by Neal, Toby
“No. Just stopping by to see how things are going,” Marcella said, striding in to stand too close to Abed. Rogers gave a slow-molasses chuckle, trying to smooth things over.
“We just thought we’d pop in, check if anyone had heard or seen anything new. As you know, we’re still looking for whoever killed Dr. Pettigrew and Cindy.”
“Everything working okay? Able to get going with Dr. Pettigrew’s notes? I got those off a camera the killer threw in the Ala Wai Canal, you know. Bet he wouldn’t have thrown it away if he knew what was on it.” Marcella walked over to Kim’s station, leaned over his shoulder to look at the hieroglyphic notes in his lab book.
Fernandez’s tic was acting up. He’d turned away and was fiddling with a pipette, a series of croaks and whistles betraying agitation.
“No, nothing new,” Abed said, blinking big chocolate eyes owlishly behind round magnifying lenses. “We’ll call you right away.”
Kim ignored the agents and continued to make notes in a lab book.
Marcella strolled to the back of the room, angling for the hidden camera. “Just wanted you to know a few facts from Cindy’s case. She was trying to tell us something. I think she knew who Dr. Pettigrew’s murderer was, and she knew her killer. She called that person to confront them. The rest, they say, is history.” She turned back to face the room at large in front of the camera, a wired nodule attached to the metal shelf. She pushed on it with her shoulder to move it to a wider angle.
Her earbud crackled. “No go. Camera’s off the computer area now.”
Rogers took over, smacking a table hard with his open palm so all eyes snapped to him. Marcella now had a chance to move the camera again.
“This investigation is far from over. You all are here until we find some hard evidence linking one of you to the bodies. We never give up until we close a case, and Dr. Pettigrew and Cindy deserve justice.”
Fernandez croaked, and Truman frowned from the doorway, obviously confused by this turnaround in attitude from his cordial meeting with Marcella in the early morning. “You’ll have our full cooperation, Agents. We want to find who did it as much as you do.”
“I very much doubt that,” Marcella said. Ang’s voice in her ear confirmed the camera now had full visibility, so she strode to the door. “We’ll be seeing you. Sooner rather than later.”
Rogers elbowed her as they entered the stairs—they couldn’t ride the elevator to the floor above in case someone looked from the lab and saw by the lights they weren’t exiting the building. “Think we came on a little strong?”
“No. I want to stir those guys up, see what happens. Hopefully they’ll turn on one another and let something slip.” They rejoined the surveillance team. Ang’s triangular grin met Marcella as she slipped in the door.
“Very aggro. That’ll put the cat among the pigeons.”
“That’s the idea,” Marcella said as she seated herself by the monitors, Rogers beside her.
Ang turned up the volume as Truman looked around the lab in the grainy feed.
“Well, which one of you did it?” he asked with a nervous chuckle. The laugh was met by another nervous chuckle from Abed, a grunt from Fernandez, and a head shake from Kim.
“They were fishing,” Kim said, eyes still on his work. “They would bring us in if they had anything.”
“Shee-it,” Rogers said. “Kim’s a cool customer.”
Truman turned and went back into his office, cranking up the instrumental music, and each of the scientists went back to work.
“Dammit,” Marcella said.
“Like watching paint dry,” Ang said a few minutes later.
“Or grass grow,” Ching added. “We’re overdue for a lunch break. See you in half an hour.” He and his partner left.
“Dammit,” Marcella said again, and got up and paced. It was a very long afternoon. Her cell rang as she was heading down the hall for a bathroom break. She picked up for Waxman.
“Wanted you to know we had a call from the university president. Dr. Pettigrew’s estate and the university have been served with a claim that AgroCon Ltd. owns the rights to BioGreen. They have the research and have served the university with a cease-and-desist order on any work on the project.”
“Holy crap! Sir,” Marcella exclaimed. “How’d they get the formula?”
“Claim it was sold to them by ‘a partner’ in the development of the formula. Probably whoever killed Dr. Pettigrew. We need to get eyes on that document. We could get one from UH, but I want to see what AgroCon says. Take Rogers and go get us a copy from the source.”
“Of course, sir. What’s the university doing?”
“They’re filing a countersuit that they never agreed to the sale and they are the principal interest in the research. Natalie Pettigrew’s lawyer handling the estate has signed on with the university in a countersuit that AgroCon needs to return the research immediately.”
“This could be the break we’ve been looking for,” Marcella said, breaking into a trot as she headed back to the lookout room. “I’ll keep you posted on what we find, sir.”
“You do that.” Waxman hung up.
“Matt, we’ve gotta hit the road. New orders!” Marcella hooked her jacket off the folding chair. “See you guys later. I’ll bring you up to speed on the way.”
AgroCon vice president, Lance Smith, was not happy to see them. He sweated under a blond toupee he’d added to his ensemble since their last visit.
“I need Legal’s okay before I release a copy to you.” He depressed a button on the desk. “Janice, put a call into Legal regarding these agents’ request for a copy of the BioGreen affidavit.”
“It’s a matter of public record, and this is an open homicide investigation being handled by the FBI. I guess I’ll have to call the attorney general and see how he wants me to handle it.” Marcella paced in front of his desk, hands in her pockets, letting her heels tap on the shiny bamboo floor. She hoped they left pockmarks.
The VP frowned, harrumphed, then yanked open a drawer on the desk. “Well, since it’s a matter of public record, I guess it won’t matter that much.” He took out a file, flipped it open. Depressed the button on the desk again. “Janice, can you make a copy of this document? Immediately, please.”
A tight-lipped receptionist came in, took the papers, and left.
“So let’s chew this over a minute,” Rogers said in his best down-home manner. “Two things: You have the research, which last we talked, was stolen from the university. This makes us naturally curious as to how you obtained it. Second thing—what possible basis of ownership do you have of said stolen research?”
“I’m not comfortable answering these questions without Legal present,” Smith said, sitting down in his cushy leather chair with a whoosh of escaping air. “I’ll give you a copy of our court document, because as you say, it’s a matter of public record. But unless Legal sends someone up right now, we are done talking.”
Janice returned and handed the papers to her boss, ignoring the agents.
“Janice, did Legal get back to you? These agents want to ask some questions I’m not comfortable answering without counsel present.”
“I’m sorry, sir. They’re all tied up.”
“We’ll have to do this down at the Bureau offices, then,” Marcella said. She took out a card, wrote a time on the back of it, slapped it down on the polished desk. “Be there tomorrow morning at ten a.m. with whatever dog-and-pony show you want to bring.”
She snatched the copies out of his hand, spun, and strode out without giving him a chance to engage in more power struggles.
“See you tomorrow. It won’t be as friendly,” Rogers said over his shoulder as he followed her out.
Marcella took the passenger seat, leaving Rogers to fire up the Acura and negotiate the guard gate as she scanned the document. “Says here they had a vested interest from the grant money, then paid additional compensation to a “full partner in the project” who has “ownership rights” due to
“key research provided by this individual” who then signed over his rights to AgroCon. That individual isn’t named. Dammit!”
“That document won’t stand up,” Rogers said, as they headed back to the Bureau to deliver the document to Waxman. “I’m sure Natalie and the university’s lawyers are drawing up a rebuttal as we speak.”
“Yeah, but as we all know, possession is nine-tenths of the law, and somehow they have the formula. One of those lab rats stole it, gotta be, and finally found the nuts to take it to AgroCon. He probably didn’t want to implicate himself in Pettigrew’s murder before now. Maybe he knows something that protects him now, or maybe he’s getting ready to take the money and run.”
As if on cue, Marcella’s cell phone toned—Ang at the “lookout room.”
“Looks like Kim is making a move.” The tech agent’s voice was tight with excitement. “He seems to be gathering all the photos of the lab book pages we retrieved from Dr. Pettigrew’s camera into one folder. They were scattered around the lab with all the members of the team working on different portions of the research.”
“Grab him if he makes a move to leave the lab with those photos,” Marcella said, glancing at Rogers, whose sandy brows had climbed in inquiry. “We’re on the way to HQ to drop off the AgroCon documents, but we’ll be back shortly.”
Rogers turned on the sirens and lights and stepped on the gas.
Chapter 16
Marcella was a little winded, Rogers not at all as they slipped back into the lookout room from hurrying across the campus and up several flights of stairs. Ang and Ching looked up from the monitors. “He’s gathered all the photos together from the workstations. Check him out.”
Kim kept his head down and his movements deliberate as he strolled to the back office. He had a fat folder under one arm.
“Those are the photos. All casual, he just walked around and picked them up from each work area,” Ang said. “Truman still has some photos with him. I think Kim’s deciding if he can get away with snatching those too.”
Kim put his head into the back room where Truman was still in front of his computer.
“Hey, boss. Going out to grab something to eat,” Kim said, voice tinny over the audio feed.
“Sure.” Truman never looked up. They saw Kim’s eyes resting hungrily on the stack of photos beside Truman’s monitor, but he turned away and headed back across the lab.
“Move!” Rogers exclaimed, and he and Marcella darted for the door and the stairs.
“Sophie, stay with the HPD team and keep an eye on the lab!” Marcella called over her shoulder.
Once outside the lab, Kim walked rapidly down the linoleum hall with the folder under his arm, heading for the elevators. Marcella was right behind as Rogers burst out of the stairwell beside the elevators and cut Kim off.
“Stop right there.”
Kim’s face blanched, a tightening of the eyes and mouth, but he thrust out his chest, blustering. “What the hell is this about? Haven’t you harassed us enough?”
“Hand over that folder,” Marcella said. When he made no move to obey, she snatched it from him, flipping it open. “Aha. Looks familiar—the research the FBI retrieved from Dr. Pettigrew’s camera.”
“You’re coming with us,” Rogers said, pushing him against the wall. Kim fumbled a cell phone out of his pocket and Rogers took it, clicking cuffs on to his wrists.
“I’m calling for legal representation,” Kim said through white lips.
“You aren’t doing anything until we talk down at the Bureau office,” Marcella said. They marched Kim out to the Acura and got on the road.
They put Kim in Conference Room B, used for hostile interrogations. It contained nothing but a bolted-down steel table, mirrored observation wall, and a few metal chairs. Rogers clipped Kim’s cuffs to a ring on the table and met Marcella and Waxman in the observation room next door.
“He’s asking for a lawyer,” Marcella said, handing Kim’s cell phone to Waxman. “I’m wanting to download the contents of this phone.”
“Kid’s savvy—there was never any doubt of that,” Waxman said. “Can’t touch the phone without probable cause, and I don’t think we have enough yet. You have to let him make the call, then do what you can with him once his lawyer gets here. I’ve got a call in to the judge we’ve been working with on the surveillance tap to approve charging him with stealing the formula and the murder of Dr. Pettigrew.”
“I know we can get him on the robbery and selling the formula to AgroCon, but are you sure we have enough to get him for murder?” Marcella frowned, hands in her pockets.
“I’m fast-tracking search warrants for his home, car, and work locker. We need to find that .22 used on Pettigrew or something tying him to the murders, so I’m going to try for that. We can hold him for twenty-four hours at least, perform the searches, and charge him with the robbery to start.”
“Okay.” Marcella and Rogers took the earbuds he handed them and Kim’s cell phone.
“He’ll probably get bail and his family will be able to pay it, so we’ve got a narrow window to tie this guy to the murders. Go get him. I know you can.” Waxman’s smile was distinctly wolfish, and Marcella felt herself warming to her boss for the first time.
She hurried to her office and picked up a pen and a yellow legal pad, tightened the FBI Twist, adjusted the ankle straps on her shoes, and rejoined Rogers at the door to Conference Room B.
Kim looked up as they came in, fixing on Rogers. “I’m timing this. So far now, I’ve been denied my rights for forty-three minutes.”
“Relax.” Rogers took one of the metal chairs, straddled it—all casual male bonhomie. He handed Kim’s cell phone back to him. “Just wanted to check in with our boss first. Go ahead and make your call.”
Marcella tossed her head and tapped her toes, feeling impatience well up as Kim scrolled through his contacts—but her heart sank as she heard him say, “Hello, is Bennie Fernandez available?”
She walked it off, back and forth, back and forth, as they listened to Kim arrange for one of Honolulu’s best—because Bennie was already working with Fernandez, another partner was being dispatched. Bennie Fernandez, and his firm, meant it wasn’t going to be easy. And they could have used some easy.
Kim hung up his phone with a definitive punch of the button. “Mr. Samson is on his way. He told me not to talk to you until he gets here and we’ve conferred.”
“Bennie Fernandez’s firm, eh? Guess Jarod put you onto him.”
“Yeah. Bennie is his uncle. Jarod says he’s been very helpful.” A smirk at the corner of Kim’s mouth snapped Marcella’s brows together as she narrowed her eyes at him. Rogers gave a tug on her arm—she was supposed to leave him alone until the lawyer got there. She followed Rogers out reluctantly.
“I can’t stand him.”
“Keep a lid on it, Marcella. You’re so grouchy lately. Get a cup of coffee, come back in a few.” Rogers pulled his sandy brows down. “You know if he says anything after he’s asked for his lawyer, it could be inadmissible. Save your breath.”
“You’re right. I’m doing a ‘Lei’ here,” Marcella said, and they both smiled, remembering Marcella’s hotheaded friend. “Okay. Coffee chill-out time.” She headed down the hall and poured herself a cup of the perfect brew in the lounge, turned to the window and looked out at the ocean, sipping it. It wouldn’t do any good to scare Kim off. Her good intentions lasted as long as talking with Samson the lawyer, who downplayed Kim’s intentions with the photographed records.
Marcella felt frustration rising again as Rogers finished the Miranda catechism and Kim brushed his fingers through his bangs, clearly feeling secure with his lawyer, Archie Samson, beside him. Archie was Bennie Fernandez’s longtime right hand, and his fake-friendly voice set Marcella’s teeth on edge. She decided to go with direct.
“We caught you stealing the lab notes red-handed. You also never explained the big cash deposits to your accounts.”
“I did tell you. A f
amily member gave me the money.”
“I’ve advised him not to say anything about the purpose for his retrieval of the notes,” Archie Samson said.
“I think you want to tell us about it.” Marcella lowered her voice to somewhere between throaty and phone sex. “I think you want to brag a little. I mean, you deserve to. You got away with stealing the formula, selling it to the highest bidder, and a couple of murders.”
A tide of red rose up Kim’s neck. “I never murdered anybody.”
“Ah, so that means you admit you stole the research and sold it. Probably were feeding information to both Korea and AgroCon all along. Then, when you heard Dr. Pettigrew wanted to go public with the formula, you killed her and took it. When you felt like there was another viable suspect, such as Fernandez, I’m thinking, or Abed—you went back to AgroCon and gave them what you’d stolen. Now you need to finish the job, make sure they don’t have any competition on the market.” Marcella leaned in close, whispering the last of this into Kim’s ear.
If she’d read him right, he’d hate having her touch him, move into his personal space—she’d never seen him so much as brush the sleeve of any of the other interns.
She was right. He pushed away abruptly, brought up short by the handcuffs.
“I never killed anyone!”
“Agent Scott, my client says he has nothing to say about the notes, and he denies killing anyone,” Samson said, clearly surprised by Marcella’s aggressive tack with his client. “This is verging on harassment.”
Marcella modified her tone but continued to ignore Samson, addressing Kim. “You keep denying murder, but you don’t deny stealing for AgroCon and the Korean lab. Dr. Pettigrew knew you were communicating with them. So suppose we believe you, that one of the other guys killed Pettigrew and Cindy. Well then, you’re a small fish. A little corporate stealing—you’ll get nothing but a slap on the wrist, and we might be able to offer you something off that if you can give us something on who did the murders.” Marcella settled herself in the metal chair next to Rogers, brushing imaginary lint off tailored gray slacks she’d chosen that morning.