Sleight of Hand (Outbreak Task Force)

by Julie Rowe

  “I spent some time in Syria with Doctors Without Borders.” He winced at how normal that sounded, like he’d just covered for someone on vacation at their neighborhood clinic. “Joy was in the military. Even did a stint in combat rescue.” That never failed to impress, especially since she looked so small and delicate.

  “Yeah?” MacDougall asked.

  “It’s not as glamorous as the movies and TV shows make it look,” she said from the back seat. “Eighty percent of the time you’re sitting on your hands waiting. We used to come up with new card games just to keep ourselves from getting too bored.”

  “No time for that in New Orleans,” MacDougall said. “Someone is always doing something stupid. Usually several someones. And with all the tourists, well, we have to be on top of it.”

  “Huh, I never thought about the tourist issue,” Joy said from the back seat. “It makes New Orleans a particularly attractive city to anyone trying to start an outbreak.”

  Joy’s words dumped ice water down Gunner’s spine.

  She said slowly, “Newly infected people have time to get on a plane and go home before symptoms begin.”

  Gunner finished her thought. “Spreading the disease all over the country, or other countries.”

  No one said anything for a few moments.

  “You two are scary,” MacDougall said finally.

  Gunner had to agree with him. “What’s scary is how fast this infection could spread.”

  “It’s usually transmitted when you don’t wash your hands after going to the bathroom or after cooking with contaminated meat,” Joy answered.

  They arrived at the address of the beer store, but there weren’t any lights on inside, and the door was locked.

  Rawley and Ketner joined them on the sidewalk.

  “We’re going to need a warrant,” Gunner said. “Can we get one at this time of night?”

  “I received it about two minutes ago,” Rawley said, raising his cell phone and wiggling it.

  “I’ve got a Halligan Bar in my trunk,” MacDougall said. He retrieved the long, lethal-looking tool and thrust the pick end between the door and the doorjamb. He leaned his weight against the other end, and the door opened with a pop.

  Rawley and Ketner drew their weapons while MacDougall set the tool on the ground and also drew his weapon.

  “Wait,” Gunner said. “Gloves and masks, gentlemen. You need them.”

  Joy handed them out to everyone, then they went inside the store.

  Someone found the light switch and turned it on.

  The room was lined with waist-high counters covered in beer kegs. A cash register/computer sat at the back of the space. No signs, no price tags. It looked unfinished. Temporary.

  Joy examined one of the kegs, then a second and a third. “Nothing from Frank Creek so far.”

  Along the back wall in one corner of the room was a closed door.

  Rawley stood in front of it but glanced at the rest of them before turning the knob and opening it.

  The smell of advanced decomposition was enough to knock everyone back a couple of steps.

  “Shit,” Ketner said. “How many dead bodies are we going to find?”

  “Only one way to find out.” Joy took a step toward the door, but Gunner held her back.

  “Let them clear it first.”

  She stopped and glanced expectantly at the other men.

  None of them looked excited about getting any closer to whatever was causing the smell, but Ketner took the point position and moved through the doorway and into a dark hallway.

  Joy felt along the wall and found another light switch. She flipped it.

  The hallway was empty. Ten feet farther on, there was a closed door. No markings on it. The smell grew stronger with every step.

  Ketner coughed then knocked on the door and said loudly, “FBI, executing a search warrant.”

  No response.

  He turned the knob and pushed the door open.

  The smell of decomposition intensified, but it wasn’t any worse than any other enclosed space containing the dead that Gunner had experienced. He glanced at Joy. She shook her head once and went around Ketner and into the dark room.

  A light came on.

  “Too late, again.” Joy’s voice reached out and pulled him into the room. She didn’t sound particularly worried, more irritated than anything else.

  Gunner limped around the doorframe to stand behind her. Not one body, but two. Both lay on the floor facedown next to each other.

  What was left of their faces, anyway.

  He’d seen this tableau many times in Syria. Government forces weren’t interested in keeping prisoners alive. After they’d been questioned, they were too much work and consumed too much food and water. They were shot from behind through the base of their spines.

  Rawley stepped through the door next, took in the bodies, then pulled out his cell phone and made a call.

  Joy met Gunner’s gaze. “Okay, I’m starting to be a believer in the terrorist theory.”

  “Are we sure it wasn’t a robbery?”

  She slanted a look at him. “This isn’t a random shooting.” She gestured at the bodies. “They’ve been executed.”

  “We have to be sure.”

  “He’s right,” Rawley said, covering his phone with his palm. “It’s probably related to our case, but we also need to eliminate any other possible motives for these murders.” He turned to MacDougall. “You done? We need forensics and the coroner.”

  “Yeah,” he said, his face pasty white. “I’ll just make those calls.” He disappeared.

  Ketner entered the room then walked around Gunner and Joy to look at the two bodies. “Men. I’d guess late twenties to mid-thirties.” He looked at Gunner. “Any idea how long they’ve been dead?”

  “At least two days.” He gave the two bodies another quick visual examination. “Probably not much more than that.” He glanced at Joy. “What do you think?”

  “Yeah, but visual indicators are a poor way to determine time of death. When will forensics get here? We need to search this place for the kegs.”

  “At least thirty minutes.” He put his phone away. “We can still search for evidence.”

  “You spend time in the army, too, Dr. Anderson?” Ketner asked.

  Normally Gunner would correct the man, tell him to use his first name. Not with this guy. This guy was too concerned with the pecking order. He needed clear boundaries. “No. I was a volunteer physician in Syria.”

  “Dangerous work.” Ketner’s voice took on a sharp edge. “In a deadly part of the world.”

  Gunner wasn’t sure what he heard in the agent’s voice. Admiration, speculation, apprehension?

  He’d neither earned nor deserved any of it. “I was lucky. My wife wasn’t.”

  Ketner’s eyes widened briefly in surprise as he lifted his hands in surrender. “My apologies.” Yet there was an edge of calculation in his posture and expression.

  What kind of math was this guy doing in his head? Gunner’s gut told him it was going to add up to trouble for someone.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Tuesday 8:34 p.m.

  Joy watched Ketner’s facial expression and body language change from suspicious to apologetic to speculative. He tried to hide it, but the tightness around his eyes told her he was processing everything he was learning about her and Gunner, and it wasn’t matching the information he’d been given before meeting them.

  Just who were these confidential sources he’d mentioned earlier?

  She glanced at Gunner. “Shall I take samples?”

  “Not until the forensic people have done their work. But, the kegs at the front of the store…yes.”

  “On it.” Joy left them and brought her collection case with her. She’d just finished the second keg when a number of police cars and other vehicles arrived with lights flashing.

  Once forensics cleared the room, Gunner came out and told her she could take samples from the dead. Th
ey both came back positive for E. coli.

  “Does that mean they would have died anyway?” Ketner asked.

  “No,” Gunner answered. “Some people recover from the infection, but it does mean they were in direct contact with the contaminated beer.” He looked at her. “Any of the kegs in the front of the store positive?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “The outside of all of them.”

  Rawley swore. “But they’re not all Frank Creek beer.”

  “It might just mean that whoever handled them got E. coli from one of the contaminated kegs all over everything else.”

  Gunner looked at MacDougall, Rawley, and Ketner. “Can we search their computer system, find out who they sold their beer to?”

  The three men traded looks.

  MacDougall spoke first. “It’s okay with me as long as you don’t copy or delete anything.”

  “Do it,” Rawley said.

  “Go,” Ketner said like he had the authority to give them permission all on his own.

  The computer was password protected, so Ketner made a call, and a couple of tech guys were coming to hack it and see what was sold to whom. It might take five minutes or five hours, and that was time they didn’t have. The muscles in Joy’s jaw, already aching from tension, tightened until her head began to pound.

  The two bodies still had their wallets in their pockets, though no cell phones, and were identified as the store owner/manager and an employee.

  “We know we have contaminated beer floating around out there,” Rawley said while the FBI techs worked with the computer and the coroner bagged the bodies and removed them, one at a time. “But until we get some sales info, we’re stuck.”

  “Not necessarily,” Gunner said, looking thoughtful. “The store manager and employee were executed. Why?”

  “Could they have known something someone else didn’t want them talking about?” Joy asked.

  Gunner shrugged. “We’re waiting anyway. Might as well investigate the last two people who saw or handled those kegs before they were sold. Let’s take a tour of the manager’s residence.”

  MacDougall nodded, guided them out to his SUV. Once they were in, he pulled away from the curb.

  “What do we know about the manager’s home?” Joy asked. “Does it have the space to store specimens?”

  Gunner looked at her in surprise. “I hadn’t considered that. It’s an apartment, but that doesn’t mean anything.” He shifted in his seat, stretching out his injured leg.

  “How’s your leg?” she asked. “Pain any worse?”

  He didn’t answer out loud, but the expression on his face when he turned to look at her gave the answer anyway.

  “I don’t have any of the good drugs with me,” she told him.

  He scowled at her. “It’s not bad enough for drugs.”

  She leaned forward. “Lift your pant leg.”

  He did, snarling under his breath. There was a bloodstain on the white bandage, about two to three inches around. There wouldn’t be anything if he’d taken himself off this case and rested, but it also could have been a lot larger.

  He swore, and she studied him. His color was off a little, but he wasn’t sweating. “Pain level?”

  An emotion flashed across his face, frustration maybe, before he smoothed it out. “Three.” Before she could ask, he continued speaking. “I have a pain killer if I need one.” He leaned toward her an inch. “And I promise to take it if I need it.”

  She allowed a small smile to tilt her lips up. “Thank you. You’re too important to this investigation for me to allow you to jeopardize your health.”

  When he narrowed his eyes at her, she knew he got the subtext of her comment: take care of yourself or I will, and you might not like how I do that.

  “Yes, mother hen.”

  She clucked at him but leaned back in her seat and faced forward.

  MacDougall choked and muffled a laugh.

  Her phone pinged. So did Gunner’s. She pulled hers out and found a message from Rodrigues. The first one was a simple text message: death toll is now at seventeen with another thirty-nine on life support. Antibiotics aren’t recommended. Two patients died after receiving antibiotics, which killed off their normal bacteria, giving the pathogenic E. coli the freedom to spread faster.

  Ah, shit.

  We’re attempting an experimental transplant with a few of the very sick, but stable patients. Will keep you informed.

  Gunner whispered, “Fuck.”

  “How long does it take the transplant to do some good?” Joy asked him.

  “A couple of weeks, though some people say they feel better almost right away. But it’s not an exact science. It’s, you know, shit.”

  Gunner didn’t have to say anything else. Those people didn’t have that kind of time.

  Time. Her mind turned the word over and over in her head.

  “How are these two E. coli strains doing so much damage to the people who are infected with them so quickly?” She glanced at him and discovered she had his complete attention. “It’s like the bacteria have been given a turbo engine.”

  “I don’t know.” He touched his fingers to his cell phone’s screen. “But it’s a damn good question.” He put the phone to his ear.

  She listened as he asked whoever answered his call if speed of infection and death indicated a new serotype, or another reason for the change in the progression of disease.

  Gunner ended the call and looked at her. “Henry is working to figure it out, but this kind of investigation can take months. I doubt if he’ll have any information in time to make a difference right now.”

  “Damn it.”

  “The only way to stop this is to find the beer,” Gunner said, determination adding a growl to his voice.

  She loved hearing that growl. It sent a shiver up her spine and put her back in bed with him, mutual pleasure their only goal. It took effort to keep her breathing even, her expression bland.

  “Okay.” They’d just eliminated all courses of action, but one. “That certainly simplified our priorities.”

  “Yay,” Gunner said, his tone anything but celebratory.

  “You two sound like an old married couple,” MacDougall said.

  She and Gunner turned to stare at the police officer.

  “Work wife,” Gunner said.

  “Work husband,” Joy said at the same time.

  MacDougall laughed.

  Rawley parked next to MacDougall’s vehicle outside the apartment building. There was no sign of Ketner. Rawley saw them looking around. “Ketner had to return to his office. He’ll catch up to us as soon as he can.”

  Rawley buzzed the building manager, and the man met them at the door. After a quick scan of the warrant, the manager took them to the beer store manager’s apartment and unlocked the door.

  Joy handed Rawley and MacDougall each a pair of gloves to put on. They drew their weapons, and MacDougall opened the door, pushing it open then standing back, so Rawley could enter quickly and quietly. MacDougall followed.

  Joy stood with her own weapon out, in case they needed backup, while the two men went from room to room.

  ”The bedroom is clear,” Rawley announced.

  MacDougall’s voice sounded like someone was choking him. “There’s a dead body in the bathroom.”

  Gunner and Rawley beelined it for the bathroom. Joy didn’t follow. Three large men, and their attendant testosterone, would be more than enough to overcrowd the average apartment bathroom. Add a dead body, and the result could very well be the same as throwing in a lit stick of dynamite. Something was going to blow up.

  The apartment looked absolutely ordinary. Sofa, reclining chair, large screen TV, a gaming system, and other electronics were crammed into a long, low TV stand. A small four-seater dining table with four chairs sat close to an open kitchen area. There were a few dirty dishes in the sink but not enough to complain about.

  If the store manager was involved, the kitchen and the bathroom were the t
wo most likely places where they might find evidence of the bacteria. With that in mind, Joy opened the fridge.

  Normal, boring contents. She opened the freezer to find nothing out of the ordinary, either. She gave the contents of the fridge another study. The milk was outdated by a week. Joy frowned and picked up the carton. It rattled.

  The kiss of adrenaline shot through her system, and she backed out of the fridge and stepped over to the nearest counter. “I found something,” she said loud enough for the men talking over each other in the bathroom to hear her.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Tuesday 10:26 p.m.

  Gunner left the bathroom before Joy finished her sentence—he knew that tone. It was a warning and a call for help all at once.

  She stood stiffly next to the fridge with a milk carton in both hands, but there wasn’t any panic in her eyes. Concern and determination lifted her chin and in her gaze he saw… satisfaction.

  Finally, some good news.

  He held out his hand, and she gave him the milk carton like she was handing over a smoking gun. He looked inside then tilted the carton one way then the other. Several petri dishes containing some kind of viscous liquid. Not a label in sight.

  “Amateurs,” he said, closing the carton and turning to Rawley, who’d followed him out and looked extremely curious. “It looks like whoever put this in the fridge was trying to keep some bacterial cultures alive. They got the fridge part right.”

  “How long could these be kept like this and have the bacteria still viable?” Rawley asked.

  “Three or four weeks at the most, but given there’s no evidence of anyone who knew what they were doing here, that’s probably an overly optimistic length of time.”

  “We need another forensic team in here and the coroner,” Rawley said, pulling out his phone. “Finding dead bodies everywhere we go is getting old really fast. We need to get in front of these people.”

  “Homeland Security does have Mike Creek in custody,” Gunner said. “Have your colleagues gotten any useful information out of him?”

  “Not so far.” Rawley frowned and paused in the act of inputting the numbers for a phone call. “Nothing he says makes sense.” Disgust curled Rawley’s lip. “And he keeps laughing and giggling to himself.”