The mass exodus that had petered out a few days ago, was alive and well on the roads leading out of Philadelphia. I wondered how many of them were carrying the virus with them like rats spreading the plague to the rest of the country.
It took us three hours to make the one-hour drive to Birot’s facility. On the way, I called Tim to thank him for the documents and ask him to do one more favor for me. I felt bad that the only time we spoke was when I wanted him to break the law, but we’d never been the get-together-at-Christmas kind.
We were pulling into the parking lot when the president came on the radio to reassure the country, so we sat in the car and listened to his short speech. The stock market had lost another ten percent since the opening that morning, but he was not going to let them close. He was confident that it had bottomed out, and wanted us all know that it was safe to put our money back into stocks and pick up some good bargains along the way. The run on the banks was serious, he admitted, but it was not money lost, just money moved into other hands, and it would be moving back to the banks soon. We would survive. We had to survive. We were the leaders of the free world and the cornerstone of the world’s economy.
We turned it off when they switched to commentary, and went over to the guard at the front door. It wasn’t the same guy we’d seen there before.
“We don’t have an appointment,” Izzy told him.
“No problem, Miss Aimée,” he said. “Mr. Birot said to come right in. You can pick up your temporary badges inside.”
“How’d you know it was us?” I asked.
“We photograph every car and license plate that comes in the parking lot. It’s matched to your temporary ID and kept in a database,” he said. “Yours came up as a repeat and was flagged for security bypass, so they called upstairs right away.”
“Security bypass? He was expecting us?”
“No, sir. That just means you’re on the friends list. It gets you in the front door.”
“What else does it get me?”
“Your ID badge is encoded with clearance to the elevators, common areas, bathrooms, and cafeteria. They’re having some kind of beef dish today, if you’re interested.”
I was hungry after the long ride.
“You guys take credit cards? I’m a little short on cash.”
“The cafeteria’s free, sir. It’s one of our perks.”
“No kidding? Got any openings? I might be looking for a new job soon.”
“You’ll have to check with personnel, sir. Have a good one.”
He opened the door for us, and we went in. The inside guard waved us around the full-body scanner, handed us ID badges, and pointed us to the elevator, telling us that Birot would meet us in his office. We took the elevator to the top floor and waited in the reception area. Birot joined us a few minutes later wearing a lab coat. He asked us to wait while he got showered and changed. When he came back, he took us into a small dining room just off his office where lunch was waiting. It was the beef. We followed his lead and kept the conversation light until we were done eating.
Over coffee, he said, “François’ funeral was at sunrise this morning. He always liked the sunrise. He said it was the one thing he could count on each day to give him hope. It was a simple graveside service. I hope you are not offended that I did not invite you, Isabelle.”
“I will say my own prayers for his soul, and pray that healing comes to you as well.”
“Thank you.”
“Ebola is a tough way to go,” I said. “I’m sorry about your son… and your wife.”
I saw this movie once where the Indian chief made the cowboy hold his finger steady in a cup of water while he asked him questions. If the water rippled, he’d know the cowboy was lying and he’d kill him. If he told the truth, the water would remain still and he’d let him go. Seemed like a pretty good lie detector to me.
Birot put his cup down, rattling the saucer. “I take it you know she died of Ebola in Africa?”
“I heard. I can’t imagine how hard that must be for you.”
“My wife was a gentle soul,” he said. “She gave her life in the service of others.”
“I also heard your son came to see you the day before he died.”
“Yes. He did. We were very close.”
“Why didn’t you mention it before?”
“Does it make a difference?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Was he sick when you saw him?”
“Looking back on it, I would say he was exhibiting symptoms.”
“But you don’t feel sick?”
“No, I do not.”
“But you were close. You said that.”
“Agent Matthews, haven’t you asked yourself why you were not infected when your partner and several of the bystanders were?”
I thought about my sofa still sitting in the front yard. “I’ve given it some thought.”
“There is no guarantee of transmission for this or any disease. From what Dr. Stalter told me earlier this morning, only one hundred twenty of the one hundred ninety-three U.N. delegates were affected.”
“That’s pretty good odds.”
“Yes, but not one hundred percent.”
“Any idea why your son was one of them?”
“Are you asking for my guess?”
“I suppose I am.”
“Then, I would guess that because he was one of the first, if not the first delegate infected, he must have come in direct contact with the disease.”
“Did he give you any idea how he got infected?”
“Agent Matthews, you are assuming that he knew he was. Why on Earth would he come here if he knew he had Ebola?”
“You’re right. Dumb question. I guess what’s gnawing at me is where he picked it up in the first place.”
“Knowing that would help, I’m sure.”
“How’d you manage to get your hands on a PCR, by the way?”
“I can see where you are going with this, Agent Matthews, but Research Voorhoede is not licensed to store or perform experiments with the Ebola virus.”
“Then, why the PCR?”
“That equipment has many applications. Detecting the presence of the Ebola virus is only one of them.”
“Mr. Birot, I am sorry if this seems like an interrogation,” Izzy said. “That is not our intention. Agent Matthews lost his partner. He is just trying to understand.”
“No worries, Isabelle. I would never stand in the way of a man’s quest for understanding.”
I took that as my cue. “Then, you wouldn’t mind telling us what you and your son talked about the day he died?”
“We said our good-byes,” Birot said, and got up. “And I am afraid I, too, must say good-bye now. I just buried my son, and I have things to attend to.”
Being shown the door the polite way is still being shown the door. I didn’t like it, but I felt sorry for the old guy. No matter the reason, losing a son has to be hard. I apologized again and told him I’d try not to bother him any more.
When we got to the car, Izzy laid into me for baiting Birot.
“I just wanted to know,” I said.
“And now that you do, can we please let it go?”
“No can do.”
“Why, Bam? The man is obviously suffering from the loss of his son and his wife.”
“He’s hiding something.”
“What could he possibly be hiding?”
“I don’t know. Was there a call in his son’s phone records for a return cab ride to Philly?”
“No.”
“Then, how did he get back there?”
I got out of the car, went over to the guard, and asked him for the name of Birot’s driver. He said he didn’t have a driver. He drove himself everywhere. I asked him what he drove.
“He always drives the Bentley to work,” he said.
I got back into the car and ran a DMV check of the elder Birot’s car registrations. There were three registered in Pennsylvania in his name: the Bentley, a Ferrari
, and a Jaguar. Not too shabby, but I liked my Gremlin. I punched his home address into the GPS and we headed over there.
Birot had a nice spread, one that probably took a team of hired hands to keep in the shape it was in. The house was a mansion, set way back from the road with a separate three-car garage. Izzy pulled up in front of it. I got out and checked the bays. The Ferrari was the only car there. A big guy in overalls came out of the garage and asked me what I was doing. I flashed my badge and told him I was investigating a stolen Ferrari. Birot’s was on my short list, but obviously it wasn’t the one that had been stolen and chopped for parts. The guy said he couldn’t believe anyone would cut up such a fine car like that. I told him I couldn’t either. I thanked him, and we left.
Izzy stopped the car down by the road. “Where to now?”
I ran the plates from the Jag and came up with nothing.
“It’s not here and it’s not stolen. I’ve got a hunch,” I said. “You game?”
“As long as it doesn’t involve harassing Mr. Birot. Unlike you, I actually like my job.”
“Don’t worry. It’s nothing like that.”
I called Jimmy.
“How’s things in Philly?” I asked.
“It’s a shit mess, Bam. Where are you?”
“Villanova. What’s the best way back into town?”
“Right now? That’s a tough one. I know the Schuylkill’s a parking lot. Why don’t come down through West Philly to the park and then cut over the Strawberry Mansion Bridge? When you turn south, though, stay west of City Hall. We’ve got a regular block party going on down there around the mayor’s office.”
“Thanks.”
The crazies hadn’t come to the Main Line yet, but it was still slow going on US 30 — a lot of lights and a lot of people driving twenty-five. Panic wasn’t their thing. I guess they were well supplied with duct tape and food, and their money was safe no matter what happened to the stock market. We hung a left on City Line Avenue and followed it until we got to the Belmont Reservoir, where we turned right and wound through Fairmount Park to the bridge over the Schuylkill River and into North Philadelphia. That’s when things got a little dicey. We should have gone south along the edge of the park, but I directed Izzy to Ridge Avenue because it was usually quicker. I hadn’t taken the gang-patrolled roadblock at the intersection on Ridge into account in my calculations. There were six of them, teenagers by the looks of them, standing behind the parked cars blocking the street. They looked more scared than mean. One of the two that came over to us had a gun.
“Speak Dutch to him,” I said to Izzy.
“What?” she said.
I rolled the window down part way so my face was showing.
“We don’t want no plague, white boy,” the boy said. “Turn your ass around and get out of here.”
“Ja, ja,” I nodded, remembering the only Dutch that Izzy had taught me.
“You deaf? I said, get the fuck out of here.”
“Aangename kennismaking,” Izzy leaned across the seat and said. She later told me that meant, “Pleased to meet you.”
“What the fuck?” the kid said, looking over his shades at her.
“Spreekt u Nederlands?”
“Yo, mamma, speak English, or do you want some of this?” He waved the gun in the air. Bad move. The kid was no killer. He was showing off for his friends.
I rolled the window all the way down. The punk took off his shades and looked into the car. “Oh, shit,” he said, when he saw the computer, the console, and my Glock pointed at his head.
I grabbed the gun out of his hand. “Didn’t your mommy ever tell you not to play with guns? Back away from the car, or I’ll put another hole in your punk-ass head,” I said. “Turn us around, Izzy. We’ll take another way.”
She hung a U-turn and floored it. One of the other punks had a piece and took a potshot at us as we drove off.
“Why didn’t we just leave when he said to turn around?” Izzy asked.
“Because it’s a cop’s job to keep guns out of the hands of kids.”
We doubled back to 33rd and followed the park down past the Art Museum and took the Parkway. There were no more barricades because there were no neighborhoods to protect, just open space. On a nice sunny day like that you’d usually see people biking, walking, running, or just hanging out in the park, but that day was different. Everyone was afraid, and they were either out stocking up on supplies, hiding behind their curtains, or running away.
When we got into Center City, it was deserted. There are no Home Depots in Center City, and only a handful of grocery stores that had been emptied hours ago. Restaurants were closed. Most of the shops were shuttered. It wasn’t business as usual. It wasn’t business at all.
We parked in front of the Hyatt and went inside. There was no doorman and no one at the information desk. Flanagan’s was open, but the only one in there was Rico, the bartender. Izzy and I took seats at the bar, and he came over.
“What are you doing here?” I said.
“You mean, shouldn’t I be home hiding under my bed?”
“Something like that.”
“I live alone. I figure the safest place for me right now is here. Scotch, right?”
“Good memory,” I said. “Make mine a double and give the lady whatever she wants.”
Izzy ordered a vodka martini.
“Rico, this is Isabelle Aimée. She’s a Belgian cop. Izzy, this is Rico. He’s retired Philly PD.”
“Pleased to meet you,” she said.
“Likewise,” said Rico. “I’m guessing you two aren’t here for the atmosphere?”
“We’re following up on a lead.”
“On that mob hit?”
“No, on that Belgian who died from Ebola. Is the hotel open?”
“The front desk and restaurant on nineteen are still open. A few of the maids showed up for work. Not many customers though.”
“Who runs the parking garage?”
“Same people who manage the building. What are you looking for?”
“A Jaguar. One that might have been left here last Thursday or Friday.”
“At twenty bucks a night for parking, that’s a pretty hefty tab, but I guess if they own a Jag, they can afford it.”
“Who do we see about it?”
Rico made a call and directed us to the manager’s office in the parking garage. I thanked him with a twenty-dollar tip and we left, taking the elevator down to the lower level. The manager’s office was just off the garage entrance. I showed the guy my badge and asked what they did about abandoned cars.
“It’s a public garage, so we can’t tow until it hasn’t moved in thirty days.”
“Do you photograph the vehicles when they come in?”
“Sure do. Got all the plates on that little computer over there.”
“What about this one?” I gave him the Jag’s plate number.
He looked it up. “It came in last Friday. Looks like it’s still here.” Picking up a walkie-talkie, he said into it, “Jack, have we got a silver Jaguar anywhere? It’s been here about a week.”
“Yeah,” came the reply. “It’s up on the hotel level.”
“Thanks.” The manager put the walkie-talkie down. “There are only ten cars in the garage right now. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding it.”
We thanked him, and walked up a level to where Birot’s car was parked.
I tried the door. It was locked.
“Birot didn’t have any keys on him, did he?” I said.
“No.”
I looked in the window. The keys were on the seat. I took out my knife.
“You’ll set off the alarm,” Izzy said.
“I know.” My knife had a couple of useful gadgets on it. One was a center punch on the butt end. I jammed it into the window. The glass shattered, and the alarm went off. I opened the door from the inside, got in, and started up the car, silencing the alarm.
“Is it safe to be in there?” Izzy said.
“The Birot who died?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, it’s been a week. I’ve read that Ebola can survive for at most twenty days under ideal conditions outside a host, unless it’s been frozen. I’d say if the surfaces are dry, chances of any of the virus still being there and infectious are negligible. Did you touch the steering wheel?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s the most likely place it would be. Don’t touch your face. Don’t scratch your nose. Don’t rub your eyes. Go wash your hands. Use hydrogen peroxide or something with bleach in it if you have it. You might want to get out of those clothes too and have them cleaned.”
“Anything else?”
“Just keep an eye out for symptoms. That’s all you can do.”
“Got it. Thanks. How’s everything else going?”
“New cases are popping up everywhere: Pittsburgh, Scranton, Baltimore, D.C.”
I knew there was more. “And?” I said.
“It’s out of control, Bam. Thousands have died, that we know of. We trying to keep track of it, but the people keeping track are dying too.”
“Jesus.”
“I know.”
“Let me ask you something. What do you know about those classified outbreaks of airborne Ebola?”
“Only what Dr. Champion said at our meeting, Bam. They brought him in because he had prior experience with it.”
“Would you tell me if you knew more?”
“Probably not, unless you had a damned good reason for asking.”
“What if I did?”
“What do you mean?”
“Ever hear of Ebola-B?”
The Blacker Death: An Ebola Thriller Page 16