by Sarah Lovett
And now Sweetheart let his gaze travel around the single room of the bar. A half-dozen customers were talking to their beer or the bartender. Apparently it was going to be a slow night; only the diehards were hanging on to their stools or the long, polished wooden bar top.
Dexter sat back until the chair was balanced on two legs, and then he webbed his fingers together behind his cropped silver-blond hair. The deputy director of security looked tired, rough-shaven, rumpled.
He said, "I'll be glad when we move on from this case. These are the ones I always hated when I did criminal investigation. Palmer could walk away now and you'd have nothing to stop her."
Sweetheart nodded. "Where will you be tomorrow?"
"As far away from you and the feds as possible. The lab wants complete dissociation from any effort to entrap Palmer. Where I'm concerned, the lab gets what it wants."
But there was something, Sweetheart could see that, so he just waited.
When Dexter was ready, he said, "A man matching Paul Lang's description tried to enter a secure area of LANL today. We caught him on the security cameras. But he disappeared before we could get him." He slid an envelope across the table.
Sweetheart opened the flap and peered discreetly inside at the surveillance photo. "So we know he's here. But why?"
"Isn't that obvious? The feds and the Brits have him on a 'watch' list because they're worried about one of their own gone ballistic."
"I never liked 'obvious,'" Sweetheart said.
The bartender delivered two Newcastles. He took Sweetheart's $20 bill with him when he left.
Dexter frowned. "Less obvious . . . Lang has a contact at the lab. Maybe even Palmer."
Sweetheart's eyes narrowed. He was considering how much to confide in Dexter. He chose the middle road. "You know Doug Thomas owed child support, credit cards, the usual."
Dexter nodded grudgingly. "Something like that."
"But you don't know about the offshore accounts," Sweetheart said, matching Dexter's low tones. "Not until we tell you where to look."
Dexter just raised his eyebrows.
"There was a deposit the day before he died." Sweetheart etched the number on the table with his finger: $50,000. He watched his companion take in the dollar signs and digits. "The bank was told to expect another deposit within a week—for a similar amount."
Dexter's face darkened and he swallowed anger with his beer. "Bastard was a traitor." He wiped his mouth roughly. "A traitor and a profiteer."
"Selling what?"
"Information or product." Dexter paused. "Or something even more valuable."
"A recipe for production."
"But I doubt Thomas had access to the big picture. That's Palmer's domain." Dexter stared at his glass as if he might find what they were seeking. "I'm betting he sold a sample of the product itself."
"Why haven't we heard that something's out there?"
"Maybe both our sources need updating," Dexter said. Then he smiled. "Or maybe it's not out there."
Sweetheart's eyebrows rose again. "Thomas got the deposit, he did his part of the deal—"
"And then he died," Dexter finished.
"Before the product was delivered to the buyer."
"So who has it?" Dexter frowned. "Dr. Palmer?"
"Or maybe Paul Lang didn't come to take his revenge on Palmer, maybe he took over as courier—maybe he came to pick up the delivery he never got."
CHAPTER
20
The steps are simple.
First, choose. Which toxin will be most appropriate? Which is at hand? Is there some lesson to be learned, some question to be answered by choosing one over the other? If possible, always choose a teacher.
Second, study. Observe, be patient, acquire knowledge of the adversary's world: lifestyle, habits, preferences, territory, traits. Opportunities abound.
Third, implement. The elixir must be secreted in a location that will remain undetected and undetectable by the adversary. A distillation in a bottle of favorite shampoo; just one example.
Fourth, beware. And be wary. This is when danger is highest, perhaps the one and only moment of connection.
Fifth, finalize. Remove all evidence, clean house, tie up loose ends.
Sixth, wait. Hours, days, weeks, months. Wait for the adversary to self-administer a toxic dose.
Seventh, watch. Sit back and enjoy the show.
CHAPTER
21
Sylvia woke before dawn with butterflies in her stomach. A dull headache had disturbed her sleep and left her feeling disoriented, and she had to force herself out of bed. She retrieved a sweatsuit from the dryer, double-tied the laces on her trail runners, and took off for the ridge with both dogs in tow. Rocko was slow but steady; Nikki, the three-legged wonder dog, was faster than most animals with four.
Between the two of them, the dogs kept her at a steady pace, but the thirty-minute run did little to clear mental cobwebs or make her feel easier about her imminent rendezvous with Christine Palmer.
She finished cooling down with stretches on the deck, paying special attention to the ache in her thighs and the tightness in both Achilles'.
The air was soft and crisp. The sun had splashed papaya colors all across the sky. A slight breeze rustled the branches of cottonwoods, elms, aspens, and locusts, scattering the turning leaves, sending them spiraling to the ground. A perfect fall morning, but Sylvia couldn't enjoy it. She was feeling more and more on edge, and slightly queasy. The colors seemed too bright, the breeze too cool.
When she entered the kitchen, the aroma of brewing beans almost gave her a contact caffeine high. Matt was pouring cream into his mug. Sylvia watched him fill hers with coffee so brown it looked black; a curl of steam wafted from the surface in slow motion.
He was dressed in Levi's (buttoned but not yet zipped), no shirt, no shoes; his short salt-and-pepper hair was fresh out of bed, ruffled every which way. All in all, he was easy on the eyes.
She kissed him, accepted the mug, and sipped the coffee. They'd settled into an uneasy peace—a truce—until she was through with this day, this case.
"Rosie called while you were running," he said. "She's threatening to camp in the driveway if you don't call her back. She wants me to issue a B.O.L.O."
She managed a halfway smile. "I'll call her later."
He went to work feeding hungry dogs. Two ceramic bowls—one small, one large—were partially filled with kibble. He topped the meals off with scraps saved from people meals. The dogs, familiar with the routine, waited patiently side by side, licking their chops. It took them less than twenty seconds to devour their respective breakfasts.
Sylvia and Matt settled at the kitchen table. A wall of glass offered a view of the deck, the garden, and the acreage beyond, where volcanic rock formations were decorated with prickly pear, cholla, and chamiso. The wall might as well have been between them.
She nibbled plain rye toast. Her stomach was jumpy, and she hoped a light meal would settle it. She found herself massaging her temples, trying to work out the dull pain.
Matt watched her, giving her time to gather herself. Wordlessly, she thanked him for his instincts, for his awareness of her rhythms. She knew she wasn't always easy to be around.
After a silence, she wiped the crumbs from her chin and said, "I'd better shower. Get going."
"You sure you want to do this?"
"No." Her smile belonged to a skittish, worried ten-year-old. Wrapping her arms around herself, taking a deep breath, she eased the internal swell of anxiety. "But I will. I've got to meet with Palmer."
"Why? What do you expect to learn that you don't already know?"
"I'll be doing exactly what Christine Palmer's doing—I'll be testing and I'll be fishing for information. I'll try to give the surveillance team the chance to get a read on her—how much she suspects, if she's about to make a move. At the same time, I'll see what she gives me to work with—because the key to the profile is Palmer herself. And we've run out
of time." Sylvia took a breath. "It's this or nothing, Matt. What would you do?"
"I'd go," he said slowly. He toyed with a slice of crust from her plate. "If she knows it's a setup—and you and I both believe she does—you'll be sitting two feet away from a killer who feels cornered. That makes you the bait."
"Maybe." Sylvia acknowledged the point with a nod. "But Palmer's too smart to do anything obvious, and I'll be surrounded by federal agents: one inside the restaurant, Sweetheart and two agents in the van, another agent—"
"You don't have to tell me about surveillance procedure," Matt said quietly.
She frowned, then blinked; even the strong coffee hadn't cleared her head. "I thought it would make you feel better to know the specifics."
"It would make me feel better if you didn't go at all."
"That's not an option." She gave a small shrug, her attention on him. For the past year he'd been away from the streets, from basic cop work, to focus on the politics of law enforcement—fund-raising for programs, acting as liason with the governor's office. He was the man who got things done.
But she knew the promotion had come at a cost. He missed the action, the adrenaline, the primal human immediacy of his true job. He was still a criminal investigator, a damn good one, and—she knew—restless to get back into the action. She asked, "Do you want in on this?"
"Damn straight I want in. But too many cooks spoil the soup, too many cops screw up surveillance." He stood abruptly, carrying plates to the sink, then setting them down hard enough to make noise.
Sylvia twisted her mouth, covering her ears with her hands. "You don't have to take it out on the dishes."
Stalling, he moved some things around, gave the dogs water, refilled his mug and hers before he spoke again. "If I believed I'd be any help—not just a hindrance—I'd be there." He shook his head, placing his hands on her shoulders. "Be careful, Syl," he said. "Forget everything else—we'll work it all out later. I love you." His voice was plain, stripped of machismo; he sounded like a man worried about the woman he loved.
The Tesuque Village Market was quiet. It was a weekday, too late for the drive-time commuters, too early for the poets and the unemployed. The local hangout, an old low-slung adobe, was situated on a lightly trafficked corner. The occasional car or motorcycle cruised past the market, which was dwarfed beneath the overhanging branches of huge cottonwoods and Chinese elms.
Sylvia had arrived fifteen minutes early in order to select a predetermined table on the patio—a corner table that offered a peripheral view of the road and the light gray surveillance van roughly eighty feet away, but no eye contact with any federal agents (they couldn't risk Palmer reading inadvertent signs of recognition in Sylvia's body language).
A glass of iced tea and a small fruit plate were arranged on the table in front of her, along with the folder that contained a journal article on the issue of contamination in research labs—the reading material, the food selection, the location of the table, and the proximity of the agents were all part of a prearranged plan with a theme of no surprises.
Sylvia was wearing a wire—permission reluctantly granted after the feds filed a 475 with the U.S. attorney's office. It itched. She resisted the urge to scratch as she pulled the article from the folder and began to read, or more accurately, to make a pretense of reading.
Ninety minutes earlier, she'd made contact with Sweetheart and the agents. As they wired her, they'd gone over the scenario and her agenda: talk to Palmer, listen, encourage intimacy—and be very, very careful.
"What do you want me to do if she offers me something—a book, papers, folders? Supposedly we're meeting to discuss exposure to toxins and symptomology. I don't want to tip her off by acting spooked."
"If she offers you something you can't refuse, handle it with care." Sweetheart watched Sylvia, his eyes narrowing with concern. "Let Palmer leave the table first. That way we can bag the evidence. Nobody's expecting an attempted homicide, but it pays to be careful. Remember, the South Africans tried to assassinate their target with a poisoned umbrella—the Russians succeeded forty years earlier."
"A poisoned umbrella. Great. Pray it doesn't rain."
The surveillance team was in contact with Special Agent Weaver, who was monitoring the target; he let them know the instant she left the Nest.
They'd agreed that Sylvia would proceed to the restaurant on her own, avoiding cell phone, radio, or visual contact with the surveillance team. The only agent she would see during the meeting would be S.A. Simmons—in jogging gear and sporting a ponytail—who would seat herself behind Sylvia at a neighboring table.
They'd discussed several additional contingency plans, and then the morning briefing had ended with Sweetheart pulling Sylvia aside for one last question, one last chance to back out. "Are you going to be okay with all this?"
"I'm fine." But the words were sharp, so she made an effort to soften them. "It will all go fine."
So far, it hadn't.
Not from the first moment, when Palmer leaned down to offer Sylvia a peck on the cheek. Not only had the toxicologist broken social boundaries and invaded Sylvia's personal boundary, but she'd also put her on the defensive by forcing her into a clumsy process of evasion. To avoid contact, Sylvia had opted to play the part of a harassed, disorganized psychologist: she'd dodged the kiss, ignored the proffered hand, launched into distracting chatter about her "morning from hell."
To make matters worse, Palmer had staked out her territory by choosing the adjacent table, offering an excuse: "You don't mind if we change, do you? I've had this quirk since childhood—I don't like my back to the road."
Sylvia—after complying with the request—now sat in a chair that offered no view of the surveillance van but was in a direct sight line with Special Agent Simmons. She had to twist awkwardly in the chair to keep her eyes off the federal agent.
"I brought you a present," Palmer said, holding up a two-inch stack of reading material. Although she leaned back easily in her chair, her gaze was attentive, her eyes bright. "A basic primer on incidents and issues of contamination in the workplace. I'm entrusting it to you, Dr. Strange. As a rule I don't lend material." She held the stack in midair, offering it to Sylvia, refusing to set it down.
"I appreciate your generosity." Sylvia waited several seconds—then, just as she was about to accept the toxicologist's gift, Palmer placed the stack on the table.
"Tell me about your morning from hell."
"My morning from—?" Sylvia shrugged, uncomfortable with the feeling that Palmer had her under a microscope. "Oh, just the usual—too many things to do, woke up on the wrong side of the bed."
"That doesn't sound fun," Palmer murmured. She glanced at their waitress, who had appeared with a coffeepot and an order pad. "Just coffee," she said.
"Cream?"
"Black."
As the waitress left the table, Palmer returned her attention to Sylvia. "If you're always overscheduled, perhaps you need to make some changes in your life."
"Good point. They make a great breakfast burrito here, by the way."
"My day starts at four-thirty. I eat early."
"You get up before five every day? That's impressive." Sylvia shifted her gaze past S.A. Simmons and back to Palmer. The wire under her shirt was digging into her skin; she was conscious of the ongoing audio surveillance. She also had to pee, which wasn't part of the plan. "What time do you go to bed?"
"One A.M."
"On the dot?"
"Actually, yes." Palmer's eyes were wide, unblinking. "I learned long ago that I function best on a strict regimen—always less than five hours' sleep."
Why did Sylvia have the distinct impression that Christine Palmer was expecting something she wasn't getting? She said, "I've known some highly creative people who thrive on very little sleep."
"That's reassuring." Palmer leaned forward, reaching across the table to press her palm to Sylvia's forehead. "You're flushed. And you're warm."
Sylvia flinch
ed, pulling away. "I managed to squeeze in a run this morning." She could feel the spot where Palmer had touched her skin. "I'm probably still revved."
"How's the project going?" Palmer asked abruptly.
"The project . . . " Sylvia took her time. "You mean Dr. Thomas, the psychological autopsy?"
"That must be what I mean," Palmer said, her expression speculative. "You're still involved?"
"Absolutely." There it was again, the feeling that somehow she'd disappointed Palmer. "I'm still gathering data."
"From what I hear, you've been thorough."
"I like to think so." Sylvia pictured Dr. Harris Cray standing next to Palmer's Jaguar; the minute he arrived from London, he must've given his new project director an earful. "Case histories, symptomology data, interviews with project members—this meeting with you, for instance—it's all part of the basic process of gathering, then culling."
"What about research into other incidents of contamination?" Palmer asked slowly. "I assume that interests you as well."
"Of course." The exchange was loaded but oblique. Sylvia wondered if Palmer would probe more aggressively, overtly—without stating as much, they'd just covered the trip to Porton Down and the investigation into Samantha Grayson's death.
But Palmer switched gears again. "How can I be helpful?"
Sylvia realized she was staring. "I'm sorry?"
"What would make it easier for you to piece together what happened to Doug Thomas? I want to help."
"I need to understand more about his work," Sylvia said slowly. "You could tell me about the project."
"How technical do you want me to get?"
"Start with medium. I'll let you know if you need to go less or more."
Palmer nodded. "A lot of what we do is DNA isolation, gene amplification. For instance, when there are close groupings of taxonomic families, we analyze the similarities; some genes are more highly consistent, or well-conserved, than others. If there are strong similarities between family A and family B, we extract the DNA, attach primers to the site for a specific gene, make multiple copies—"