by Dyal Bailey
After four hours of skimming websites, she sighed and opened yet another one with secret plots and anti-establishment blogging. She clicked on a link labeled “The Municher”.
She read, her heart pounding: Supposedly as beautiful and blond as he is mysterious, the assassin that certain circles have dubbed “The Municher” continues to dress up his victims and kill without leaving anything close to a tangible clue. Even his moniker is merely a whisper, because authorities deny all reports of his existence or his name. There was a cartoon sketch of a man wearing leotards, dancing with a knife between his teeth. She considered it, and her lips curved into what could almost be considered a smile, but not quite.
She was about to send an email to her partner with the web link and a synopsis of her findings, when a young, uniformed officer came in and coughed. She glanced up.
“I was told to tell you that Gen-Bio-Lab just called. They’ve agreed to run the DNA tests on your hair sample using their new instant identification process.” He shifted back and forth on his feet.
She shut off the screen to her iPad, studying him as if smelling him. “I never asked them to.”
“Yes, ma’am. I guess Detective Blanchard did. Here’s the DNA hair sample from the Dress-Up Murders. Sign here.” He cleared his throat and fidgeted. It was obvious that the young man was more than a little nervous in her presence, and she mildly enjoyed it.
She checked the number on the plastic sample container, then the numbers on the clipboard, and signed her name. The young man began to leave and glanced at one of the other diners. She followed his eyes and saw the partial side view of a handsome man with a gladiator-like build and an incredible profile. Her eyebrow rose when she saw the waitress fawning over the exquisite, blond gentleman.
Was that a sequined sleeve peeping from beneath his jacket?
As if reading her mind, Günter tucked in his sleeve as he sent the waitress to the kitchen with special instructions on how to brew him a correct cup of coffee. As she fluttered away, he blinked impassively at the ill-cooked egg on his plate. Checking the date on his phone, he sighed. His Walpurgis Night party was less than two weeks away and all his preparations were in place including Helga, the masseuse, as his stand-in flugelhorn player.
He attempted to console himself. Well, he didn’t suppose he’d ever really liked Fritz anyway. First of all, the fool wore way too much cologne. Everyone who stood next to him thought their appetizers tasted like lime-flavored tortillas. Then, of course, his clothes were an irritant. Günter had always thought his choice of designers a bit suspicious. And the fact that he wore black-on-black-on-black without ever having lived in Paris was presumptuous at best.
And the man’s hair! Not even counting those preposterous black bangs of his, Fritz had always been in need of a trim, and his menagerie of split ends had been screaming for product. He only ever put up with him because he had the small, music-loving fingers of a pixie fairy.
He thought of Helga and her sweaty, corpulent hands playing in the Oom-pah band at his upcoming celebration. He forced himself not to shudder. Instead, he made a mental note to anonymously send her some raspberry ketone extract drops and a tube of Evelyn’s thermo active slimming cream.
Satisfied, he focused his mind on his forthcoming responsibilities. The pictures Antonio sent him of the female detective were better than he had hoped.
She is too muscular to be playing Mimi, but not quite as spherical as the last soprano who sang the part at the Met.
As always, he had sized her gown from sight and was looking forward to seeing her in it. He shifted in his seat. His Rudolfo costume was starting to crawl and was wedging itself into a most unmanly position inside his pants. As if that wasn’t enough, his earlier enthusiasm to add extra sequins was now a torment to him, as they viciously pinched him under his suit. He peered down at the steaming mug placed before him, deciding to forgo attempting to digest this café’s latest attempt at coffee. He signaled his waitress to bring his check.
Smiling, he turned in order to utilize his peripheral vision. He had been watching Mimi through a reflection in the dessert display and was already considering how to best adjust her makeup. He handed cash to his server to pay his bill, but turned his statuesque head in annoyance towards her when she tapped on his shoulder. She wrote her number on a napkin and handed it to him.
“I’m off at eight.”
Eyes wandering over her sparkle-pink manicure with butterfly studs, he withheld a cringe. “I’m afraid I have no time. I have a great deal of business to tie up while I’m here.” His alert eyes noticed the woman’s hands moving dangerously close to his lower, lower back; he shifted to avoid her grasp.
Really! As if I’d let nails like those touch my hair.
Refocusing, he walked toward the door, then stopped and pivoted towards Mimi. She stared down at her coffee and pretended not to notice.
Tossing his large, heavily weighted backpack over his shoulder as if it was made of air, he floated over to her table. “I am sorry to be a person who would bother you.”
She looked up, a little angry at herself because she felt a slight blush flowing over her face.
Studying her hair, he continued. “Do you mind to Google for me the address of the old Berkley Warehouse? And how far it is from Gen-Bio-Lab? I must be sure my walk is well-timed.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Gen-Bio-Lab? And the Berkley Warehouse?” Her heart started pounding and her head spun. Could this be ‘The Municher’?
Taking a steadying breath, she scribbled the address on a napkin and handed it to him, watching him shrewdly. He gave her one of his dazzling smiles in gratitude. Still eyeing him, she made a gut decision and said, “I’m actually on my way to the warehouse right now. I can give you a ride, Mr. …?”
Günter ignored her question, instead, he vacantly replied, “You are kind to me.” Touching her shoulder, he caught a glimpse of her recent French-American manicure that appeared to be the work of a true nail artist. He smiled again and saw that she was consciously pulling her gaze away from his eyes. She tapped her finger, considering whether or not to send off an email. But instead, she turned off her iPad as if she was afraid to make any move that might cause him to be suspicious.
Watching the expressions on her face, he could tell that the wheels inside her mind were churning. In a strange way, he was sad that she would at first be disappointed that she could not capture her prey. He consoled himself with an assured nod. In the end, he knew that he was the one man in this world who would make her smile.
Chapter Eleven
It was late afternoon at Gen-Bio-Lab, and a drooping Micah was dully typing on the keyboard in front of his multi-screened computer. He started tapping his fingers, then stopped and folded his arms. He never should have started it up with Rafaela again in the first place. Picking up a pencil, he twirled it across his fingers, stopped, and snapped it in half. This gave him a small moment of satisfaction. Eyes squinting, he searched around his desk looking for something else to destroy.
Failing to find anything, he looked at his office and clenched his jaw. What the hell was he thinking, taking this kind of job? Yeah, yeah, the money they offered him was a nice little nut to crack. He choked out a short laugh, because he knew full well it wasn’t the dough that had lured him in, it was her. That tiny hint Puja dropped that she might be working on the project and he might be able to see her again was all it took. He chomped on the bait like the love-struck dolt he was, and he let them draw him in.
Dammit! And all for nothing; I’ll never see her again. And somehow, losing her this time was so much more frustrating than before, because he had made sure he hadn’t messed up. To no avail. He jammed his hands into his armpits and stared blankly into space.
Dr. Puja entered his office and leaned over the multiple monitors on his desk. “I have bad news.”
He looked up and shifted back in his chair. “Great.”
“All Dr. Ramos’s viruses reacted negatively to the new bas
e.”
He hunched in his chair. “Crap. What now? Her vectors were the key to finishing out this PCR thing. Now we’ll never be able to move on.”
“We’ll be fine. This is just a minor setback.” He handed him a sheet of paper. “But I need all of these analyzed and broken down before you leave tonight. Dr. Jacobs and I will begin adjusting each chemical synthesis first thing in the morning.”
He grimaced and shook his drooping head.
Puja withheld a grin and his eyes glowed as he continued. “And since we will both be busy tomorrow, I’ll be needing you to pick up Dr. Ramos at the airport.”
His eyes shot up and his frown dissolved. “I think I can handle that.”
“Her flight arrives at 10:23, so you should be able to get her in the lab well before noon. We should have an agreeable amount of viruses ready for her to train by that time.”
Micah, with his shoulders back, smiled for the first time in days and shook Puja’s hand. Like comrades after a victory on the battlefield, they shared a mutually contented air and an excited sigh.
…
Rubbing the recovering injuries on her arms, Rafaela watched Dickinson while he drove. She sensed something different in the man, and she was pretty sure it wasn’t good.
She observed the stony expression on his face. She had noticed that several men who took this job became dispassionate, but this was something altogether different. Shrugging it off, she decided that she was better off leaving Bailey’s staffing issues to Bailey.
He turned to her as they arrived at the airport. “Mr. Bailey told me to let you know that the Serbian will be back in New Orleans in less than a week. And that he is not happy that you’re heading back to Augusta. We just got word that Carlitos and his cousins are headed that way.” He turned off the engine to the black suburban.
“My viral vectors failed and Dr. Jacobs needs a new batch. I have to go back.” She no longer looked at him.
“The restaurant inside his hotel in New Orleans has been designated as the hit location for next Thursday.” He started to hand her the file; she didn’t accept it.
“Email it to me later; I’ve got too much on my mind right now.” She crossed her arms.
“And the Serbian?” He gave her a questioning gaze.
“Inform Bailey … Tell Bailey, I’ll let him know.” She continued to face away, got out of the car, and headed toward her plane as he watched her go.
Once again, she blended into the crowd at the airport and soon took her seat on the plane. She fought to keep her mind off of Micah. This was just an accident. Fate wasn’t somehow trying to play matchmaker. Nodding her head, she took off Micah’s bracelet and placed it inside her purse. She would walk in there, do her job, and get out. He knew the deal, and surely he had enough pride to not try to get her alone.
She would be fine. It would be all business, then goodbye.
She stepped off the plane and searched for Dr. Puja’s shining black eyes in the crowd. She stopped breathing when she saw Micah. Taking a deep breath, she headed toward him. He looked tired. And handsome, in his own clumsy, brutish sort of way. She stiffened her resolve to distance herself from him.
As soon as they were driving, she tried to explain where she was coming from and make him understand. “You know that what we had can’t continue. Right? It’s dangerous for you and for me.” She bit her lip and started squeezing her hands, but the pain this caused her arms made her release them quickly.
He flinched, but didn’t comment. She continued. “It’s for the best. Not just for me, but for you too. You’re young and have so much you are able do with your life. Every road you could travel with me would lead to death.”
The midday sun was shining in her eyes, but she stared straight ahead, trying not to turn and look at him as he gripped the steering wheel like he was trying to choke someone. Micah, eyes dull, finally spoke, but continued to look forward. “No, I get it. You fly solo and don’t need complications.”
The tremble of emotion in his voice and the flush on his face cut her to the heart. She resolved to continue the rest of the drive in silence. When they arrived at Gen-Bio-Lab, he reached over her and pushed the passenger door open.
“Aren’t you coming in?” Her eyes and voice were full.
“No, I’m all finished for the day.” Micah looked away, his words clipped. She waited and he glared at her. “Do you need something else?”
She struggled silently for a moment. “Yes.” Leaning over, gave him a sumptuous kiss. He fell into it and embraced her. Then he pulled away. Holding his breath, he turned off the engine. He got out, walked over, and opened her door all the way while exhaling an overdue breath.
She looked up at him. “What?”
“I just remembered something I still need to do.” Looking at her, he had an appearance of readiness on his face that somehow seemed to shine.
…
Rafaela and Dr. Jacobs eased through a gust of air and into the decontamination middle room. Sitting on benches, they placed what looked like plastic shower caps on their heads and over their shoes. Somehow, the unremitting pain caused by her every movement made her think of Micah and she straightened her chin.
Keeping her mind on the task at hand, and not on her aching heart, or her still healing arms, she tried not to wince as she put on her protective clothing. She bit her upper lip and pulled on synthetic gloves so thin they were almost invisible. Opening and closing her hands, the pain seared viciously through her wounds.
Glancing up, she saw the blue disposable lab coat hanging up waiting for her, and cringed. She lifted it on and ignored the incessant throbbing in both her arms. Faltering, she pushed into the next freezing wind curtain. Normally uncomfortable, the cold was a relief to her now. She indulged in a long, deep breath, before taking her first step into Dr. Jacobs’ secret laboratory.
A sense of awe washed over her. She had wondered why Jacobs had earlier refused to show her the private laboratory reserved for his big project. Now she understood. The entire room was like something out of Star Trek.
“What do you think?” He watched her face, his eyes smiling.
She stared at the variety of brand new, specialized equipment. “I think this lab makes the other one look like a dungeon. Thank you for accepting my request to see it.”
Jacobs studied her. “I’m glad you asked. I was hoping you would persist, so I could wow you a bit.”
Ignoring the underlying meaning of his comments, she roamed around the room. “You must have exceptional funding. This is really cutting edge. Do you buy all of your equipment the minute the catalog comes out?”
“Before the catalog comes out,” he chuckled. “I’m probably their best and most obnoxious customer.”
Running her hand over a CSC machine with a revolutionary new hydro-hermetic feed system, she nearly drooled, but exuded a false nonchalance. Her head tilted, weighing all that was before her. “Who are your sponsors?”
He shrugged. “Dr. Puja can tell you more about them than I can. He’s been a wonder. No sooner do I find something I need, and he finds someone to pay for it.”
“And you trust this Puja?”
“Completely. The man’s a font of information about everything happening in genetic engineering right now.” He saw the look on her face.
“Is there a reason that I shouldn’t? Has he said or done anything inappropriate around you?” He turned toward her and put his hand on her shoulder.
“Oh no,” she squeaked as the weight of his hand reignited the agonizing pain in her arm. Moving away, she pretended to glance over a new mass spectrometer.
He followed her. “Have you thought about my project?”
“You’ve gotten so far on your own; I don’t see why you even want my help.” She looked away, hoping he wouldn’t see the longing in her eyes.
“I’m not a young man, Rafaela.” He gazed at her, choked with emotion.
She stopped and listened.
“And you also know that
chances are I won’t live long enough to see this project through, if I don’t have your help.” His voice became quiet.
She started to speak, but her throat went dry. She needed to tell him no, but the words wouldn’t come.
…
In the judge’s chamber, in downtown Augusta, three officials stared at a video screen. The judge, a man in his fifties, who, before today, had thought he had seen everything, sat at his large mahogany desk, as if in a daze. The DA and the sheriff sat like statues in their chairs, blinking their eyes.
Sheriff Wanda-Jean, realized she’d been holding onto the butt of her pistol; she let it go and spoke. “I can’t believe it.”
District Attorney Mallory, eyes widening, chimed in. “Me either.”
The sheriff shook her head. “I just can't believe the woman in that video is Mimi.”
“Yeah, whoever that weirdo is, he did an incredible job with her hair.” The DA pushed her glasses back on her nose.
“No, I don't mean the hair, although the highlights and the low-lights were magnificent.” She took the tips of her fingers and touched the hair around her ears. “I mean the expression on her face. I've known Mimi for years, and I don't think I've ever seen her smile.”
The DA's eyebrows furrowed, then released. Then she thought of something and scrunched up her nose. “Did you see how the murderer dropped that key inside his stretchy pants?”
“Yes. It was completely disgusting.” Wanda-Jean wiped her hands on her shirt. She glanced at the screen again. “What was it the killer kept asking her to call him?”
The judge coughed and replied, “Rudolfo.”
Mallory turned to the judge then back to the sheriff. “I had a call from her the day before she disappeared, but I was in a meeting. She didn’t leave a message, but she must have been onto something big to have contacted my office. Do you have any idea why?”