lot of thinking to do.
A lot of decisions to make.
While she sipped and grimaced, she called Amy. They discussed everything that had happened since Martha had told them about buying the dog. The only conclusion they reached was that yes, Martha was probably capable of murder. "I just don't see her doing the research needed to do what I was thinking," she said, finally.
"No, Martha wouldn't put any effort into it," Amy agreed.
There was nothing more either of them could say.
After a night filled with sudden awakenings to the sounds of sirens, of rain beating on the window, of voices in the hall outside her room, she woke stuffy-nosed, stiff, and without energy. Even coffee, real, strong, with caffeine, didn't help.
She was no more sure what to do about Martha than she had been last night. Nor was she certain what to do about BioLogic.
The mere thought of heading in to work on Monday morning made her stomach churn. The whole atmosphere that had made the lab a pleasant place to work was gone, and soon so would be the people whose company she enjoyed. Roger had given notice Monday, and just before she'd left the office on Tuesday, Stan Vilovek, lab tech par excellence, had told her about his new position at OHSU. She was pretty sure Patty, in HR, would be next.
With the application of a little will power, she banished her dilemmas to the back of her mind and prepared for another day at the symposium. There was a panel on technology she wanted to attend this afternoon. She'd heard of a DNA sequencer that was unbelievably fast and knew one of the panelists was from the company that made it. And this evening was the banquet, which she wouldn't mind missing, but had promised to attend with Jon Crabtree and some other Stanford alums.
* * * *
"And when that ball rolled in, I yelled like a banshee."
Emaline swallowed a yawn. What had made her imagine that people who had never been particularly good friends in grad school would have become interesting and amusing over the past twenty-odd years? Jon was still a golf-addicted pompous ass, except now he wore his hair in a comb-over instead of a ponytail. Belinda Smithers was still convinced the government was spying on her research, and Knute Kaplan was still her "boyfriend", even though they'd had three children together. The rest of the group were people she'd only known in passing or not at all, their only common link being grad school at Stanford.
She tuned the conversation out and wondered how the man she'd found yesterday was. Hopefully he was still alive. Perhaps she should call Detective Nguyen and ask how he was, rather than waiting to be interrogated.
As if you have a clue to what happened to the poor man. You already told the police all you know.
"I can't believe it's all that difficult to determine whether the nicotine poison was deliberately administered. His argument was weak, and I suspect some of his data were misinterpreted. In fact..."
The speaker was somewhere behind her, and probably moving away, because his words were dissolving into the general buzz of conversation. But they triggered a memory of something she'd intended to do, and hadn't.
Before she could be distracted again, she stood. "I'm going to say goodnight." When several voices were raised in protest, she said, "I've got an early engagement tomorrow before I head back to Portland. It's been great seeing everyone, and I hope you'll all have safe travel home."
She was out of the banquet hall before the token protests had died down. On her way to the hotel lobby, she remembered seeing a door labeled business center. With luck, no one would be using it at ten on a Saturday night.
Yes, there it was. Empty. She pushed the door closed behind her and pulled out her phone. She decided to text, because there was a slim chance Detective Armbruster had the night off. She didn't want to intrude on his personal life.
Re: Kaczynski death, check for nicotine residue on skin, abnormally high levels in tissues. Will explain when I return.
She hesitated, reread the message. Martha had been her friend for a long time. Did she really want to do this? Of all people, she should know what it was like to wish for the death of someone you loved. Should sympathize.
It's not like I'm accusing her. I only want to know the truth.
She hit SEND.
And assuaged her instant guilt by telling herself it was probably far too late and Walt's body had been washed and sanitized and maybe even released for burial.
When Emaline walked into her hotel room the first thing she saw was the message light on the phone. Again. Her stomach clenched at what it might mean, and she sat on the side of the bed and stared at the blinking red light for a good five minutes.
Whether the message was news of Harry, word that the man in the street had died, or Armbruster calling with questions, she really didn't want to know. But much as she wanted to ignore it, she just couldn't. She picked up the receiver and punched in the message retrieval code.
"Dr. Banister, Marc Fujimoto, Seattle Police, here. Detective Nguyen told me what a generous thing you did yesterday. You probably saved a life. Our mystery man is going to be fine, eventually. I've got a few more questions I'd like answers for and I'm hoping you can help me. Is there any chance you can come to the station tomorrow morning? Around eleven? Or if that's inconvenient, tell me where
and when we can get together before you leave town." He recited a number and the call ended.
There had been a note of strain in his voice. Something was going on. She trashed her plans for the next day and decided to call him first thing in the morning. A mystery sounded far more interesting than the aquarium.
* * * *
"What time is your flight?" Lieutenant Fujimoto spoke over his shoulder as he led her back toward the door she'd entered not five minutes before. They were going to the hospital where, he'd informed her, she was needed.
"My train is at five-thirty, but I should be there thirty minutes before."
"Good. We've plenty of time. I'll try not to keep you long, though."
Once the car was moving, she said, "Lieutenant, I confess to a certain uneasiness. I don't understand why we're going to visit a street person I found bleeding in an alley. I didn't even see his face until after I called 911."
His chuckle sounded forced. "I don't blame you for being mystified. But trying to explain would only confuse the issue. I promise all will be clear once we've-- Shit!" He jerked the wheel hard to the left. As soon as they were past the rusty pickup they'd narrowly missed, he reached for the handset on the dash. While she listened in fascination, he recited make, model and license number of the vehicle. "He's heading west on Yessler. Watch for him. He's drunk or impaired."
"Drunk? This early in the morning?" As soon as she spoke, she realized how naÏve she sounded.
"Any time, day or night. Anyhow, I was saying that it'll be easier to explain everything when we get to the hospital. Can you be patient until then?"
"Of course." She forced herself to relax. The lieutenant was a smooth driver and the big car was comfortable.
They both had to show identification to get past the pair of uniformed cops guarding the hospital room. The man in the bed was gaunt, with yellowing bruises on face and bare arms. Two of his fingers were splinted, a thick bandage covered one shoulder and his upper chest, and the toes of his right foot protruded from a cast. His left hand was so swathed in bandages that it resembled a club.
"Jim, this is Dr. Banister, the lady you owe your life to." Lieutenant Fujimoto's tone was not that of a cop speaking to a miscreant.
The gaunt man in the bed held out the hand with the splints. "Believe me, Doctor, I am eternally grateful." His voice was hoarse, as if his throat was sore. "But I'll bet you're wondering why I asked Marc to bring you here."
"I didn't know you had," was all she could manage, while trying to figure out how to shake hands without hurting him. What the dickens is going on here?
"As soon as I found out who my savior was, I started demanding to see you. It just took me a while to convince my boss it was safe. A while and a recommendation from a friend of yours in Portland. Rich Armbruster. He says you've given them a hand once or twice." He leaned back and closed his eyes. "Sorry. I forget that I'm not supposed to move too quickly."
Emaline took the chair Fujimoto slid toward her. Once seated, she said, "All right, you've managed to totally mystify me. What made you contact Detective Armbruster, and how did you know--"
"Excuse me, Doctor. I've got a call. I'll leave you here and when you're ready to go, just tell one of the boys outside to arrange transportation." Fujimoto slid out the door before she could react.
"I presume you're going to explain?" She did her best to conceal her impatience--and her interest. So far this morning had unfolded like a third-rate spy melodrama. Furthermore, in her opinion, "Jim" was in no condition to explain anything. He looked as if a mild breeze would blow him away.
Without opening his eyes, he said, "Before I do, I'll have to ask for your word that nothing I tell you will go any further."
"Oh, for pity's sake! Don't tell me you're some sort of undercover cop and my life will be in peril if word gets out that I know what you're up to." As soon as she spoke, she regretted her impatience. This poor man had been through hell, and probably believed he was still in danger. "Is Jim really your name? Jim what?"
"It's one of my names." His small smile was one-sided, giving her the impression that the joke was on him. "The one I use here in Seattle. What do you know about the sex trade in Portland?"
She gaped. After a moment, she said, "Nothing. Not a thing. Why should I--"
He opened his eyes and looked straight at her. "Sorry. I put that badly. What I should have done was ask if you're aware of the magnitude of the sex trade along the Pacific Coast."
"Well, yes, I've read that I-5 is like a pipeline for the young runaways that the pimps and procurers prey upon. But what--"
"I'm one of the good guys. I've been undercover for two years, trying to get to those on top. Yes, the pimps are the ones who manage the kids on the streets, but there are levels above them. And those are the people we're after."
For the next half hour, Emaline got a horrifying education in the realities of the predators who turned scared kids into prostitutes, drug addicts, and all too often, into unidentified corpses. Jim told her of an unnamed agency that fought to save those kids, a federal task force that operated so far undercover that even some local police weren't aware of it. "Sometimes we get lucky and get one of the top men," Jim concluded, "but just as often we run into a brick wall. That's when we have to bring in help."
"But why are you telling me this?"
"When I learned your name, I knew I had to talk to you. Otherwise, you may never know what happened."
His eyes closed again, but she had the feeling that this time it wasn't physical pain that gripped him.
An icy knot formed in her gut, and its tendrils crept along her arms and legs. She wanted to tell him to shut up. Wanted to get up and run away.
"We needed help. Someone completely unknown in the trade. Someone we could trust. When we put out word, we got half a dozen volunteers. One was exactly what we were looking for. He'd never worked vice, had a spotless record, a reputation for getting the job done.
"He came up here on special loan to our agency and infiltrated the local organization. We provided him with a background, so he got inside fairly quickly. And then one day he..." Jim swallowed.
"One day he disappeared. One of our other operatives saw him walk out of an office alone, saw him drive away alone. A couple of days later, word was out that he was a mole, and there was a price on his head. The police found the car abandoned over on the East Side. It had been stripped and abandoned on a street in a less-than-prosperous industrial area. A couple of days later, his primary informer's body was fished out of the Sound."
The cold had spread to her brain. Her thoughts were frozen.
"Dr. Banister, I asked Lieutenant Fujimoto to bring you here because I recognized your name. Harry Jordan listed you as his emergency contact."
Chapter Six
After that, nothing he said really penetrated. Not until he said, "Much as I hate to say this, there's a good possibility he's dead."
"No! He's alive. I know he is. He called--"
"Called? Harry called y--" Breathing heavily, Jim fell back against his pillows. "Sorry. I keep forgetting I'm not supposed to be sitting up." He kept his eyes closed as he visibly relaxed. "When did Harry call you?" He said after a long moment.
"The week before last. No, three weeks ago. On Friday. Late. I was getting ready to leave the office."
"Thank God. This means there's still hope." He moved restlessly, attempted to sit upright again. And fell back against the pillows.
"Dr. Banister, will you hand me the phone, please?"
"No, but I'll make the call for you. What's the number?" She waited, while he glared helplessly at her.
At last he recited it. "When someone answers, say you're Wonder Woman and ask to speak to Captain Marvel. Tell him you're calling for The Shadow."
When she couldn't hold back a snicker, he grinned in response. "Hey, whatever works."
"I won't ask what Harry's nickname was."
"Just as well. I wouldn't tell you." He lay with eyes closed until s
he had an extremely suspicious-sounding Captain Marvel on the line.
"Please hold for The Shadow." To Jim, she said, "Shall I hold it for you?" With fore- and middle fingers in splints, his grip on the receiver would be precarious at best.
"Please. And pretend you can't hear a word I'm saying. For your own good."
She deliberately tuned out his side of the conversation, not that she'd have understood most of it. What she did gather was that the search for Harry, which had been discontinued, would be resumed. One sentence came through loud and clear. "Once you find him, send him home."
A sentiment she totally agreed with. She bit her tongue until Jim finally said goodbye to Captain Marvel. When she lowered the receiver from his ear, she took a good look at his face. His skin was pasty and a pulse throbbed frantically at his temple.
"You're really going to send him home?"
"His cover's broken and he's no good to us anymore. As long as he's in town, he's in deadly danger."
"But how will you find him?"
Jim didn't speak immediately. At last came a hoarse whisper. "I don't know."
Taking pity on him, Emaline said, "You need to rest. If there's nothing more I can do here, I might as well salvage what I can of my plans for today." As if she could be a carefree tourist after what she'd learned.
"We'll be in touch if we learn anything."
"I'd rather you'd just send Harry back to me." As soon as she said it, she realized how bitchy she sounded. "Jim, I know what you're doing is worthwhile and noble, but I'm not used to being quite so...so intimately involved with this side of law enforcement. To be honest, compared to what you do, solving a simple murder seems almost...clean."
His whispery laugh turned quickly into a suppressed groan. "Doctor, there are days I agree with you. Take care."
The policeman outside quickly arranged for her transportation. Half an hour later, she was walking into the Seattle Aquarium, and trying to put herself in Harry's place. If she were going to hide in a town she wasn't totally familiar with, where would she go?