He had a feeling that Pip West could make him do a lot of things he wouldn’t normally contemplate, but next time he dropped his pants in front of a woman she better either be his physician or already naked.
He was walking back to his Bucar when his cell rang. “Kincaid.”
“Hunt. This is Cyril White. APD.”
“How’s it going?”
“For once, it’s going pretty damn good. Found the drug dealer, Hanzo, who was reportedly selling coke to the students at Blake, real name of Marcus Colton.”
Hunt stopped walking and stared up at the blue sky. He’d texted the information Pip had given him that morning to the guy. “DA discuss charges?”
The detective gave a gusty sigh. “Hard to charge a dead man.”
Hunt frowned. “Did he sample the goods?” He couldn’t think of a more just end to the guy.
“Nah.” The New Orleans drawl was out in full force now. “Nine-millimeter to the back of the skull.”
What the fuck? “Got a shooter?”
“Nope. No witnesses, either. Guy was found in his car in a quiet wooded area, southwest of the city. No cell phone found at the scene. I figure the killer took it. I doubt we’ll find records because the chances of it being registered in his own name are slim to none. We found coke in his car that we’ll test against the samples found at the vic’s apartment.”
“Got a TOD?” Hunt couldn’t help holding his breath for the answer. He’d checked the hotel security tapes before he’d spoken to Pip earlier that morning. Underhand? Perhaps. But she hadn’t lied about when she’d left and returned to the hotel. She might have had time to rush over to kill the dealer before she headed to Cindy’s house to put the gun in the safe—which was when he’d bumped into her. But the metal of the Remington pistol had been stone cold, and it hadn’t smelled like it had been recently fired.
“Eleven thirty-seven. Local resident reported a gunshot but cops didn’t find the body until sun up.”
And at 23:37 he’d been helping Pip West photocopy Cindy Resnick’s thesis.
The relief he felt was overwhelming which meant he should stay far away from the pretty dark-haired woman from now on. No more showing off his scars while they were alone and she was in her pajamas.
Idiot.
“Any CIs in his circle of friends?” Confidential informants might be the only way of figuring out who’d had a beef against the man.
“Nah. Last guy who fed us information from that area ended up floating face-down in the Flint River.”
Hunt swore again.
“I just wanted to update you. Nice to have him off the streets even though there are another ten to take his place.”
“I appreciate the call.” Hunt uttered his thanks and rang off.
Cindy and Sally-Anne’s cases were pretty much closed even though the evidence was all circumstantial.
The chances of APD solving the murder of the drug dealer depended on exactly how dumb the perpetrator was and how much effort the cops put into solving it. The vic had been dealing drugs, a high-risk profession on the mean streets of Atlanta. But Cyril was a good cop. He’d at least try.
That niggle between his shoulder blades was back—maybe because the person who’d developed weaponized anthrax and tried to sell it to terrorists was still out there, walking around anonymously, possibly planning to do it again in the near future.
Hunt’s phone rang with another incoming call, this one from McKenzie. The ASAC wanted to move the conference call up by an hour. It was time to get back to the field office and see if anyone had figured out this mystery.
* * *
“What’s the situation with the dead students?” McKenzie demanded via monitor as Hunt walked into his SAC’s office.
Hunt took a seat next to the guy from CDC and recapped the overdoses and dead drug dealer as quickly as possible.
McKenzie frowned. “Any other deaths in the city attributable to this dealer’s product?”
“Not that we know of, sir.” That bothered him.
“It is a hell of a coincidence,” Frazer acknowledged from the other side of the screen. “For them to die of drug overdoses the week after an attempted sale of an anthrax bioweapon.”
“The second fatality didn’t study anthrax,” McKenzie stated.
“Still…” Frazer sounded intrigued.
“And according to her supervisor Cindy worked on cutting edge vaccine research. The college is secretive about the details of her thesis because of pending patent registration. They don’t want us to read it.”
Dr. Jez Place sat up straighter. “Seriously?”
“We presumably have a copy of her research on her laptop?” asked McKenzie.
Hunt nodded. “I assume so. We’re waiting on analysis back from the lab.” He shifted forward. “But,” he cleared his throat, not sure how this would go down, “I managed to obtain a paper copy from Cindy Resnick’s Atlanta residence last night.”
“Legally?” his SAC asked.
“Yes, sir.” Hunt tried not to be insulted. “With permission from the new owner.”
“The journalist?” said Bourne.
“Pip West.”
Bourne seemed to hate the idea of journalists even more than Hunt did. Or maybe he was thinking about that letter of censure in Hunt’s file from the Office of Professional Responsibility. Hunt gritted his teeth.
Onscreen McKenzie pulled a face. “Is she going to be a problem?”
Hell, yes, she was gonna be a problem. For Hunt.
“She insists her friend would never willingly do drugs and has ordered a second autopsy, but that was before Sally-Anne Wilton was found dead.”
“Interesting,” said Frazer. “And her alibi is solid?”
“Rock. I don’t believe she’s involved in BLACKCLOUD.”
Not that Hunt would finger Pip as a suspect anyway. It wasn’t her grief—even murderers sometimes experienced genuine grief. It was her determination to discover the truth. That was a trait he could admire even when it wasn’t associated with an attractive woman. Pity that her version of public service involved exposing potentially damaging information in the name of transparency.
Bourne looked at him from beneath thick brows. “Keep an eye on her.”
Exactly what Hunt was hoping to avoid. “I have over two hundred scientists left to contact. I don’t have time to babysit a journalist on top of that.”
He did not want to be that close to temptation.
“He’s right. We need to concentrate on finding the anthrax supplier,” said Frazer.
“We cannot afford for this story to break in the press,” warned McKenzie.
None of them looked like they’d gotten any more sleep than Hunt had.
“I’ll get someone pulling data from Resnick’s laptop and cell today,” McKenzie said. “Make sure there’s nothing of interest there that the journalist can uncover. Can we get a sample of whatever vaccine Cindy Resnick developed to test against what we found in BLACKCLOUD?”
“Not without raising a lot of noise and suspicion from Blake officials,” Hunt said honestly.
McKenzie narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps Dr. Place would be willing to take a look at the thesis for us?”
Jez shrugged. “I don’t mind looking, but the college administration might balk. They’ll see me as the competition.”
“As long as we keep the information to ourselves and don’t violate any patents we’ll go ahead with our assessment of the material and beg forgiveness later.”
Jez leaned forward. “I’ve never heard of this much secrecy over a doctoral thesis before. Maybe I can get a look at the patent filing, too?”
McKenzie wrote a note to himself on a tablet. “I’ll arrange it. If the university admin doesn’t know you’re looking at her thesis they can’t give you any flack. If they do, refer them to me.” Something in McKenzie’s expression suggested he wouldn’t take any prisoners or put up with BS.
They were dealing with the lives of thousands of people
and a possible act of war if this biological agent turned up in the wrong hands.
“Where are we at with the DNA sequence?” McKenzie stared at Jez Place.
Jez started talking fast. He was clearly nervous which, considering what he did for a day job, was a bad sign. “We had a machine malfunction last night and it slowed us down. The sequence is almost complete but we aren’t there yet.”
“Understood.” McKenzie looked pissed. “ETA?”
Jez scratched behind his ear. “Realistically? Tomorrow morning. We’re running multiple samples for comparison. I want them to hurry, but I don’t want them to rush. They’re good scientists, so I’m trying not to hang over their shoulders. There are some things you can’t speed up no matter how urgent the circumstances.”
McKenzie took a big breath. “We don’t want any mistakes. Tomorrow is good enough.”
“It shouldn’t take long to find the parent strain—assuming we have a reference sample.” Place shifted uncomfortably. “The anthrax could have come from a source we’ve never examined before. Like the Soviet biological warfare program or a defrosting wooly mammoth up in the arctic.”
Everyone’s eyebrows raised.
“Growth rate is substantially faster than standard anthrax which means this weaponized strain is potentially a lot deadlier than the ones we’re used to dealing with.”
“Otherwise what would be the point?” Frazer said dryly. “What about the analysis of the BLACKCLOUD vaccine?”
“It’s a much slower process.” Jez shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “We want to make more of the material before we do any destructive testing because if this strain of anthrax is released into the wild we need to be prepared. We were only sent a few milligrams to work with. It’ll take longer than the sequencing.”
“A day? Two?” McKenzie demanded.
Dr. Place shook his head. “We can start replicating it straight away, but a full analysis will take at least a week.”
“Get every available help you can with this,” McKenzie ordered.
The idea of having a population completely vulnerable to this disease for that amount of time sent a shudder of unease through Hunt.
“Whoever made this bioweapon had to also create and test a vaccine. It seems like a more complex skillset,” Hunt commented, thinking of Cindy and her ex, Pete Dexter.
“Assuming the vaccine works.” Frazer’s smile was grim. “Personally, I wouldn’t want to be that guinea pig. Once the money was transferred to the anonymous seller via cryptocurrency and Swiss bank accounts, the anthrax producer could disappear. Most of the players would be dead before they figured out the vaccine didn’t work.”
“The seller might not even know if it works or not. Human clinical trials of this nature are banned,” said Jez Place.
“Something tells me legalities are the least of their concerns…” said Frazer.
“You think they might have used human guinea pigs?” Bourne’s expression grew even more concerned.
“Nothing to stop them picking up runaways or homeless people and testing it on them.” The more Hunt thought about it the more abhorrent the whole thing was, and the more likely. “We need to start looking into any suspicious disappearances—”
McKenzie raised his face to the ceiling. “We’re going need more agents.”
“Maybe bring in APD or GBI,” Hunt suggested. “Detectives on the ground have a better idea about any missing person cases—assuming you have good reason to believe that ground zero for the anthrax production is in fact Georgia.”
“I agree.” McKenzie wrote another note to himself. “And, yes,” he looked at Hunt. “Some of the internet activity has been linked to the Atlanta region, though we can’t completely rule out a ruse.”
Shit. They sat in silent contemplation for a few moments.
“How did the seller transport the bioweapon?” Jez asked.
“What do you mean?” asked Bourne.
“Did they courier it? Standard mail? Hand delivery?”
McKenzie dipped his chin. “Good question. I don’t know. French police are processing the scene. I’ll ask about any boxes found onboard or any suggestion the arms dealer picked up packages locally.”
Onboard? So, this had gone down on a boat or a plane? There’d been some hoopla involving some sort of terrorist activity on the Riviera last week. Hunt figured this had to do with that.
“You could try backtracking your arms dealer’s movements and cross reference any travel made by US scientists,” suggested Hunt.
“On it.” McKenzie nodded. “I have another group of analysts and a supercomputer working that route. This is the Bureau’s number one priority.”
“It’s taking too long.” Bourne sounded impatient.
“Compared to the AMERITHRAX case this is going at lightning speed.” McKenzie pushed back.
Bourne looked pissed. “It’s still not fast enough. What’s to stop them from running?”
“Nothing,” McKenzie admitted. “They might have already split. But we’re watching airports and monitoring activity of everyone who is registered or has been known to work on anthrax. And we’re getting closer. A cyber-geek found the page on the dark web where the supplier reached out to the arms dealer and we’re tracking all participants of that forum.”
Anyone hanging out with arms dealers and terrorists on the dark web was probably someone worth the FBI’s time.
The silence grew tense.
“I got hold of all the lab activity logs from Blake today,” Hunt told them.
“Without a warrant?” McKenzie asked in surprise.
“I used my charm,” Hunt admitted.
McKenzie grinned and Frazer pulled a face.
“Whoever purified and created this anthrax would have had to spend long hours in the lab,” Jez Place added.
“Go over the records. See if anything pops.”
“But I haven’t even started at Georgia State, yet.” They’d set him an impossible task and he didn’t appreciate the fact his SAC was glowering at him. It spelled trouble he didn’t need.
“This is about elimination of suspects so the pool of potentials is more manageable. Once we narrow it right down we can take cracks at interviewing them more aggressively.” McKenzie was getting another call but he shut it off. “They’re already emailing one another wondering what changes the Feds are thinking of implementing. It’s working.”
“We’re assuming this is motivated by money rather than ideology?” asked Hunt.
Frazer pressed his lips into a thin line. “Seems you’d have to be pretty desperate for cash for that to be your only motivation but look at the narcos and the lengths they go to get their millions.”
“Motive is fuzzy,” McKenzie bit out. “It doesn’t matter—”
“It matters if they decide they’ve got nothing left to lose,” Hunt cut in.
Frazer’s cool gaze landed on him with the tiniest inkling of respect.
Hunt finally got it. “Which is why we aren’t coming down hot and heavy.” They were narrowing the suspect pool while giving the bad guy an escape route that the authorities could track without the villain feeling desperate and cornered and might-as-well-take-out-the-nearest-city with a crop duster.
“I’ll get Hernandez to contact you if anything interesting comes up on the Resnick laptop or comms,” McKenzie told him and then the screens went blank, leaving the room in sudden silence.
“I’ll get back to the lab.” Jez Place stood and nodded.
Hunt got up to follow but Bourne stopped him before he reached the door.
“I know you’re planning to apply to HRT, Agent Kincaid. It would be a shame if the journalist caused any problems with your application.” His boss had the subtlety of dynamite.
A wash of resentment flowed through Hunt, but he nodded and left Bourne’s office. He couldn’t help the feeling Pip didn’t deserve the suspicion everyone was throwing at her. Then he remembered the trouble he’d gotten into after the last journalist he
trusted. He couldn’t afford more if he hoped to stay in the Bureau.
Chapter Sixteen
Pip returned to the hotel after a long run, during which she forgot everything except for the beat of her own heart. After a quick shower she dumped her belongings on the bed and dragged on tight jeans and a pair of red converse sneakers and her favorite Wonder Woman tee. She forced herself to apply makeup and put her hair up in a high ponytail. The whole effect made her look younger. Young enough to be in college. Then she slipped the photograph of Dane with Cindy, her cell phone and some cash into one pocket, and her hotel keycard and credit card into the other before heading out the door.
Pip had done a little research that morning and discovered Dane Garnett worked at a popular Mexican restaurant that catered mainly for the tourist trade. It was a five-minute walk from her hotel.
At the door of the restaurant she scanned the dimly lit interior. Dane Garnett was tending bar.
“How many for?” A perky blonde with bright pink lips asked with a smile.
“Just me.” The words cut through Pip with sadness.
Her server brought her a glass of water and Pip ran a finger through the condensation. Had Dane known Sally-Anne?
She put in an order for nachos and watched Dane Garnett while he served customers and cleaned the bar. Cindy had said he was a model and trying to get into acting. Pip couldn’t believe he had any trouble getting work. The photo of him with Cindy hadn’t done him justice. In the flesh Dane had the sort of male good looks that intimidated and made it hard to breathe. Cindy had definitely been his equal in beauty, and they’d have made a striking couple. He had long ebony hair, dark chocolate eyes. Straight nose. Dark brows but not too thick or unibrowed. Broad shoulders looked like they were sculpted in the gym. Physically, he was probably the best-looking guy she’d ever seen if one went for tall, dark and handsome.
Pip wasn’t sure what her type was, but didn’t appreciate the fact a sandy-haired federal agent popped into her brain when she tried to figure it out.
She stared at Dane. She wanted to know who had given her best friend drugs but wasn’t sure the best way to go about it. This sense of uncertainty and lack of confidence was unnerving. It was the fallout from Cindy’s death and the mess in Florida and the awful realization that her work had gotten Lisa Booker and her children killed. She was a good investigative reporter. She trusted her instincts and looked below the surface, behind the words that came out of people’s mouths, and she wasn’t afraid to dig. Growing up in foster care, and before that in the house of an alcoholic mother whose taste in men ran toward the abusive, her instincts had been honed until they were sharp as razor blades.
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