Blood Relations

by Michelle McGriff

  “Dump in him the bay,” Jim teased. Maravel laughed again, harder this time as she fully understood their feelings about her often pesky partner.

  “Glad you all are in such good humor,” Ovan huffed, pouting. “Here I am drugged with who the hell knows what, and you’re all laughing. I need to be admitted to the hospital. I want to know what that guy put in my arm!”

  Unlocking the cuffs, Jim just shook his head. “Look, just admit you got clocked and call it a night,” he told him.

  “That’s what happens when a boyfriend finds you in his dead girlfriend’s home,” Lawrence added.

  “Look, that guy is no more her boyfriend I am . . . was. He was over there looking for something, and when he found it he stuck me in the arm with a knockout drug.”

  “Come on, guy, maybe you can play your James Bond stuff back home, but over here people shoot people with guns and burglars don’t burgle their own pads,” Lawrence fussed, still not wanting to believe that Ovan had been stabbed with a syringe. He wanted to believe that Ovan had just been knocked out by Washburn’s fist. Lawrence didn’t want to believe that Jim was interested enough in this guy to come in from vacation a day early just to see what was what and get in on the possible action. But when Lawrence had told him about the chief coming out of her office cheesing like a virgin on the morning after her wedding, Jim had rushed back.

  “That’s not his house! Listen to me, that Dr. Washburn is an in interloper. He’s no more a doctor than I am! He’s up to something big—something that involves Allen Roman.”

  “Oh, yeah ... the dead guy,” Jim snickered.

  Ovan swagged his head back and forth in sarcasm. “Yeah, the not-so-dead guy.” Ovan’s words took on an irritated tone. “Anyway, Craven was trying to tell me something about what they were up to. She, Hap Washburn, and Allen Roman ... it was big. So big that Washburn or Roman—haven’t figured out which yet—killed her.”

  “Killed her. Come on, guy, she died of a heart attack!” Jim all but shouted. “What are you now, forensics?”

  “No, but Maravel here is,” Ovan said. “Before I borrowed Her Majesty’s Coroner’s office for the Southern District of Greater London—boring bit a business there—she was wasting her talents for forensics on old people who died from too much pudding. No mystery there, eh, love?” Ovan said, grinning broadly at Maravel, who again blushed. “Now she works with me.” Both police officers turned to look at Maravel, who shyly wiggled her fingers at them in a coquettish wave. “Have any of your people done any blood work on her? Checked for drugs? If he stabbed me—which he did,” Ovan snapped at Lawrence, “he might have stabbed her with the same thing. I could be dying right now.”

  “Or he could have stabbed her with something a bit more deadly,” Maravel added, helping him from the car. “Because, um, she’d a bit deader than you,” Maravel teased.

  “Come to think about it, the autopsy report didn’t show the normal indications for a heart attack. No pre-existing heart condition ... nothing,” Lawrence said almost under his breath, as if in deep thought.

  “What were you doing in the autopsy report? Don’t tell me this guy has you curious?” Jim bashed playfully. “Or maybe it’s just your dreams of being a PI again, huh? Maybe you should stick with real police work.”

  Lawrence’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. “You nincompoop, this is police work! And if you weren’t curious you’da stayed on vacation.”

  “Look, bubs, can we all go inside? I’m all but naked,” Maravel admitted. Jim and Ovan gave her a once-over glance.

  Lawrence rolled his eyes in disgust at the two men. “Can’t you see she’s freezing?”

  “Sure can,” Jim teased, pointing at her hardened nipple protruding through her flannel gown. She quickly folded her arms over her chest and ran back into her apartment.

  Chapter 23

  “So she unloaded a .45 into the guy and he survived?” Jim asked.

  “No, he didn’t, but he was the wrong guy to be dead. The guy Rashawn Ams killed is not who we’re talking about,” Ovan explained, showing his frustration at the lack of the detective’s understanding of the case.

  “I thought you said she killed her rapist?”

  “No, the man she thought had raped her, but he wasn’t. He was the wrong man—however, he was closely connected to the rapist,” Maravel explained.

  “But closely connected to a rapist doesn’t warrant taking a rapist’s bullets. I mean, that’s taking the buddy system a bit far, don’t cha think?” Jim asked.

  “You’re not listening. Allen Roman was the man who did indeed attack Rashawn Ams—but he set up the man who Rashawn ended up killing, basically framed him, by leading Rashawn to believe that Blain Tollome was her rapist and father of her child.”

  “How’d he do that? If he was the one who attacked her and got her pregnant, then the kid would look like him ... not the other guy.”

  “Not if they were related.” Ovan groaned as if tired of the entire discussion.

  “What?” Jim asked.

  “Roman and Doc,” Ovan said the name as if it tasted bad in his mouth, “Blain Tollome—Doc ... were brothers. Half brothers.”

  “No shit! Wow, man, I would have loved to be on that case!”

  “No, you wouldn’t have,” Ovan said, digging himself out of Maravel’s plush chair and heading into her kitchen.

  Lawrence noticed his foul mood and whispered to Maravel, “Why is he so ... ?”

  “Because Allen Roman got away,” Maravel whispered, tightening her robe around her.

  “So? That happens sometimes,” Jim admitted. “I mean, we do our best but sometimes the bad guy gets away.”

  “I understand that, but Ovan has a personal issue with this case,” Maravel explained, keeping her voice low. “And with Allen Roman still alive it just adds insult to the injuries already there. Sure, Roman has been involved with many other things since then but it’s that case that Ovan was particularly involved in.”

  “That case is closed. Dude was deported. I mean, sure, he’s managed to—if indeed he did—he managed to get out of Jamaica, which was probably illegal, but that case, that Ams case, was closed.”

  “Not in Ovan’s books. It’s the root of his obsession with Allen Roman. I’m not completely sure why but he’s in deep.”

  “So how is he allowed to work a case he’s personally involved with?” Jim asked.

  “Not sure ... don’t care. I’m just doing my job trying to find the Mad Doctor Roman who’s running from authorities.”

  “So what is your actual job?”

  “We’re international bou—” Noticing Ovan coming back, Maravel placed her finger to her lips.

  “Okay, blokes, so where do we go with this? Are you all going to help us catch this fiend or not?” Ovan asked, coming back into the living room with a cup of hot tea. Jim noticed that Maravel had clammed up.

  “Well, bloke,” Jim said, sounding a little sarcastic, “providing we believe you, and I’m not saying we do.”

  “We don’t even know who you are. You could be some vigilante,” Lawrence explained, not having gotten totally into Maravel and Jim’s conversation.

  “Nah, he’s no vigilante, he dresses far too dapper. Oh, I know, he’s Maxwell Smart and she’s his Agent 99,” Jim retorted with a chuckle. Lawrence fanned his hand as if no longer wanting to hear Jim’s voice. Maravel blushed slightly. Ovan showed nothing but frustration and irritation.

  “Roman is an international killer. He’s been conducting illegal and deadly experiments around the globe. He’s here to commit a murder ... so either you’re going to help us prevent it, or run around in circles afterward attempting to figure out why he did it. My people had been keeping tabs on Roman for years. Apparently a doctor in Jamaica—where your government deported him—claimed he died.” Ovan snapped his fingers, remembering the name. “Dr. Ghifle—that was his name. To continue.” He cleared his throat. “Then as if the good doctor changes his mind he calls our main offic
e, in Johannesburg, to tell us that no, Roman is not dead but planning to visit Johannesburg, however, before anyone can get move a team in any direction, Ghifle dies unexpectedly of a heart attack. Immediately it is deduced that Roman is still alive and had cleared out of Jamaica.”

  “And this is deduced how?” Lawrence asked. Ovan cut him a glare for interrupting his diatribe, then continued his story.

  “Within minutes, it seems, Roman suddenly appears in London. Enter yours truly.” Oven pointed at himself. “He’s posed as a physician named Seymour Lipton—later we find that Seymour is another physician he’s murdered in South Africa—using the same lethal injection that I’m sure is going to be found in Craven Michaels—and would have been found in Ghifle had we been able to get anywhere near the body.”

  “The injection must be something untraceable—or the autopsy would have shown that, but causes all the symptoms of a heart attack,” Maravel interjected.

  “Again, why do you think Allen Roman did it?” Lawrence asked, sounding unconvinced. “So far it just doesn’t sound like anything we’d take to the DA.”

  “We have our reasons as to why he killed Lipton and Ghifle, but they aren’t solid. But we figure that they both had something Roman wanted that they wouldn’t just ‘give’ to him ... so he took it. And now Craven Michaels, another person directly connected with Allen Roman, has died of a heart attack,” Ovan explained.

  “Well, it sounds rather convincing, actually,” Jim admitted.

  Lawrence frowned. “Not to me.”

  “If I can just see the body and if I can prove that that she died due to the same type of injection, would you believe us that Allen Roman is possibly still alive and behind her murder?” Maravel asked Lawrence.

  “Hmmm, maybe,” Lawrence answered, noticing Jim smiling at Maravel. She smiled back, blushing slightly. There was an obvious connection.

  “Wait, I have questions. What is the big connection with doctors? Why not professors or some other profession?” Lawrence asked.

  “These doctors obviously were witnesses or unwilling partners in Roman’s unethical medical experiences. We are not all together sure but we are certain at one time, he was using human cadavers—which is totally illegal on our side of the world.”

  “Well, here too!” Jim interjected.

  “But, hey, what does that have to do with Rashawn Ams? You were saying yesterday he could be at her door any day now. Why?” Lawrence asked.

  “The same reason he was there the first time—control,” Ovan answered.

  “We believe Allen Roman is planning another experiment. One that again will include human subjects ... last time here, he used his brother. He basically murdered him for his own purposes. This time we’re afraid it’s even more personal. We believe Roman is planning to become one of his own subjects, and the other one he’s planning to use is his son.”

  “Kill his own son!”

  “Why not, he basically killed his own brother.” Ovan frowned.

  Chapter 24

  “I know you all can’t see it at first glance, but if you look really close ...” Maravel explained, noticing where their eyes were going, “... here. Not on her breast, thank you,” she said bluntly, drawing the men’s attention to where her gloved finger indicted. Jim cleared his throat. “... you’ll see a little prick mark.”

  “Aren’t you looking the wrong area for a prick mark?” Jim asked, and then shrugged, noticing all eyes were intensely on him. “Sorrrry, couldn’t resist.”

  “Ya know, the more hours I spend with you, the more I like your humor,” Ovan admitted, grinning broadly.

  “Both of you are sick. Now shut up. Go on Ms . . .” Lawrence began, requesting Maravel’s last name. She smiled shyly, again showing her coy side, moving her blond bangs out of her face.

  “It’s Friggins,” she answered, grinning at Lawrence.

  “Maravel Friggins?” Jim asked, and then glanced over at Ovan for confirmation.

  Ovan shrugged. “Go figure,” he remarked rudely, adding to his and Jim’s frivolity at such an inappropriate time.

  Sam, the forensic doctor, leaned closer to the corpse following Maravel’s direction. “Wow, I see it as clear as the nose your face now. I had no idea to even look there!”

  “It was just a hunch,” Maravel gushed shamelessly.

  “Hunch my arse, I’ve been telling these jokers all day to look closer ... but no, for my troubles and diligence, I get stabbed, shot at, and all the rest.”

  “Oh, you haven’t been shot at,” Maravel teased. “Yet.”

  “But now, one problem: there are no drugs in this woman’s body,” Sam insisted.

  “There wouldn’t be, she died of an embolism,” Maravel explained. Sam’s head went back with the revelation.

  “Ahhhhh,” he gasped.

  “Ahhh what? What is an embolism?” Lawrence asked.

  “Death by air bubble,” Sam confirmed. “She’s good.” He grinned, nodding his approval at Maravel’s skill. “I’ll have to check it out, but it sounds like a ‘done.’ ”

  “Hmmph,” Ovan grunted, sounded as if too full of “hateraide” to even speak. He didn’t like her comment about him not having been shot at yet.

  “But now, this under her nails ... unnoticed by the naked eyes or anyone not looking for murder. I’m going to run a sample, under the scope and have more information for you later today,” Sam informed them.

  “Great! I have a sneaking suspicion that you’ll find her killer under there,” Maravel said, sounding proud at her work.

  “Well, cats, it’s like, tomorrow already. And so that makes me off ... again,” Jim announced.

  “Didn’t you just have a vacation?” Maravel asked.

  “Sorta, kinda,” Jim hedged.

  “You find murder, Sam,” Lawrence said, pointing at Sam and then at Maravel. “We’ll find you a murder. Until then, our hands are tied. You can do what you do, but ‘bloke,’ ” Lawrence said, now pointing at Ovan, “you cross our lines and we’re gonna do what we gotta do. Until something points to something other than natural, hands off this Hap guy, and this Allen Roman guy, who I still don’t even believe exists anymore.”

  “Fine,” Ovan agreed, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Hap is not on my list of things to do ... even though he tried to kill me.”

  Everyone groaned and headed out of the lab. Reaching the elevator doors, Ovan patted his pockets. “Hang on, gang. I forgot something. Better yet, go on, I’ll catch up,” he told the group, who continued out and into the elevator. He then dashed back in the lab to speak with Sam privately.

  Sam looked up from his work. “Did we forget something?” he asked.

  “Yeah, umm Sam, how about you give me a call after you run those samples there—the ones from under her nails.” Ovan winked.

  “I’d planned on it.”

  “No, really, because I’m certain she raked off a bit of my buttocks, tiger that she was, and I’d hate to be thrown in with the batch of suspects.”

  “Ohhh you were ... Ohhh!” Sam gasped twisting up his face a bit. “You slept with her?”

  “I was, um ... collecting a little bit of information and, well, you know, things happen.” He pointed at the lifeless and less-than-beautiful corpse of Craven Michaels. He took a closer look. “But then, somehow, she used to look a little better than this. Ya know.”

  Chapter 25

  “Roman wants me to take care of his son ... humph, what am I now, a glorified babysitter?” Hap shook his head in disgust. “I’ll take care of that kid all right. One step outta line and ...” Hap pulled a large syringe from the drawer and held it up threateningly. “Bam! Just like that guy last night. Who was that guy anyway? Why would Roman want him dead? He acts like everyone is disposable. Like Craven I guess. Bastard!” Hap thought about Craven and her sexual appetite. He could only imagine her going for a guy like Roman. Roman and the reputation he’d left behind. Anybody would do whatever to work with a genius like him, and apparently Craven ha
d. Besides the fact that Hap knew he could never satisfy her. Roman’s prowess had preceded him as well. It wasn’t as if journals weren’t written by him while he taught at Moorman and even more interesting articles once he started writing about DNA, heredity, and sex. Yes, yes, the things he’d had done in the name of science—the Sex Experience was the biggest, most well read journal out there. It wasn’t as if it was reviewed in medical school—no way—but you could get a copy of the piece if you visited the not-so-hallowed halls of students of medicine. There, you could learn all about what Allen Roman had done in the name of science. Mind control, wild sex studies, it was rumored he’d even murdered and gotten away with it, in the name of science. Some believed he was just a power hungry control freak—a criminal who should have been executed by the law. While others believed he was a genius. They believed his work with human participants in studies on human nature was phenomenal. Hap’s verdict was now out—now that he’d killed Craven. Why did he have to do that? Craven was a woman out for her own interest and pleasures but surely she didn’t deserve to die.

  Hap paced his office, thinking about what Allen Roman had told him and what he had implied about Craven and how he would frame him for the murder due to the missing money. Where was the money? It wasn’t in her safe—he’d checked that right after that run-in with that crazy guy who had broken in.

  Had he been betrayed by Craven? Was she really planning to edge him out of this project and keep the money all to herself? He trusted her and assumed they truly did have something going on—something that went deeper than the physical. Even she had said it—while he was choking her, “we’re soulmates.”

  “It wasn’t as if I caused her pain,” he said aloud, thinking of what Roman had told him. Suddenly greed shoved regret out of his mind. “Where is that money?” He held up the key to her wall safe where he assumed the money was. “I need to get back over there and look harder.”

  Just then the receptionist paged him. “Dr. Washburn, there’s two homicide detectives here to see you.”