Maybe it was on silent, or the headphones were plugged in. Pip glanced at the SUV. Cindy must be here somewhere. Maybe she was in the shower.
Pip stepped inside, then quietly closed the screen door behind her because her friend hated mosquitoes with the force of a thousand suns. “Cindy?”
Nothing, except a grackle calling from the trees.
Pip looked around. The place was clean and tidy, but for a bottle and an empty glass on the coffee table. It wasn’t like Cindy to leave a mess. Cindy was precise and meticulous about hygiene and clutter, her work life mirroring her personal life.
Pip’s mouth dropped open in shock when she spotted white powder residue on the glass table top. Next to the powder lay a straw.
What the hell?
No way. No frickin way.
Cindy was way too smart to snort chemicals.
Did she have a new boyfriend who was into that shit? They’d both dated their fair share of losers over the years, but this wasn’t like her friend. Pip wasn’t about to judge, but she was gonna help kick this loser to the curb.
Maybe Cindy was under more stress than she’d let on and their fight had tipped her over the edge? Guilt rose up. Pip should have let go of her anger and contacted her friend. What sort of horrible human being held onto annoyance simply because she couldn’t take what she was dishing out?
Her sort, apparently.
She walked through the living room and past the small kitchen nook with its ancient breakfast bar. “You here, Cind?”
As she headed to the office at the back of the house, floorboards creaked under her feet. She paused, the small hairs on the nape of her neck lifting—as if a ghost were trailing a cold hand across her skin.
“Cindy?” Her voice trembled.
The room was empty. The air in her lungs rushed out and she held onto the doorjamb feeling lightheaded. “Ninny.”
Cindy was going to laugh her ass off when she heard how freaked out Pip was. Pip didn’t frighten easy, but the last few weeks had reminded her monsters existed.
Pip squared her shoulders. This was crazy. Maybe Cindy had gone back into the city in a different vehicle and had forgotten to lock up. Or she’d needed something from the store and had biked into town. Or maybe she was out shagging the hot guy from the neighboring cottage they’d met last year.
Pip winced at the memory of their fight. And if Cindy had hooked up, that was her business.
She’d mentioned not feeling well last night. Perhaps her BFF was in bed, helpless, with a fever.
Pip ran up the stairs, calling out her friend’s name as she went. There were two small bedrooms at the back of the house and the main bedroom that had been Cindy’s parents up until the summer before last.
The thought of Mr. and Mrs. Resnick and Cindy’s little brother Richie brought a lump to Pip’s throat but she forced it away.
The bed in the main bedroom was made as was the norm for her neat freak friend. No sign of Cindy though. Pip was reassured by the sight of her friend’s makeup arranged tidily on the vanity. Pip walked to the small balcony overlooking the lake and stared down at the smooth surface of the water. The view was dear and familiar and usually soothed her heart. But not this time. This time she was too worried about Cindy.
Where was she?
The tin boat was tied to the dock. The yellow kayak Cindy liked to paddle around the shoreline was pulled up next to the big oak.
Something broke the surface beside the dock and caused concentric ripples to spread through the water.
A fish, probably.
It surfaced again.
Something pale.
Almost white.
Half under the dock.
Wrong shape for a fish or a turtle. It looked like a bark-stripped tree branch. Pip squinted against the light reflecting on the water.
Realization streaked through her body like a flash of white-hot lightning. Panic erupted. Every nerve. Every blood vessel exploded into action. Her pulse punched her throat.
She bolted down the stairs, careening across the smooth wooden floor, slamming through the sliding door. Running as fast as she could though she felt like she was in slo-mo, rocks skittering as she hurled herself down the steep path. She tossed her purse and cell on the bank and threw herself into the water, half swimming, half floundering, desperate to catch hold of the person floating face down in the cold lake.
Pip knew it was Cindy before she turned her over. She knew her size, her form, the short blonde hair plastered to her skull. Her lips were blue. Sobbing, Pip caught her under the arms, muscles burning, back straining, using every ounce of strength to get her out of the water, up onto the bank.
The only thing Cindy wore was her tattoo. They’d both gotten one at Christmas. Cindy’s said “Mind” with a line beneath it, and the word “Matter” below that.
Mind over Matter.
Pip used that philosophy to haul Cindy’s larger frame onto the bank.
Where were Cindy’s clothes?
Had she been assaulted?
Blood pounded in Pip’s ears.
Horror crawled through her stomach and up her throat and spilled out in a yell. “Don’t you dare die on me, Cindy Resnick!”
Cindy wasn’t breathing.
Pip ignored the hopelessness that wanted to turn her into a useless mess and instead called on the lifesaving skills she’d learned to help fund her way through college. She angled Cindy’s head, sealed her lips to Cindy’s mouth, forcing warm air into still lungs. She pressed two fingers to ice-smooth skin, searching for a pulse.
Nothing.
She tried again, tears bubbling to the surface, getting in the way of her efforts. She wiped her wet hand on the grass and reached for her cell, quickly entering the code when her thumbprint didn’t work.
“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”
“Ambulance. My f-friend. I just pulled her out of the lake. She’s not breathing. Please send help ASAP. I can’t talk. I need to do CPR.” She reeled off the address and started chest compressions, her cell on speaker beside her. She avoided Cindy’s sightless eyes and concentrated instead on not falling apart.
Please, God, help me save her and I will never ask for anything ever again.
Miracles happened.
The lake was cold.
Thirty chest compressions. Two breaths. Watching the artificial rise and fall of Cindy’s chest filled Pip with hope. She would breathe for her. As long as it took. Again and again until her limbs shook with fatigue and her lips cracked and split.
Each second lasted for a million years and yet time ran away like sand in a storm and her friend still didn’t take over. Didn’t cough or draw in her own hoarse breath. Didn’t push her own blood around her inert body.
Fear set in. Pips hands shook. Her arms ached. Her knees hurt.
Her lungs burned with a need for more oxygen but she didn’t give up. Cindy was the one person in the world who mattered to her.
“I’m here, Cindy. I’ve got you.” Don’t die.
Pip loved her so damn much.
Don’t let her die. I’ll do anything.
It took almost an hour for the medics to arrive. Pip never stopped trying to revive her friend. She’d keep going forever if there was the slightest hope Cindy could be saved.
Just breathe!
When the paramedic gently urged her away she rolled onto her side in the dirt, too exhausted to move, sweat coating every inch of her body as she stared up at the limitless blue sky.
Her efforts were for nothing. Cindy was dead.
* * *
Hunt bounced along the rutted rural road near Lake Allatoona searching for the right address. Will Griffin and Mandy Fuller had both texted him saying that Crowley and his cronies were in custody, bleating like sheep about this being a massive mistake. Until they’d realized that the first one to roll had the best chance of saving himself. Needless to say, they’d all rolled.
Will had wanted to know what was up with the SAC, but Hunt
had been sworn to secrecy and couldn’t tell him.
After a quick trip to CDC he’d gone to Blake University on the southeast edge of the city, to speak to staff and students who worked on Bacillus anthracis. Professor Karen Spalding, head of the Microbiology Department, had been showing him around their brand-new biosafety laboratories when she’d received an urgent call from the departmental secretary.
Visibly upset, Spalding had explained that a grad student from the department had been found dead at her lake house an hour north of the city. Cindy Resnick had been working on a new vaccine against anthrax—a double whammy on his investigation checklist. The timing was too much of a coincidence to ignore.
He’d left his card and contact information with Spalding and called McKenzie at SIOC to fill him in. He’d been passed to an analyst named Libby Hernandez who was compiling background info on the dead girl to see if there were any links to the case, which had been codenamed BLACKCLOUD.
Hunt checked directions on his phone. Definitely in the boonies now. Sparse trees lined the road with scrubby underbrush creating an impenetrable screen. A group of whitetail deer scattered up ahead and he slowed his tan Buick—the ugliest car in the FBI Atlanta Field Office’s fleet—to a crawl. His idea of adventure didn’t involve a deer through his windscreen.
Local detectives were supposed to meet him at the scene.
The area was vaguely familiar. He and Will had taken canoe trips and white-water rafting adventures in some of the nearby rivers. Quiet green woodland surrounded him. Tall broadleaf trees stretched all the way to the shore.
He rounded the corner and finally reached the turnoff for the cottage. After a short drive the lake came into view and the dazzling reflection of light off the water made his eyes sting.
Short dock. Boat. Kayak. Rustic, but well-maintained cottage. Red SUV parked next to an older model sedan that was sun-baked and worn. His gaze sharpened on the Florida plates.
He pulled to a stop beside a cute-looking outhouse, wood stacked neatly in the lean-to. Six pairs of eyes watched his progress as he got out of his Bureau issued vehicle—his “Bucar” in agency slang. An ME and his assistant stood over the body down by the water. A dark-haired woman sat on a stump, hugging her knees in the shade of the trees. The fact she had a pretty face was probably the main reason a deputy was hovering over her like an overprotective shadow.
Another deputy held a logbook near the steps of the property.
“Agent Kincaid.” Hunt spoke quietly and flashed his badge at the man and signed the log.
A cop in plainclothes came over and introduced himself. Detective Lance Howell. They shook hands. Hunt had spoken to him on the phone.
“What do you have?” asked Hunt.
“Twenty-eight-year-old female, name of Cindy Resnick, found dead in the water. Suspected drug overdose. Friend,” Howell nodded to the dark-haired woman down by the water, “Pippa West, claims she arrived from out of town and found the vic lying face down in the water at 9:05 AM when she immediately called 911. Paramedics found West doing CPR when they arrived an hour later. Vic was already dead.”
It was now noon and these people had been waiting all morning for him to arrive, which would make him the least popular man at the party.
“Vic was naked?” Hunt eyed the pale body against the dark earth.
The detective nodded. “Some minor bruising on the arms but not enough to clearly indicate trauma.” The detective’s eyes held no sympathy, only annoyance this was taking up so much of his time.
“Next of kin been informed?”
“According to Ms. West the vic didn’t have any living family. We’re looking into it.” Howell rested his hands on his belt. He wore a denim shirt and faded jeans and made Hunt feel stuffy and overdressed.
“Photographer’s in the cottage, she already took shots of the body. Frankly, we don’t usually put much effort into cases like this but when the FBI said they wanted to get involved…”
The man wanted to know what was going on. Hunt wished he could tell him.
The heat was stifling in the midday sun so Hunt took off his jacket. He opened the car door and hung it over the back of the seat. Felt eyeballs on him and turned to find the woman who’d discovered the body, watching him intently, clearly trying to overhear what he and the detective said.
She didn’t look away when he caught her staring. Oval face with brown-black eyes and hair the deep, blue-black of a clear night sky. Her eyes were intelligent—weighing and measuring everything from his badge to the detective’s sour expression.
Another scientist?
The ME rolled the vic onto her side and the woman’s gaze darted back to her friend, looking anguished.
“What makes you so sure she ODed?” asked Hunt.
The detective grunted. “Found traces of white powder on the glass table inside.”
White powder… Ah, shit.
The detective would have run a color test that indicated the possible presence of cocaine. That didn’t mean it was cocaine. And even if it was cocaine, it didn’t mean it was just cocaine.
“Looks like someone had a few drinks and did a few lines. She might not have ODed,” the detective conceded with his exaggerated Georgia twang. “She might have gotten high and decided it was a good idea to go skinny-dipping and drowned. But it’s still drug related, and it still frustrates the hell outta me.” His shoulders pulled back, high and tight.
But it might be more than just a drug thing. Cindy Resnick’s death might be connected to the attempted sale of a bioweapon to international terrorists.
A light breeze rustled the leaves on the nearby trees. Thoughts of anthrax spores floating invisible on the air had Hunt glancing uneasily in the direction of the cottage. The ache in his arm from the vaccination he’d been given at the CDC earlier suddenly didn’t hurt so bad.
Each person who’d attended the scene was gonna need to be vaccinated as a precaution, including the civilian—although if McKenzie and Frazer were to be believed, the current vaccine might not work on this particular strain of the deadly bacteria.
Hunt eyed the friend. Something told him she was going to be trouble. She reached up and touched the deputy’s hand and the guy practically preened under her attention. Yep. Serious trouble.
“Why are the Feds involved?” Howell asked straight out when he’d been silent too long.
Hunt wished he could flat-out tell him, but it was restricted, need-to-know. “I need to get clearance to bring you in on this. Let me talk to my boss.”
Despite being unhappy Howell nodded and backed away. Hunt dialed McKenzie and updated him on the situation.
McKenzie swore. “Work it as a suspicious death. I’ll contact CDC and they can send in a team to do an immediate sweep for anthrax spores. I have a HMRU team heading to Atlanta and another staging in LA.” HMRU—the Hazardous Materials Response Unit—were usually based at Quantico. “They can collect evidence at your scene just in case it is anthrax.”
Some kinds of evidence were more ephemeral than others—fingerprints, for example, deteriorated over time. If Cindy Resnick was a terrorist instead of a recreational coke-head, they needed to figure out who else was involved with her. He looked at the friend.
“Spin it as routine.” McKenzie meant lie.
Great.
Hunt got off the phone and faced the detective, keeping his voice low, aware that the friend—Pippa West—watched them keenly.
He gave his back to the woman. “Remember the anthrax letters sent through the mail just after 9/11?”
Detective Howell pulled a face. “Who doesn’t?”
Hunt nodded. “Since the AMERITHRAX investigation the USDA instigated a bunch of new regs.”
“They do love their regulations. What does that have to do with this?” Howell’s eyes narrowed.
“That includes what happens after the suspicious death of anyone researching certain pathogens, which is why I’m here.”
The detective’s gaze sharpened. “Vic
was a researcher?”
“Ph.D. student.”
“Studying…?”
“Anthrax.”
Howell put his thumbs in the loops of his jeans and made a face. “Which is a white powder. Shit.”
Hopefully the detective hadn’t tasted the powder the way some narcs did.
“With your permission the Feds will take over processing the scene as a precaution and we’ll also give everyone who visited the scene a vaccination just in case.” And hoped it worked against this new weaponized version of the disease. “We are not expecting to find any spores here,” he didn’t want to start a panic, “but we don’t want to ignore the possibility.” Hunt stared at the cottage. “We should probably get the photographer out of there until it’s declared safe. I’d like copies of the images she’s taken if possible.”
Howell nodded, looking pissed.
Hunt tried to reassure the man. “I’m sure it’s exactly what you think it is. A drug-related fatality with no risk to yourself or others. The CDC will come out to test the powder to make sure it’s just coke. I’d appreciate help interviewing any potential witnesses around the lake or in the local community. Track down the vic’s movements for the last week or so. Figure out where she got the drugs. I’m just one agent…” He raised his hands with the implied message. This isn’t important enough for the Bureau to put much effort into and I need help.
The detective’s expression turned from freaked to irritated. “It’s not contagious, right?”
“Nope. Not contagious.” Of course, the bioweapon that some asshole had tried to sell to the highest bidder was an unknown entity. Hunt eyed the woman who’d supposedly tried to save her friend. He wondered how contagious a pathogen was if someone gave an infected person mouth-to-mouth.
“Thing is…” Hunt lowered his voice. “If anyone spots the CDC here, next thing you know we’ll have an Ebola outbreak in rural Georgia.”
The dark-haired woman was staring at him so hard he was starting to think she could read lips.
“Can I ask you to talk to your deputies, and the other people who attended the scene? Assure them this is routine? CDC doc can head down to the police station or local hospital to give everyone who attended their shot and some antibiotics. They can sign a waiver and refuse if they want to.” No pressure. No big deal.
Cold Blooded Page 3