by Ian Smith
His office was even more meticulous than the laboratory. No loose pens or pencils on the desk, and the papers were neatly stacked to one side. Behind his desk hung a large black-and-white photo of the two brothers hugging after Wilson had received his graduate degree. Sterling was only ten, tall and lanky, flashing the same smile that kept him in trouble with women now. As reluctant as Sterling would have been to admit it to anyone, this had always been his favorite picture. He treasured it mostly because it was the only photo he could remember of the two of them together and happy. Since he had come to terms with his resentment of his older brother, his copy of the photo now sat on his nightstand back in his apartment. The day of Wilson's graduation was the only time that Sterling had seen the old man cry.
“This is some office,” Wiley said. He was eyeing a picture of the Professor with some of his students. “You go to some of these professors' offices and it's a pigsty. Papers and books all over the place, moldy cups of coffee everywhere.” He picked up the picture of the students and handed it to Sterling.
The photograph had been taken on the lawn in front of the lab or a similar building. Eight students surrounded Wilson. They looked so content and carefree. Sterling took his time and studied each of their faces. The student next to Wilson stood out from the others and not only because she was attractive. Her eyes, her posture, her smile—they all added up to an unmistakable air of confidence.
Sterling replaced the photograph on the desk and looked around. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined the wall, full of bulky textbooks and lab manuals. Three shelves had been dedicated entirely to fiction, something Sterling never imagined Wilson having an interest in or time to read. He had a lot of mysteries, Elmore Leonard and Walter Mosely and almost all of the Grishams. Sterling only remembered Wilson burying his head in the New York Times and Scientific American.
He walked to the other side of the large oak desk and pulled out the heavy, black-leather chair that slid on a square piece of Plexiglas. A small metal wastebasket in the shape of an elephant had been tucked against the right inside wall of the desk. Sterling emptied its contents onto the desk—three crumpled pieces of paper and a pen that had run out of ink. Sterling opened up one of the crumpled balls.
“Anything interesting?” Wiley asked.
“Not exactly sure,” Sterling replied. “It seems to be a list of chemicals and their structures, but it's hard to make most of them out. They didn't print very well.” He handed the first sheet to Wiley, then opened the second and third. More of the same.
“I can't even pronounce most of these names,” Wiley surrendered. “That's why I never got along with science. So many damn words that take up too much space on a page. I always had better places to spin my wheels.”
Sterling considered the names. He wasn't a chemist, but he had spent a couple of years studying organic chemistry. Changing just one number or a couple of letters, he knew, could mean two very different compounds.
“Does it say where that list came from?” Wiley asked.
Sterling couldn't find anything on the first couple of pages; most of the ink had been blurred or cut off at the bottom. He could, however, read some letters at the bottom of the third page: http://www.fda. The rest were illegible. “It's from the Internet,” Sterling said.
Wiley stretched his neck, and brought the sheet of paper close enough to his face to practically smell the ink. Then he gave up on vanity and pulled out a pair of reading glasses from his breast pocket. “Part of getting older,” he explained, sliding the thick glasses up his nose. “Was it normal for the Professor to be checking out something with the FDA?”
“It's possible. Researchers are always looking up scientific information on the Internet. The real question is whether the information on these pages had any special meaning.” Sterling opened the closet door. More of the same—stacks of textbooks and boxes of paper, jumbled laboratory data, and copied journal articles. Various of Wilson's articles sat on one shelf, as did a shoe box full of Minicam videotapes. Sterling rummaged through quickly, before putting everything back in its original place. He pulled out his small black-leather book and scribbled some notes. He looked at his watch. It was one o'clock and he was starting to get hungry. He needed to sit and collect his thoughts.
It was time to go see Kay. The investigation was important, but he also had to be there for her. Wilson was all she had in the world, and everyone knew how close they were. For a brief moment, for no particular reason at all, the strangest thought entered Sterling's head. Was it possible that Wilson had run off with another woman? Unlikely, but every possibility had to be considered. One thing Sterling had learned after all these years with the Bureau was never to put anything past anyone.
Sterling neatly arranged the sheets of paper on the desk. “I think that'll do it for now,” he said to Wiley.
“Once state has finished dusting the car for prints, I'll have them sent to the lab,” Wiley said. “Shouldn't take more than a few hours.”
“The sooner, the better,” Sterling said. As they left, he took another look at the photo of Wilson and himself hanging on the wall. Though only for a brief moment, it warmed him to think that Wilson liked that picture as much as he did.
Carlton straightened up when he heard the door open. Sterling thought he might have been napping.
“How long is your shift, Carlton?” Sterling asked.
Carlton looked at his watch. “I came on at five this morning. I'll leave at three this afternoon, maybe stay later for some overtime.”
“Any relief?”
“Someone will come by soon so I can take lunch.”
“Make sure they don't let anybody in,” Sterling said firmly. “That entire lab needs to be fingerprinted.”
“Yes, sir,” Carlton said. He seemed good at taking orders.
“And if anyone comes by saying they need to see the Professor or they work in the lab, make sure you take down their information—name, ID number, affiliation, and phone number where they can be reached.”
Sterling and Lieutenant Wiley started down the hall. His lips moving silently, Carlton reviewed the instructions as the elevator doors opened.
“What about the cleaning man?” Carlton called after them.
Sterling struck his hands out to keep the elevator doors from closing. “What cleaning man?”
“He said he might need to come back later. He wasn't able to finish everything.”
Sterling and Wiley stepped out of the elevator. “I thought you said the only person who asked to come in was one of the students,” Sterling said. He was seeing red again.
“Well, I didn't think the cleaning people counted,” Carlton said, shrugging his shoulders.
Sterling shook his head. Hanlon had made his blood simmer, and now Carlton had brought it to a boil. Only hours into the investigation, and he had already counted at least five mistakes that could seriously taint the evidence and hinder their ability to find Wilson. “Did you at least get his name?”
Carlton twisted his mouth. “I don't remember. He said he was running late and forgot his ID in his locker.”
“How long was he in there for?”
“Not sure. He was coming out just as I arrived.”
Sterling looked at Wiley. “We need the records of who was doing the cleaning this morning,” he said firmly. “If this investigation is going to amount to anything, we've got to check on everything. Twice. This is the kind of shit that will blow the case before we even have a chance to get our hands around it.”
Lieutenant Wiley nodded. He was accustomed to giving orders rather than taking them, but in this matter it was hard to disagree.
“No one enters that lab unless I say so,” Wiley barked at Carlton. “No students, janitors, or police officers, not even President Mortimer himself.”
“Ten-four,” Carlton responded. This time, he did give a little salute.
Sterling looked down at Wiley. “If we come back, we're going to need one of Wilson's research assistants
to take us through the lab. I just have a feeling that something in there isn't what it's supposed to be. Who knows what that janitor was cleaning.”
9
A lone wooden stake leaning out of the ground marked the entrance to the Bledsoe property. The number 2 had been so inconspicuously hand painted that were one not looking for the address, it would completely escape detection. The modest entrance—a couple of tall trees interspersed with wild shrubbery—belied the expansiveness of the tract of land that Wilson called home. The Bledsoe house was one of only three on Deer Run Lane, and like the others, it hid in the dense woods, invisible from the small dirt road that joined the properties.
The beginning of the narrow gravel driveway was only large enough for one car, but after a couple of hundred yards, the trees and their bowing branches cleared into the open and the driveway circled in front of the massive house.
Sterling's reaction to his first glimpse of the imposing structure was shock. Wilson had described the house as comfortable; in fact, it was enormous. Like their father, Wilson lived a frugal and relatively simple life despite his hefty salary and lucrative awards. Sterling now realized that Wilson had saved all his money—and evidently a certain amount of flamboyance, too—and piled it into this colossal edifice. He had allowed the builders to clear only five acres surrounding the house, leaving the remaining acreage in its natural state. He was proud of it. My own wildlife preserve. Full of enough animals for me to study for the rest of my life without setting a foot off my own property.
Sterling passed three cruisers in the driveway, one each from the Norwich and Hanover police departments and an unmarked car with tinted windows and several antennae planted on the hood. State trooper. He settled the Mustang close to the front of the house.
The massive oak front door was unlocked. The first thing that hit Sterling was the smell of hot tea, fresh and minty. Sterling hated tea and everything about it. He hated to see people drink it, pursing their lips as if whistling, then gently pressing them against the rim of the cup. He couldn't smell or see or think about tea without a painful memory resurfacing. It was his ninth birthday and his parents had promised he could have a party at the house and invite all his friends over for cake and ice cream and games. He had never had a real party before, but this was going to be his first and he had planned every detail down to the table seating. He could barely fall asleep the night before, thinking about how much fun they'd all have and the gifts his friends would bring.
Then Wilson called and plans changed. Instantly. Wilson said he'd be coming home that afternoon but would only be passing through, as he planned on visiting friends in Philadelphia. He was in graduate school in Chicago and had just begun his midyear break.
Sterling's party was postponed and instead of a house full of balloons and rambunctious boys, hordes of his parents' friends from work and church descended on their small house. There were plenty of gifts that night, but they were all for Wilson. Books, sweaters, fancy pens and pencils—everyone came to pay homage to the golden boy. Sterling spent most of the night in his room crying, but the one time he left it to go to the bathroom, he took a quick glance down the stairs. That's when he saw them all, smoking their long cigarettes and sipping tea from his mother's china that she kept locked away for important occasions. Everyone had a cup in their hand, even Wilson. They laughed and puffed and sipped, acting just like the rich people he had seen on television. A bunch of phonies, he told himself. It was his birthday and Wilson was getting the attention. All these years later and he could still smell the sharp minty aroma. He could still see them crammed into the small living room and front hall, chatting importantly and tipping back those goddamn cups with the gold trim. It damn near killed him.
Sterling fought off the memory as he stepped farther into the foyer and heard voices from the back of the house. He dropped his bag and followed the voices, walking through the large family room, then into a den that was almost as big as his entire apartment. Kay was reclining on a beige leather chaise lounge. Her hair had been tied back in a bun, and she hadn't bothered with makeup. Not that she needed it. Even in her late forties, with age beginning to touch the corner of her eyes, she still possessed the attractiveness that had drawn Wilson to her. What a waste that her genes wouldn't be passed on to children.
The three officers made an odd picture, lined up on the couch across from her, all wearing different uniforms, hands folded in their laps. Something out of a seventies sitcom.
“Kay,” Sterling said, walking into the open room. The ceilings were extraordinarily high, and his voice echoed for a while before the dark oak paneling swallowed it.
“Sterling!” she exclaimed, instantly rising to her feet. “Thank God you're here.” Her eyes were swollen. Her black skirt fell just above her knees, showing off a pair of toned legs that would make most women envious. Her many years of dance still served her well.
Sterling wrapped his sister-in-law in a bear hug, and he could tell by the firmness of her clasp that she was as scared as he was.
He released her. “I'm Agent Sterling Bledsoe,” he said to the cops, who had also gotten to their feet. He walked over and pumped their hands as they called out their names.
“I didn't know you were FBI,” the tall one with a heap of red hair said. Sterling read the name Hanlon embossed on his shield.
“Most of the time,” Sterling said, helping Kay to her chair, then claiming his own seat on an unoccupied sofa. It felt good to finally get off his feet. “Right now I'm teaching anatomy at Hunter College in the city.”
“When did you get in?” Kay asked. Her voice was strained, desperate.
“A few hours ago,” Sterling said. “Some of the officers have been showing me around.”
“And?” Kay asked, her back straightening at the possibilities.
“They found the car over in the medical school parking lot.”
“Yes, they called us here at the house.” The disappointment dropped her back into the chair.
Sterling looked at the three men. “Who's actually leading this investigation from the local side?”
They all looked at each other before Hanlon took a stab. “We haven't entirely worked out jurisdiction yet, because we don't know exactly where he was last seen. We're thinking that it's probably Vermont.”
Sterling was surprised no one had wrestled control yet. Local cops always fought for jurisdiction, sometimes harder than they did to find the perps.
The Norwich officer took his turn. “Professor Bledsoe lives here in Norwich, and Mrs. Bledsoe made her first call to us,” he said. “We're assuming that he was last seen or heard from down on River Road. But Professor Bledsoe does spend a good part of his time over at the college in Hanover, so it only makes sense that we combine forces until we figure out what's happened.” Diplomatic.
Sterling looked at the trooper. “They called us in for support,” the trooper said. He was tall and had a fresh crew cut that perfectly matched the square shape of his face. He was broad across the chest and younger than the others. State troopers always seemed to be either monstrously big or Napoleonic. “We got a team out there dusting prints and collecting evidence.”
Sterling directed his attention to Kay. “I know you're tired, but time is critical. Can you tell me a little about what happened last night?” He took out his black-leather book.
Kay looked up at the ceiling and closed her eyes. “Let me go back to yesterday morning,” she began. “Wilson left for the lab a little earlier than usual. He wasn't himself. Wally and Serena were throwing a party for him last night in celebration of the Devonshire, and he couldn't stop worrying over how many people would be there. You know your brother hated crowds. And it didn't make things any better that I've been fighting this nasty virus that's been going around. So I decided not to go, which was fine with Wilson, since the plan was for me to stay here and fix his favorite dinner.”
“Grilled salmon, mashed potatoes, and cucumbers,” Sterling said.
; Kay nodded. “Wilson has never been one for parties, so the only way I got him to go was to bribe him with dinner.”
“What time did he arrive at the party?” Sterling asked.
“He called me from his office at about five thirty and said that he was heading over. The party was to start at six and I told him that he should get there a little early to greet the guests with the Mortimers. Even if he didn't want to be there, he still had responsibilities as the guest of honor.”
“When did he leave the party?”
“It must've been around seven o'clock.”
“Are you certain?” Sterling was back at work on the time line.
“I'm positive,” Kay said. It was obvious that she had gone over the last night's events several times. The officers looked on quietly. “The news had just ended and I was turning to watch Jeopardy. That's the only game show that Wilson will watch.” Kay cleared her throat and continued. “Alex was in the middle of announcing the contestants when Wilson called and said that he'd be home soon.”
“Did he say if anything strange happened at the party?” Sterling asked.
Kay thought for a minute. “No, the party went well. Wait. He did mention that one of the students parking cars had asked for his autograph. But that was it.”
“Was Wilson coming straight home?”
“For sure,” Kay said. “He told me to have the food ready. Then he called back a few minutes later. There were a couple of guys having trouble with their truck.” Kay stopped and closed her eyes. “If only he had never stopped,” she cried softly.
“Would you like some water, ma'am?” Hanlon asked.
“No, I'll be fine,” Kay said, waving him off. She took a deep breath. “I told him to be careful. It was dark and rainy and the wind was fierce.” Kay took another breath. “He told me that he would be home soon and to make sure the food was warm.” Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes.