Peggy Sue Got Murdered

by Tess Gerritsen

  She shook her head. "I'm not so sure that you'll like the answers."

  "You may be right. But it's clear to me that you're not going to let up. One way or another, you're going to dig up the truth. So I might as well work with you. Not against you."

  The logic of the devil. How could she argue with it?

  She said, at last, "All right. I'll go with you."

  "First let me smooth things over with Isabel."

  Back in the ballroom, she watched him approach Isabel, saw the hurried excuses, the apologetic head-shaking. Isabel glanced in M. J.'s direction with a poorly disguised look of annoyance.

  M. J. spotted Ed by the buffet table. She sidled up to him. "Ed," she said.

  He grinned. "Did the direct approach work?"

  "Quantrell's taking me to his lab tonight."

  "Lucky you."

  "I want you to let Beamis and Shradick know. Just in case."

  "In case what?"

  Instantly she fell silent as Adam came towards her. "Just keep it in mind," she muttered to Ed. Then, with an automatic smile pasted in place, she followed Adam out the door.

  They went into the hotel garage. "We'll take your car," he said. "Isabel's going home in mine."

  "She didn't look too happy about it."

  "She hasn't much of a choice."

  M. J. shook her head in disbelief. "Are you always this thoughtful of your lady friends?"

  "Isabel," he sighed, "is a lovely woman with a cozy inheritance. And a whole stable of suitors. She hardly needs me to keep her warm at night."

  "Do you?"

  "Do you keep Ed Novak warm at night?"

  "None of your business."

  He cocked his head. "Ditto."

  They got into the rented Mercedes. The smell of leather upholstery mingled with the scent of him-his warmth, his after-shave. It left her feeling a little lightheaded and more than a little insane. Since when did the mere scent of a man make her dizzy?

  Since this man , she thought in irritation as she started the car. They swung into evening traffic.

  "How do you like the car?" he asked.

  "It's okay."

  "Okay?" he said, obviously waiting for her to elaborate.

  "Yeah. It's okay."

  He looked out the window. "Next time, I'll have to choose something that'll really impress you."

  "Is that what you were trying to do? Impress me?"

  "Yes."

  "In that case, I'll just say it. This baby handles like a dream, looks like a million bucks, and makes me feel young, gorgeous, and omnipotent. And I'm only going to give her back after a lot of kicking and screaming."

  "That's better." He smiled at her, his gaze lingering on her face. "You know," he said softly, "you really should wear your hair loose like that more often. It suits you."

  It was the most offhand of compliments, but it was enough to send even her cynical heart skipping. You're losing it, Novak, she thought, gripping the steering wheel. So he's got a silver tongue. Sterling silver. You've never let flattery do this to you before.

  She sneaked a glance sideways and saw that he'd already turned his gaze back to the road ahead.

  "There," he said. "Take the next turnoff. It's eight miles north."

  The road took them out of midtown Albion, into a district of industrial parks and corporate headquarters. In the last ten years, many of the buildings had gone vacant; dark windows and For Lease signs had sprung up everywhere. Albion, like the rest of the country, was struggling.

  The Cygnus complex was one of the few that appeared to house a thriving corporation. Even at eight o'clock at night, some of the windows were still lit, and there were a dozen cars in the parking lot. They drove past the security booth and pulled into a stall marked Quantrell.

  "Your people work late," said M. J., glancing at the parked cars.

  "The evening shift," said Adam. "We run a twenty-four-hour diagnostic lab. Plus, some of our research people like to keep odd hours. You know how it is with eggheads. They have their own schedules."

  "A flexible company."

  "We have to be, if we want to keep good minds around."

  They walked to the front door, where Adam pressed a few numbers on a wall keypad and the lock snapped open. Inside, they headed down a brightly lit hallway. No smudged walls, no flickering fluorescent bulbs here; only the best for corporate America.

  "Where are we going?" she asked.

  "Diagnostics. I'm going to prove to you we're not engaged in a cover-up."

  "Just how are you going to do that?"

  "I'm going to personally hand over to you Xenia Vargas's toxicology screen."

  The diagnostics lab was a vast chamber of space-age equipment, manned by a half-dozen technicians. The evening supervisor, a grandmotherly type in a lab coat, immediately came to greet them.

  "Don't worry, Grace," said Adam. "This isn't a surprise inspection."

  "Thank God," said Grace with a laugh. "We just hid the beer keg and the dancing girls. So what can I do for you, Mr. Q.?"

  "This is Dr. Novak, ME's office. She wants to check on a tox screen sent here from the state."

  "What's the name?"

  "Xenia Vargas," said M. J.

  Grace sat down at a computer terminal and typed in the name. "Here it is. Logged in just this afternoon. It's not checked priority, so we haven't run it yet."

  "Could you run it now?" asked Adam.

  "It'll take some time."

  Adam glanced at M. J. She nodded. "We'll wait," he said. Grace called to another tech: "Val, can you check that box of requests from the state? We're going to run a STAT on Xenia Vargas." She looked at Adam. "Are you sure you want to hang around, Mr. Q.? This is going to be real boring."

  "We'll be up in my office," said Adam. "Call us there."

  "Okie doke. But if I was dressed like that-" She nodded at their evening clothes. "I'd be out dancing."

  Adam smiled. "We'll keep it in mind."

  By the time they reached Adam's office, which was upstairs and down a long corridor, M. J.'s sore feet were staging a protest against high heels and she was silently cursing every cobbler in Italy. The minute she hobbled through the office door, she pulled off her shoes, and her stockinged feet sank into velvety carpet. Nice. Plush. Slowly she gazed around the room, impressed by her surroundings. It wasn't just an office; it was more like a second home, with a couch and chairs, bookshelves, a small refrigerator.

  "I was wondering how long you'd last in those shoes," Adam said with a laugh.

  "When Grace mentioned dancing, I felt like crying." She sat down gratefully on the couch. "I confess, I'm the socks and sneakers type."

  "What a shame. You look good in heels."

  "My feet would beg to differ." Groaning, she reached down and began to massage her instep.

  "What your feet need," he said, "is a little pampering." He sat down beside her on the couch and patted his lap in invitation. "Allow me."

  "Allow you to what?"

  "Make up for that long walk down that long hallway."

  Laughing, she rose from the couch. "It won't work, Quantrell. It takes more than a foot rub to soften up my brain."

  He gave a sigh of disappointment. "She doesn't trust me."

  "Don't take it personally. When it comes to men, I'm just an old skeptic."

  "Ah. Deep-rooted fears. An unreliable father?"

  "I didn't have a father." She wandered over to the bookcase, made a slow survey of the spines. An eclectic collection, she noted, arranged in no particular order. Philosophy and physics. Fiction and pharmacology. Over the bookcase hung several framed diplomas, strictly Ivy League.

  "So what happened to your father?" he asked.

  "I wouldn't know." She turned and looked at him. "I don't even know his last name."

  Adam's eyebrow twitched up in surprise. That was his only reaction, but it was a telling one.

  "I know he had light brown hair. Green eyes," said M. J. "I know he drove a nice car. And he had
money, which was what my mother desperately needed at the time. So…" She smiled. "Here I am. Green eyes and all."

  She expected to see shock, perhaps pity in his gaze, but these was neither. The look he gave her was one of utter neutrality.

  "So you see," she said, "I'm not exactly to the manner born. Though my mother used to claim she had noble Spanish blood. But then, Mama said a lot of crazy things toward the end."

  "Then she's…" He paused delicately.

  "Dead. Seven years."

  He tilted up his head, the next question plain in his eyes.

  "Mama would say these really bizarre things," explained M. J. "And she'd get headaches every morning. I was in my last year of medical school. I was the one who diagnosed the brain tumor."

  Adam shook his head. "That must have been terrible."

  "It wasn't the diagnosis that was so wrenching. It was the part afterwards. Waiting for the end. I spent a lot of time at Hancock General. Learned to royally despise the place. Found out I couldn't stand being around sick people." She shook her head and laughed. "Imagine that."

  "So you chose the morgue."

  "It's quiet. It's contained."

  "A hiding place."

  Anger darted through her, but she suppressed it. After all, what he'd said was true. The morgue was a hiding place, from all those painfully sloppy emotions one found in a hospital ward.

  She said, simply, "It suits me," and turned away. Her gaze settled on the refrigerator. "You wouldn't happen to have anything edible in there, would you?" she asked. "The wine's going straight to my head."

  He rose from the couch and went to the refrigerator. "I usually stock a sandwich or two, for those impromptu lunch meetings. Here we are." He produced two plastic-wrapped luncheon plates. "Let's see. Roast beef or… roast beef. What a choice." Apologetically he handed her a plate. "Afraid it can't match up to the mayor's benefit supper."

  "That's all right. I didn't pay for my ticket anyway."

  He smiled. "Neither did I."

  "Oh?"

  "It was Isabel's ticket. She's a big fan of Mayor Sampson."

  "I can't imagine why." M. J. unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite. "I think he's Albion's Titanic."

  "How so?"

  "Just look at South Lexington. Sampson would like to pretend it doesn't exist. He caters entirely to the more suburban areas. Bellemeade and beyond. The inner city? Forget it. He doesn't want to hear about the Jane Does and Nicos Biagis." She went back to the couch and sat down, tucking her stockinged feet beneath her.

  He sat down as well. Not too close, she noted with a mingling of both relief and disappointment, but sedately apart, like any courteous host.

  "To be honest," he admitted, "I'm not a fan of Sampson's either. But Isabel needed an escort."

  "And you didn't have any better offers for the evening?"

  "No." He picked up a slice of beef, and his straight white teeth bit neatly into the pink meat. "Not until you turned up."

  M. J. paused, the sandwich halfway to her mouth. His gaze was much too searching, too intimate for comfort. She didn't trust him; more important, she didn't trust herself. But those primitive threads of desire were spinning between them all the same, drawing her toward what could only be a mistake. Lord knew, she had never in her life felt such temptation.

  She set the plate down on the coffee table and slowly wiped her fingers on the napkin. "You can flirt all you want with me," she said. "It's not going to change things. I still have a job to do. Questions to be answered."

  "And suspects to be suspicious of."

  "Yes."

  "It doesn't bother me, being a suspect. Because I'm not guilty of anything. Neither is my company."

  "Still, the name Cygnus does keep popping up in all sorts of places."

  "What do you want me to say? Confess that I'm manufacturing some secret drug in the basement? Selling it on the streets for a profit? Or maybe we can come up with a truly diabolical scheme, say, I'm single-handedly trying to solve Albion's crime problem by killing off the junkies. The ultimate drug rehab! And that's why I was at the mayor's benefit. Because Sampson's in on it too!" He cocked his head and smiled, revealing yet again those beautiful white teeth of his. "Come now, M. J.," he said, leaning towards her. "Doesn't that sound the slightest bit ridiculous?"

  He did make it sound ridiculous, and she didn't appreciate the insult. "I don't discount any possibilities," she said.

  "Even wild and crazy plots?"

  "Is it so wild and crazy?"

  He was moving closer, but she was too stubborn to give up an inch of territory on that couch. She held her ground, even as his hand reached up to touch her face, even as he gently stroked her cheek.

  Even as he leaned forward and pressed his lips against hers.

  "If you knew me," he whispered against her mouth, "you wouldn't ask these absurd questions."

  She felt an exhilirating rush of desire, felt it leap through her veins and flood her face with its warmth. Together they tumbled to the cushions. At once he settled on top of her, his weight driving her deep into the couch, his mouth closing over hers. This isn't supposed to happen, she thought, as her arms circled around his neck, tugging him hard against her mouth. He fumbled at his jacket, trying to peel it off and at the same time keep kissing her. She opened her eyes and caught a dizzy glimpse of his fair hair in disarray, of the circle of lamplight playing on the ceiling. What am I doing? she thought. Making love in an office. Yielding on a business couch.

  "Don't," she said. He went on kissing her, his mouth ever more demanding. She said again, louder, "Don't," and pressed her hands against his chest.

  He pulled away, his gaze hungrily searching her face. "What's wrong?"

  "You. Me." She rolled away and slid free, onto the carpet. At once she scrambled to her feet. "It just doesn't work, Adam."

  He sat up and smoothed back his hair. "I thought it was working just fine," he said with a grin.

  "Tell me something," she said, restlessly moving about the room. "How often do you use that handy little couch of yours?"

  He let out a sigh of frustration. "Not often enough."

  "When was the last time?"

  "You mean… truthfully?"

  "Yes."

  He shrugged. "Never."

  "That's being truthful?"

  "I am. I've never used this couch. I mean, not for that purpose." He patted the cushion. "Look, see how clean it is? Oops, coffee stain there. But that's all." He gazed up at her with a look of pure innocence. And regret. "Tonight you and I would've inaugurated it."

  She laughed. "Why is it I don't feel particularly honored?"

  He sighed. "M. J., you have to understand. I've been a widower for some time now. And here you are, this wildly attractive woman. And I…" He shrugged. "Got a little carried away."

  "Is that plan B? Flattery?"

  "Flattery's not my style. You should know that."

  "That's just it, Adam. I don't know you. Except as a phone number in the hand of a corpse. Not exactly a confidence-inspiring introduction."

  They both started as the phone rang. Adam went to the desk and picked up the receiver. "Hello, Grace." A pause, then: "We're on our way." He looked at M. J. "The results are back."

  They found Grace sitting in front of the computer terminal. A readout was just rolling out of the printer. She tore off the page and handed it to Adam. "There you have it, Mr. Q. A little booze. Traces of decongestant. And that." She pointed to a band on the chromatographic printout.

  "Did you analyze this band?" asked Adam.

  "I ran it against mass and UV spectrophotometry. I'm not a hundred percent sure of its structure. It'll take some more noodling around. But I can tell you it's a morphine analogue. Something new. Levo-N-cyclobutylmethyl-6,10 beta-dihydroxy class."

  M. J. looked sharply at Adam. He was staring at the printout in shock.

  "Zestron-L," said M. J.

  Grace glanced at her in puzzlement. "Zestron-L? What's that?"
<
br />   "Check with the research wing," said M. J. "They'll help you run the immunoassay. That should identify it once and for all."

  "You mean our research wing?" Grace looked at Adam. "Then it's…"

  Adam nodded. "The drug is one of ours."

  8

  Lou Beamis looked blearily across his desk at M. J. He hadn't slept much last night-domestic homicide at 2:00 A.M.-and his normally smooth black face was sprouting the bristly beginnings of a new beard.

  "It's gone beyond a simple trio of OD's, Lou," M. J. said. "We're talking corporate theft. An untested drug, out on the streets. And maybe more deaths on the way."

  Shradick shuffled in, looking just as shaggy as Beamis. He carried with him the definite odor of McDonald's-a sausage and biscuit, which he eagerly unwrapped as he sat down at his desk.

  "Hey, Vince," said Beamis. "Hear the latest? You'll be just thrilled."

  Shradick took a bite of his breakfast. "What's new?"

  "Novak's got a tox ID on two of our overdoses."

  "So what is it?" asked Shradick, obviously more interested in his sausage.

  "Something called Zestron-L."

  "Never heard of it."

  "Of course you haven't. It's something new they're cooking up at Cygnus. Shouldn't be on the street at all."

  "Somehow," said M. J., "it got out of Cygnus. Which means they've had a theft."

  Shradick shrugged. "We're Homicide."

  "This is homicide. Three dead people, Vince. Now, you don't really want any more bodies, do you? Or are you that desperate for overtime?"

  Shradick looked balefully at Beamis. "Are we chasing this?"

  Beamis leaned back and groaned. "If only it was nice and neat, you know? A bullet hole, a stab wound."

  "That's neat?"

  "At least it's cut and dried. Homicide with a capital H. But this is spinning our wheels. Folks who OD, it's a risk they take, sticking a needle in their veins. I don't really care where they get the stuff."

  "Would you care if it was strychnine they were shooting up?"

  "That's different."

  "No, it isn't. In large doses, Zestron-L is every bit as deadly. How do you know we haven't got some right-wing fanatic out there, some nut trying to clear the junkies off the streets? And by the way, he's doing a good job."