Cold Blooded

by Toni Anderson

“Can you tell me the name of her last boyfriend?”

  Most murder victims were killed by someone they knew. Most were killed by someone they were in a relationship with. Did he think Cindy had been murdered? The thought was horrific but made more sense than Cindy suddenly experimenting with narcotics.

  “Dane Garnett. I never met him but I spoke to him a few times on speaker. He seemed okay.” Pip’s lips were dry and cracked. She rubbed the rough skin. “Cindy said he was handsome and ripped, but not that smart.”

  Pip felt embarrassed to be sharing Cindy’s intimate confessions but she wanted this officer of the law to have enough information to find out exactly what had happened.

  He gave her a faint smile. She’d have had to be blind not to notice he was ripped, and from the assessing light in his eyes he was also smart.

  “Where’d they meet?”

  “They hooked up at a bar. But he was also in her running club. They only dated for about a month. Broke up at the beginning of March.”

  “She was a runner?” Agent Kincaid made a note in his spiral notebook.

  Pip nodded. “Five miles every day. She got me into it in college. Used to drag me with her so she didn’t have to go out alone at night.”

  All those years of being careful.

  “Is that where you two met?” he asked.

  All those years of being safe.

  “Freshmen in college. Yes.” Pip couldn’t think about their shared past without breaking down. She changed the subject. “She dated another guy for a couple years in grad school but found out he cheated and dumped him. They were pretty serious.” The asshole. “Pete Dexter. She thought they were gonna get married and have babies.”

  Pip watched the Medical Examiner and his assistant tuck Cindy’s body into a black body bag. Paper bags covered Cindy’s hands—to preserve evidence, Pip knew. The two men, with the help of a deputy, hoisted Cindy onto a stretcher. Pip took an involuntary step forward to help.

  Strong fingers curled around her upper arm, knuckles accidentally brushing the side of her breast. She jolted and her eyes swung to his. His mouth twisted with apology but he didn’t let go.

  “They’ll take care of her,” he said quietly.

  Her stomach lurched as she watched them load her best friend into the back of an ambulance.

  “Was she raped?” She forced the question through gritted teeth. It had burned through her mind every time she looked at her friend’s naked body.

  “I don’t know.”

  She released a pent-up breath. At least he hadn’t lied. He let go of her arm and she turned to face him. “What happens now?”

  “I need you to go with the local cops and make a written statement. And because Cindy worked on anthrax and we found white powder at the scene we’re treating this as a suspicious death and giving everyone involved an anthrax vaccination. Just in case.”

  Pip was appalled by the idea that the white powder could be anything more deadly than cocaine.

  “Cindy would never be so reckless with anthrax spores. She was extremely safety conscious.”

  “It’s standard procedure.” Agent Kincaid looked at the sky. “Since the anthrax letters post 9/11.”

  She lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes. “Is that why you’re here?”

  He nodded.

  It actually made sense, which made it highly unusual for a federal agency.

  The ME slammed the doors of the ambulance and tapped the back of the vehicle and she jumped again. The engine started up and the rig began its slow grind up the dirt road.

  Pip started to shake. The ice in her bones starting to splinter and crack. She didn’t know how she was still standing up. “What happens to her now?”

  “We’ll do an autopsy before releasing her body for burial.” He sounded so matter of fact while her world crashed around her feet.

  “I want to make the funeral arrangements.”

  “You the executor of Ms. Resnick’s will?” The blue eyes with their flash of gold were cool and assessing.

  She probably shouldn’t fantasize about smacking the guy around the head. “I don’t know.”

  They’d never talked about it. They’d talked about hot romance, dream men, and perfect vacations.

  Things that didn’t matter anymore.

  But the idea of someone else arranging Cindy’s funeral?

  Screw that.

  Pip would get a job or a loan, or both, and make it the best goddamned funeral Atlanta had ever seen.

  “Can I go now?” The need to get out of here was suddenly overwhelming though she didn’t know where she’d go. She looked at her car. Would it even start? Could she get water for the radiator? Cindy had an outside hose. Hopefully no one would object if she used that.

  Kincaid’s voice trapped the part of her that wanted to escape. “The detective mentioned you had car trouble on the way in.”

  She nodded. “I rolled in here thinking it was my last stop for a while and then…” Tears jammed her throat and she couldn’t speak. She blinked them away. She’d already shown too much weakness in front of these people.

  “I’ll arrange for the car to be towed to the station then you can call a garage in town and have them take a look at it. One of the deputies can give you a ride back so you can make your formal statement. I’d like to talk to you again later today if possible…”

  She saw something move across the back of his eyes. Some glint of mercilessness. “And if I don’t?”

  “Then I’ll have you arrested on suspicion of manslaughter.” His smile didn’t reach those pretty eyes. He shrugged dismissively. “Your choice.”

  Chapter Four

  By the time the CDC specialists in their protective gear finished taking samples the sun was starting to glow behind the trees on the western ridge.

  Hunt flashed back to the look of contempt Pippa West had thrown at him when he’d suggested the manslaughter charge. No flicker of fear. Just pure unadulterated scorn for him and his badge.

  Interesting.

  Did she hate law enforcement in general, or was it just him who pissed her off? And what had she fought with her friend about? Something personal or something criminal…?

  His cell rang. It was Libby Hernandez from SIOC.

  “Got some more information on the woman who found the body. Lives in Tallahassee and was a reporter for the Tallahassee Free Press.”

  A wave of dislike moved over him. A journalist. Shit. He’d known she was trouble just from looking at her.

  “Was?”

  “She resigned just over a week ago. There was a big scandal when a dirty cop she exposed murdered his family and then killed himself. A lot of bad feelings stirred up. She got death threats and something tells me that the local cops wouldn’t have protected her.”

  So, it was all law enforcement rather than just him she detested. He had a reciprocal distaste for journalists so they were even.

  Dr. Jez Place—Hunt’s contact in the CDC—came toward him, having been doused in disinfectant in some sort of portable decontamination plastic tent that looked like it should be in a field in freaking Africa.

  “I have to go, Hernandez,” Hunt told the analyst. “Thanks for the information. I appreciate it.”

  The microbiologist had stripped off his plastic suit and wore sweat-stained scrubs. The smell of bleach on the afternoon breeze made Hunt’s eyes water.

  “Our field sensors didn’t indicate anthrax and I did a preliminary exam of the white substance. Looks like some sort of non-biological reagent.”

  “Not anthrax?” Relief hit Hunt like a fist to the gut. He hadn’t even known how much he’d dreaded the idea until now.

  “It’s only preliminary, but no, not anthrax. We’ll run it through the mass spec and see if we can grow any bacterial colonies to confirm.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “Tonight, or tomorrow morning on the mass spec, a few days at most on the latter, but I’m fairly confident. We swabbed the desk, kitchen, bat
hroom. Any flat surfaces that might have been utilized as a home laboratory, but the sensors didn’t indicate anything suspicious. This looks to me like recreational drug use.”

  And a giant waste of time and resources.

  HMRU were due on scene within the hour. They’d lift fingerprints and take DNA samples. They’d also bag phones, computers and anything else they could examine for trace or digital information to be sent to the lab. None of this would be necessary if some asshole hadn’t tried to sell weaponized anthrax to terrorists.

  Hunt bit back his annoyance. Cindy Resnick was probably just another loser who’d gotten the balance wrong between high and dead. So much for being smart. But the fact she worked on anthrax vaccines was too pertinent to ignore. The FBI had to keep an open mind in this death investigation while selling the idea to local cops and interested parties that it was just routine.

  The victim’s friend’s anguished face flashed into his mind.

  Damn.

  Why did people do it? Chase a high that so often spiraled into a bad decision and wasted dreams?

  “Ironic that the only reason we’re here is the fact there was white powder on the table.” Jez Place commented dryly. “Endospores of Bacillus anthracis are about one micron in diameter. You can fit a hundred across the width of a human hair.”

  Hunt grunted. “It’s not the only reason we’re here.”

  Jez knew about the bioweapon and the fact all researchers involved with anthrax were being put under the FBI’s own microscopic examination. Especially those who also worked on vaccine development.

  Jez scuffed an orange Croc over the grass. “We’re doing the right thing treating this site with caution. I know it’s probably overkill, but easier to defend that than explain why we didn’t take the threat seriously.” Jez pulled a face. “It’s important to follow procedures, even though it’s time consuming and expensive.”

  “Did you know her?” Hunt asked.

  Jez shook his head. “I saw her at conferences a few times—she was hard to miss. Tall. Blonde. Insanely attractive.”

  Hunt hadn’t noticed. Corpses weren’t his thing. He had noticed her friend was hot though. She was also a petite little thing so it was surprising she’d managed to drag the dead girl that far out of the water—assuming things had gone down the way Ms. Pippa West claimed. Assuming she hadn’t had an accomplice.

  The FBI didn’t operate on unsupported assumptions.

  “Resnick never presented any scientific data and I’m a happily married man, so I didn’t pay her much attention. Her supervisor, Trevor Everson, was a top guy in vaccine development about fifteen years ago.”

  “What’s he like?”

  The CDC specialist considered for a moment. “Nice enough. A little disillusioned by the federal funding of research in this country, and the way universities are saving a buck by hiring sessionals rather than tenure-track professors.”

  Hunt’s ears sharpened.

  “Don’t look so intrigued. It’s not an unusual point of view. In fact, the opposite would be true. Even I find it difficult to hire grad students knowing they might find it hard to make a living wage if they go into academia. I guess we all hope it’s going to change, but so far no sign.” Jez shook his head in frustration. “Then there’s the fact funding bodies want an accounting for every cent scientists spend. Can’t blame them, but…”

  “But?” asked Hunt.

  “It’s put a stranglehold on research for the sake of research.” The man’s eyes flicked to his face. He looked a little embarrassed. “The natural inquisitiveness of scientists, which has led to so many vital discoveries, is stymied by dollars and cents.” He shrugged. “Maybe it keeps us focused.”

  “What about private labs? Or industry.”

  “Oh, there are jobs out there, but a lot of really good scientists want to tackle important questions and that generally depends on getting a good academic position and solid funding.” A deep crease formed in Jez’s cheek. “Pharmaceutical companies don’t care about curing disease, they care about shareholders and stock dividends.”

  “But they still do research, right?”

  Place looked unimpressed. “They’re looking for drugs that will make profits for decades to come. There is no profit in eliminating the problem. Some research is funded by charitable donations, but I don’t understand why research that could save the country billions in health care costs has to rely on charity—” The man cut himself off. “I’ll shut up before I start talking about the financial burden of healthcare versus that of developing cures for common ailments.”

  Hunt raised his brows. “I think you just did.”

  Jez grimaced. “Back to Everson. He doesn’t present much at conferences and hasn’t in a few years. He publishes less. Looks like he’s counting the days until retirement. Cindy Resnick was the last student left working in his lab that I’m aware of.”

  “Did you see a copy of her thesis in there?”

  Place shook his head. “It’s probably on her laptop and hopefully backed up on several different servers. Although I’ve heard of students who lose everything and have to start over from scratch. Geniuses gonna genius.”

  One of the CDC team shouted to the microbiologist.

  “Looks like they’re ready to head back.”

  Hunt looked at them loading up gear. “Who’ll do the autopsy?”

  “Probably the senior pathologist.”

  “I’d like to observe but I’m not sure when I’ll be done here.” Jez Place knew how to contact him. “We need the results ASAP, so don’t wait for me.”

  Jez nodded and walked away with a raise of his hand. The CDC team left the decontamination tent and some gear for the HMRU people.

  Quietness settled around Hunt when the van finally trundled out of view.

  He put his hands on his hips and looked out at the millpond flat surface of the lake. Only a few cottages were visible half a mile away on the opposite banks. No speedboats destroyed the peace of the afternoon. The lake had a pensive atmosphere that matched his mood. Only the memory of the dead girl disturbed the quiet.

  He thought about Pippa West. The determined look in her eyes and the jut of her chin. He needed to go talk to her again at the police station. Needed as much information as he could gather to finish this investigation and get back to interviewing other scientists who worked on anthrax. This case looked more and more like an accidental overdose, which was a crying shame. Regardless, for the time being the FBI would continue to examine the evidence under the hastily written guidelines someone at CDC was currently throwing together regarding deaths of researchers of Category A substances.

  News of the FBI’s interest in Cindy’s death might prompt the bioweapon producer into action. As long as it was getting rid of evidence rather than producing more anthrax, Hunt was okay with that. McKenzie seemed confident the people at SIOC would track them down eventually.

  Professor Trevor Everson was at a conference in Nashville. He’d been informed of Cindy’s death and was returning early tomorrow morning.

  Hunt stared up at the cottage and blew out a breath of frustration. He wanted in there but wasn’t authorized until HMRU finished. Same deal with the house in Atlanta, which seemed stupid when CDC had virtually given it the all-clear.

  Something thumped and bumped along the track toward him, getting louder and louder until a big-ass suburban came into view and pulled up sharply outside the cottage. Six people piled out of the vehicle and came over to greet him with a barrage of questions.

  HMRU had arrived.

  * * *

  Pip rubbed the injection site on her arm. Her skin was warm to the touch and the flesh beneath throbbed slightly. Even after five hours of incessant waiting, she still fumed.

  Manslaughter?

  Man-fricking-slaughter?

  They were seriously considering her a suspect? She shouldn’t be surprised. She’d investigated enough cases where the minimum amount of police work had been done to close a case, cop
s seemed to forget the real aim of law enforcement was to catch the actual offender, and not just get the case off the books. The anger was grounding compared to the grief that left her anchor-less and adrift in an unfriendly world.

  She slumped down in the hard-plastic chair, exhaustion pulling at her eyelids as she waited for Agent Kincaid to deign to show up. She’d made a statement about the morning’s events. She’d shown the locals her phone message history with Cindy, allowed them to print out their exchanges and emails. They’d asked permission to search her car, which she’d denied. Now they were looking at her like she was guilty of something besides losing the person she loved most in the world.

  She had files in her car and on her computer that she didn’t want anyone to see. Contacts. Sources. The last thing she needed after everything that had happened in Tallahassee was to expose her informants, although some would say that ship had already sailed.

  The knot in her stomach tightened.

  Nausea roiled inside.

  She hadn’t eaten anything except a donut in the middle of last night when she’d felt herself flagging and needed a sugar boost. But the idea of food made bile churn and she pressed her hand to her chest to try to calm herself.

  Pip took a sip of the bottled water the cops had given her three hours ago and fought to banish the memory of Cindy lying dead in the dirt. She forced herself to think of Cindy alive and vibrant. Grinning at a bar when a good-looking guy asked for her number. Scowling over an experiment that didn’t work the way it should.

  What was taking the cops so long?

  Theoretically she could walk out the door. She hadn’t been charged or arrested for anything although people who found the body were always suspects.

  Manslaughter.

  Honestly, right now she felt capable.

  But they wouldn’t talk to her if she pissed them off and she wanted to be kept up to date on the status of the investigation. She wanted to be kept informed. She wanted them to turn over every stone and shine a light in every corner.

  Her anger deflated.

  They should be questioning her motive and her alibi. If they’d allowed her to drive off into the sunset they’d be truly lousy cops.