Misgivings

by Donn Cortez

  “Evidence? Of what?” He rubbed his other eye, somewhat nervously.

  “That’s the problem with conjunctivitis, isn’t it? I remember getting pinkeye as a kid—rubbing your eyes only makes it worse, but you just can’t stop. Which, inevitably, transfers the virus from your eyes to your hands to whatever you touch. I took that toy back to the lab hoping to get lucky with a fingerprint, but after talking to a friend, I swabbed and tested it for velogenic neurotropic NDV. It came back positive. You have Exotic Newcastle disease, Mister Boraba.”

  He met her eyes and sighed. “I know.”

  “END is a notifiable disease as defined by USDA regulations,” Calleigh said. “Punishable by fines of up to twenty thousand dollars per violation and a five-year jail sentence. The Department of Agriculture spends a million dollars a year eradicating outbreaks of END—they take it very seriously.”

  A phone chimed. “That’s probably the Wildside Menagerie,” Calleigh said. “Right about now, they’re being shut down and the premises searched. I’m afraid your entire stock of birds is going to have to be destroyed, Mister Boraba—Newcastle is just too dangerous to take chances. An outbreak in Southern California in the early seventies resulted in the destruction of twelve million laying hens and cost fifty-six million dollars; nobody wants that to happen again.”

  “I understand.” Boraba’s voice was subdued. “What should I tell my staff?”

  “Tell them to cooperate. That would be best for everyone.”

  Boraba picked up the phone. “Yes. Yes, I know. Someone is here now. No, just—show them where the birds are. Yes. No, don’t worry about that. Yes, I’ll take care of that.” He hung up.

  “So I have been caught,” Boraba said. “And I suppose the story about Hector was just to make me let my guard down, eh? He is alive and well and probably wonders what this is all about?”

  “No, Mister Boraba. Hector Villanova didn’t tell us anything.”

  He nodded. “No, of course not. What could he tell? He didn’t know anything. All he knew was that his old friend Marco was making money, and he was a divorced plumber far from home. Poor Hector—he never had any ambition. But look what ambition got me, hey? Perhaps Hector was the smarter of us, after all—better a free plumber than a caged millionaire.”

  “I’m sorry, Mister Boraba, but I told you the truth. Hector Villanova is dead. I thought at first you might be involved, but you just got back into the country after several weeks in Mexico—and Hector Villanova’s blood showed no traces of psittacosis or Newcastle. He had no idea what you were up to, did he?”

  “No. No, he—he wasn’t like that. The idea of Hector as a criminal? If you knew him, you wouldn’t think that for a second. He was a good man.”

  Marco Boraba gave her a sad, red-eyed smile. “A much better man,” he said softly, “than me.”

  “You know, that’s the third time you’ve washed your hands in the last hour,” Wolfe pointed out. “I’m all for hygiene—especially after visiting Jenson in the AV lab—but as someone who knows something about obsessive-compulsive disorder, I gotta say you’re starting to worry me.”

  Calleigh shot him a dirty look as she dried her hands. “All right, all right. I guess I’m overreacting a little—I just don’t want to wind up in quarantine. Marco Boraba is going to spend the holidays all alone, probably eating hospital food. No, thank you.”

  “Yeah, the holidays. When people gorge themselves with all sorts of rich foods . . . but some people are more about the unstuffing than the stuffing.”

  Calleigh came over to where Wolfe was working. “In what sense? Are you talking about a computer file?”

  “That’s Jenson’s department. His filthy, disease-ridden department . . . sorry. No, I’m talking about food—and the quickest way to serve it with an eviction notice.”

  “Okay, you’ve lost me. How does this tie in with your dead Kris Kringle case?”

  “One of the Santas is an artist. When Tripp and I served her with a warrant to confiscate her computer, I noticed that a lot of her art dealt with exaggerated body images, either very thin or very fat. And I remembered that one of the drugs used to poison the vic, phenelzine, is also used in the treatment of certain psychiatric disorders—including bulimia.”

  “Splurge and purge? Did you check her medicine cabinet?”

  “Tried, but the warrant only covered the computer and she wouldn’t let me in the bathroom.”

  “Makes sense. Bulimics are secretive, and most of them have a highly developed sense of radar when it comes to other people invading their privacy. One of my roommates in college was bulimic, but I never knew until I found her stash of laxatives—she used to unwrap candy bars and substitute chocolate Ex-Lax. I probably never would have found out if my sweet tooth hadn’t gotten the better of me.”

  “Well, that’s one argument against raiding somebody else’s fridge. . . . Anyway, I’m hoping Jenson can pull something probative off her hard drive. Unless I can get a warrant, there’s no way to prove she has access to phenelzine.”

  “You’re still doing better than I am. Boraba was my only lead in the Villanova case—now I’m back to square one. I haven’t got any further than Delko did.”

  “Really? The lab’s top two investigators, both stumped? That’s . . .”

  “Irritating? Frustrating? Depressing?”

  “Not really the direction I was headed,” Wolfe said with a grin. “Actually, it’s nice to know you guys aren’t infallible.”

  “Oh? You think you could do any better?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Is that a challenge?”

  “Depends. If it’ll get my case jump-started, then yes. Otherwise, consider it idle workplace banter.”

  “Okay, I accept. Consider it an early Christmas present.”

  “For who? Me, or your ego?”

  “Depends on whether or not I get anywhere, I guess. . . but there is one condition.”

  “So this is a gift exchange? What did you have in mind?”

  “You have to deal with Jenson.”

  Calleigh sighed. “I just can’t get away from germs, can I? All right, I’ll do it. But if I come down with something, I’m going to be sneezing in your direction.”

  “The Pathan case,” Sackheim told Horatio, “has taken a somewhat . . . unusual turn.”

  Horatio leaned back in his office chair and regarded the FBI agent curiously. Delko, his arms crossed, stood beside Horatio’s desk with an impassive look on his face. Sackheim had asked to speak to Horatio alone; Horatio had smiled, shaken his head, and told Sackheim to just say what was on his mind.

  “Unusual in what way?” Horatio asked.

  “We’ve heard from the kidnappers. This disc was delivered two hours ago.” He held up a CD, the prismatic surface catching the late-afternoon sun slanting through the window. “My own people have been over it—zero for prints or trace, of course. The only thing on it is a text file.”

  “With a list of demands, I assume.”

  “There’s only one. The kidnappers insist on dealing with a particular person as intermediary, and that person only.” Sackheim dropped the disc on Horatio’s desk with a clatter. “You.”

  12

  “THE THING ABOUT KINGSLEY PATRICK that you have to remember,” the bald woman said thoughtfully, “is that he was a schmuck.”

  “What makes you say that?” Tripp shifted in the leather chair and rested his notebook on one knee, his pen in the other hand. The small office smelled of extremely good coffee, and he found himself wishing he’d said yes to her offer of a cup.

  “I was his agent, I should know. I mean, I may not be the best agent in the world—or even the state—but I got him paying gigs. You want to know why he quit me? I wasn’t getting him the parts he wanted. I tried to tell him, look, you’re the one that gets or doesn’t get the part; me, I just set up meetings and do lunch. A lot of lunch.”

  Stella Ragosa reminded Tripp of a squirrel—small, energetic, with prominent front teeth that
were spotlessly white. Her completely hairless head somehow increased the effect, though Tripp wasn’t sure how. Maybe it was the way her ears stuck out.

  “Cancer,” Ragosa said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The hair, or lack thereof. People always stare, I’m used to it. Shaved it after the chemo, but I hate hats. Always have. Tried wigs, but they itch.”

  “I’m, uh—”

  “Sorry for my loss? Don’t worry about it. The cancer was back in ’86, I beat it to death with drugs and attitude—that, I got plenty of—and it’s never been back. I kept the look because it starts conversations and gets me remembered. My husband thinks it’s sexy, but he’s an even bigger schmuck. Of course, I married him, so what does that make me?”

  Tripp didn’t even try to answer that. “Was Patrick ever involved in any criminal activities?”

  “Just his acting, that was criminal enough. No, I’m sorry, that was a cheap shot. I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.” She sighed theatrically, which was apparently the way she did everything. “He wasn’t that bad an actor. His ego was bigger than his talent, but God knows that’s not a rarity in this business. But anything illegal? He wouldn’t turn down a little coke if it was being handed out, but that was about it. At least, that’s all I know about; since he left my agency, we weren’t exactly in touch. I think he called once to get his head shots back, that was about it.”

  “All right, Ms. Ragosa. Thank you for your time.”

  “My pleasure, Detective. You ever want to go into acting, give me a call.” She looked him up and down frankly as he stood. “Put you in a cowboy hat, you could sell anything from barbecue sauce to Range Rovers.”

  “Thanks,” Tripp said, “but I’ll leave that kind of thing to the professionals.”

  Jenson had pulled a list of contacts from Kings-ley’s email and given it to Wolfe. While Tripp talked to Kingsley’s associates, Wolfe was trying to link Monica Steinwitz to a source of phenelzine.

  Or that’s what he was supposed to be doing— but since Jenson was doing the actual work on Steinwitz’s computer, Wolfe was free to spend a little time on the Villanova case. He went over Delko’s and Calleigh’s notes carefully, then pulled the physical evidence from the evidence locker. There wasn’t much: the chain the body had been wrapped in, a few fragments that had survived the explosion, the samples Delko had collected from Villanova’s hotel room. The boat was still in the lab’s garage, downstairs; Wolfe took a trip in the elevator to look at it.

  Delko had it up on two blue plastic sawhorses. Wolfe walked around it, noting the jagged hole that had sunk her, the empty oarlocks, the long pole beside her. He tried to envision the sequence of events.

  Hector Villanova has just had a big Christmas dinner, for which he paid extra cash to have early, because he’s not going to be around on Christmas Eve. He’s celebrating something—a big business deal, probably. Maybe one that involves traveling on Christmas Eve, even though he’s not booked on any flights or cruises or trains—at least, not under his own name.

  But something goes wrong. Someone takes him for a boat ride to the middle of nowhere. Hector must have been rowing, probably with a gun aimed at him; once they got into the swamp, they ditched the oars and switched to the pole. Maybe the killer had already attached the bomb and used it to control Hector.

  Wolfe shook his head. No. Couldn’t have done that unless the bomb was remote-activated, and it used a simple fuse, the light-and-run kind. So where did the killer run to? Delko found only one footprint in the immediate area, on a log.

  He went back upstairs and dug through the stack of photos Delko had taken. The footprint matched Hector Villanova’s shoe size, and from the tooth fragment Delko had found in the tree trunk it seemed obvious that Villanova had been standing on that spot when the bomb went off. The killer must have stayed in the boat.

  It must have been a long fuse. Delko found traces of duct tape—maybe Villanova’s eyes were taped shut so he couldn’t see what was coming.

  And afterward, the killer had wrapped the body in chains, used drain cleaner to dissolve Villanova’s hands—

  No, that’s not right. If Villanova was standing on the log, his body would have toppled into the water after the detonation. So the killer would have wrapped the chains around him first.

  That worked—except it left Villanova at the bottom of the swamp with his hands intact.

  So the body hadn’t fallen into the swamp after the bomb went off. It had stayed out of the water long enough for the killer to remove Villanova’s hands—and even with a strong chemical agent like lye, that would have taken a while. And then . . .

  “Then the killer sinks the boat he arrived in and makes his way out of the swamp without leaving behind any tracks,” Wolfe muttered. “Which means he waded or swam his way to more solid ground, far enough away from the crime scene to be undetected. And either walked out of the Everglades on his own, at night, or was picked up by someone nearby.”

  He didn’t like either scenario. Two boats seemed complicated and unnecessary, and the killer would have to be extremely confident and knowledgeble of the ’Glades to risk gators, snakes, and quick-sand—especially at night.

  He studied the photos of the crime scene closely. It made even less sense; if Villanova had been standing on the log the footprint had been found on, he would almost certainly have toppled into the water when the bomb detonated, unless he’d been secured somehow.

  Wolfe had a sudden inspiration. He checked the photos again, then went over the chain carefully, link by link. Delko walked in when he was almost finished.

  “Is that the chain from the Villanova case?” Delko asked.

  “Yeah.” Wolfe told Delko about what he’d figured out. “So I thought, maybe the chain wrapped around Villanova went up, into a tree. That would keep the body from falling into the water when the explosives detonated.”

  “Good theory,” Delko said. “But I was there— there weren’t any overhanging branches long enough or strong enough to support the body’s weight.”

  “I couldn’t tell for sure from the pictures. But the chain would have had to run through the blast zone, so I checked it for charring or blast damage. No luck.”

  “What are you doing working on this, anyway? I thought H had Calleigh assigned.”

  “Just thought I’d do her a favor, that’s all.”

  Delko grinned. “Sure. What’s she doing for you?”

  “Dealing with Jenson. Apparently AV techs are allowed to work while carrying communicable diseases. Speaking of which—didn’t I see you suppressing a sneeze today?”

  “Me? Nah, I’m healthy as a racehorse. Just a little allergic reaction to something in the air.”

  “Right . . . anyway, there’s something definitely off about the whole Villanova scenario. I just haven’t quite figured out what yet.”

  “Well, good luck. I’m going to have my hands full with the Pathan kidnapping.”

  “Yeah? You mean the Feebs are actually letting you play with their ball?”

  “They don’t have a choice. The kidnappers finally got in touch, and they say Horatio is the only one they’ll deal with.”

  Wolfe’s eyes widened. “Really? That’s kind of weird, isn’t it?”

  “You can say that again. I thought Sackheim’s head was gonna explode.”

  “Well, every cloud has a silver lining, I guess . . .”

  “Hi, Tyler,” Calleigh said brightly. “You don’t look so bad.”

  Jenson raised his eyebrows and smiled back. “Gee, that’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all day. Which means everyone hates me. Which, considering my dazzling personality, I’m at a complete loss to understand.”

  “Well, from the way Ryan was carrying on, it sounded like you were at death’s door. You don’t even look like you’re in the neighborhood.”

  “Wow, you Southern gals really know how to charm a guy. Keep that up and I may swoon.”

  “Oh, please,” Calleigh said. “
It takes years to learn how to swoon properly, not to mention a highly specialized wardrobe. You might be able to pull off a case of the vapors, but swooning is definitely out of your league.”

  “Very well, madam, I stand corrected. Except I’m sitting. How can I help?”

  “You know, you seem a little manic for someone who’s supposed to be sick.”

  “Cold medication. You know how they come labeled drowsy and nondrowsy?

  “I’m guessing you took the nondrowsy one.”

  “I took several. Nondrowsy is my new favorite euphemism. As in, ‘I’m so nondrowsy I think I’ll go for a little walk at three a.m. Or a jog. Or, what the hell, a flat-out run for a few miles, see if I can get stopped by Miami PD. ‘Excuse me, son, have you been drinking?’ ‘Why, no, Officer, I just took a little non. I feel a little nonny.’ Actually, to tell the truth, I’m completely and totally nonned.”

  “Uh-huh. You sound like me the time I accidentally inhaled cocaine dust. Tell me you’re not drinking coffee, too.”

  “No need, no need. Now. What were we talking about, again?”

  “Ryan sent me. He wants to know if you’ve cracked the Steinwitz computer yet.”

  Jenson pointed at the monitor in front of him. “Yep. Just scanning the data now, in fact. Anything in particular you’re looking for?”

  She leaned over his shoulder, studying the screen. “Ryan said he was initially interested in the emails from a woman calling herself Amelia Claus, but anything to do with a drug called phenelzine could be important, too.”

  “I’ll do a search, see if anything comes up.” Jenson hit a few keys, studied the results, then tapped on a few more. “Hmm. Looks like you got lucky. Phenelzine shows up in a couple of different files.”

  “Can you isolate all those files in one folder for me?”

  “Done and . . . done. So why am I getting a visit from Bullet Girl instead of the Wolfman?”

  She cocked an eyebrow. “The Wolfman?”

  “Okay, nobody actually calls him that, I just made it up. Still.”

  “I’m doing him a favor, that’s all.”