by Joel Shulkin
“I’ll be right there.” Frank stood and held out his hand. “Thank you, Dr. Silva. You’ve been quite helpful.”
“I have?” For the second time that day, Cristina was befuddled as she shook his hand. It seemed like she’d only uncovered more questions.
“Oh, yes. In fact, I think you’ve given us the exact information we need.” Frank’s face grew serious. “Of course, now I’ll have to kill you.”
Her stomach clenched. Every muscle in her body tensed.
Before she could react, he laughed. “I’m kidding. I meant I’m supposed to find the answers, and now they’ll hire you to replace me and—” He looked down. “Sorry. I’ve been told that as a comedian I make a brilliant researcher.”
Cristina touched her chest and searched for breath. “Don’t quit your day job.”
“I won’t.” Frank ushered her to the door. “Let me walk you out.”
In the hallway, they found Mateo waiting at attention.
“Please let me know if you find anything,” she said to Frank.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “You’ll hear from us soon.”
As she followed Mateo, Cristina spotted the display case. Gomes had been part of that team. Who else was involved?
“Could we stop a moment?” Cristina flashed her most winning smile. “Dr. Alvarez told me so much about the Phase Three trials. I want to admire your success.”
Mateo didn’t flinch. “Hurry up.”
Cristina studied the display. There in the Brazilian photos was her doppelgänger. Gomes stood behind her. Kobayashi was off to the side. No one else looked familiar.
The Indian photo was too blurry to identify faces. Cristina thought she recognized a dark-haired woman in the Venezuelan photo, but after a moment of study decided she was mistaken. As she moved onto the Russian photo, her heart skipped a beat.
It was a smaller team than in the other photos, making it easy to pick out the woman in the back row. Her hair was darker, not as wild, and she was a few pounds heavier, but there was no mistaking the sharp, thin nose that belonged to Stacey Peterman—a.k.a. Anastasia Petrov.
Chapter Forty-Four
The wind stung Cristina’s face as she stepped outside, an abrupt change from the morning’s balmy climate. She wrapped her jacket tighter around her body and crossed to the sidewalk. A chill ran down her back as she glanced at the ReMind building, but it wasn’t from the weather.
Santos was right. If Stacey and Gomes had been involved with ReMind, then ReMind was part of Zero Dark. Cristina turned her collar against the wind and hugged herself. If they had sent Gomes to kill Stacey, why was she still alive in Salt Lake City?
The wind intensified, forcing Cristina to run to the nearest awning. She huddled close to the wall as she searched for her cell phone. She’d had to remind Mateo to return it before he practically shoved her out the door. Maybe Andrea could meet her for lunch in the Adams Morgan district. Cristina had always wanted to try Ethiopian food, and she could get her friend’s opinion on her next move.
Mateo had shut down her phone. When Cristina turned it back on, she had two new messages. Curious, she dialed her voicemail and listened. The first was from Andrea.
“Hi, it’s me. Listen, since the weather sucks, I’m going shopping at L’Enfant Plaza. If you get done early, meet me at Market Seafood. Love you!”
So much for Ethiopian. The Plaza was only a few Metro stops away. She started the four-block trek to the station and skipped to the next voicemail.
“Dr. Silva. It’s Devi. Please call as soon as you get this message.”
The urgency in Devi’s voice raised the hairs on the back of Cristina’s neck. She dialed her office.
Devi picked up on the first ring. “Dr. Silva’s office.”
“It’s me, Devi. What’s wrong?”
“David Watterson just called.”
A lump grew in Cristina’s throat. “Is his mother worse?”
“Actually, she’s calmer now. She’s stopped talking about things that aren’t real.”
Cristina pressed her hand against her chest. The lump dissolved. “Oh, thank God.”
“But she’s forgetting things again, and it’s making her depressed. She’s started drinking two to three glasses of wine per night and he can’t get her to stop.”
“Without the Recognate, her Alzheimer’s is returning. Damn! I was afraid of that.”
“Her test results came in this morning,” Devi said. “The MRI was normal.”
“So, no stroke. That’s a relief. What about her labs?”
“Nothing flagged as abnormal.”
“At least there doesn’t seem to be any permanent damage. She’ll have the blues for a few days, but she should return to baseline. Then we can find something else to try. Thanks for keeping me updated. Any other fires I need to put out?”
“Dr. Morgan phoned.”
Cristina’s pulse quickened. “Did he find something?”
“He said you should call him back as soon as possible.” Devi lowered her voice. “Are you okay? You sound stressed. Did something happen in the meeting?”
A glance confirmed Cristina was alone. The weather seemed to be discouraging most people from setting foot outdoors. “I can’t talk about it over the phone, but something’s brewing and I’m at ground zero. Have the police found Santos?”
Devi hesitated before saying, “I haven’t heard anything.”
“Well, keep the door locked then. If anything happens, call Detective Wilson, okay? He has everything I know on Santos, including a cell phone that he should be able to use to track him down. Call him. Promise me?”
“I promise.”
The wind picked up. As Cristina ran across Eighteenth Street, she shouted into the phone, “I have to go. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Be careful, Cristina.” Devi disconnected before Cristina could reply.
It had sounded like there was something Devi wasn’t telling her. Had the FBI gotten to her? Cristina chided herself. Thinking everyone in her life was part of a giant conspiracy suggested serious paranoia.
As Cristina passed an Indian restaurant, she thought again about the Phase Three trials. Two members of ReMind’s international research teams were dead or missing. Make that three, since Kobayashi had also dropped off the map. Something had happened in Brazil that Simmons wanted erased. Maybe that was the information locked in Cristina’s brain that could destroy them. But why not kill her? What did she have that they wanted?
Cristina fingered the locket around her neck. In her brief time at ReMind, she hadn’t seen or heard about anyone who might have been Santos’s daughter. Was the girl on one of those teams as well? Cristina had no idea how she was expected to find her.
Farragut North station lay on the other side of Connecticut Avenue. As Cristina waited for the light to change, she called Dr. Morgan.
“Luke, what did you find?”
“Cristina! What the heck’s going on? The FBI was here this morning. They said you told them to talk to me about Jerry Peterman.”
“That’s right. I forgot to give you a head’s up. What did you tell them?”
“I showed them his labs and they requested a copy. Without a body, I didn’t have much else to offer. Was there something else you wanted me to share with them?”
Cristina took a deep breath. If the FBI studied the lab tests and realized she was trying to find out the truth, as they were, maybe they’d be more willing to believe her when she told them what she’d learned about ReMind. “No, that’s fine. What happened with Carl Franklin’s autopsy?”
“Blood and tissue samples show the same high norepinephrine and epinephrine levels as Peterman’s.”
Cristina’s heart pounded as she crossed to the Metro station’s K Street entrance. “Did you find a pheo?”
“No. I searched the wh
ole abdominal cavity and didn’t find any tumors.”
“Damn. I was sure you’d find something.” She opened the station door and stepped in from the cold.
From the way Frank had reacted back at the ReMind office, Cristina had convinced herself that long-term Recognate use caused adrenal gland overgrowth. But now, with Mrs. Watterson’s tests normal and nothing in Carl’s body, she was back at square one. “Thanks for checking.”
“Actually, I found two other things of interest though,” Lucas said.
“Really? What?”
“Carl Franklin has an old wound on his neck like Peterman. I missed it because of the trauma.”
“What could that mean?”
“I don’t know. It’s scarred over.”
Cristina frowned. “What’s the other thing?”
“Mr. Franklin’s liver was a mass of scars and fibrosis. The cells contained Mallory bodies, consistent with alcoholic cirrhosis.”
“I don’t understand. He never showed any signs of alcoholism.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, but he was clearly a heavy drinker for some time.”
As Cristina swiped her SmarTrip card and walked through the turnstile, Cristina considered this new information. Jerry and Carl were both drunk. Martha Watterson admitted to doing shots. Alcoholic thiamine deficiency caused a condition known as Korsakoff psychosis, leading to amnesia and confabulation. She’d ruled out the diagnosis because Martha didn’t show the classic tremors, but what if Recognate masked it? “Luke, could you run two more tests for me?”
“Depends what you need.”
“Pyruvate and B1 levels, and check Carl’s mamillary bodies for degeneration.”
“The blood tests should only take a few minutes. You want me to call you when I’m done, or should I speak directly to those FBI agents?”
Cristina stopped inches from the escalator. “Why would they care about Carl?”
“I’m not sure. They insisted on taking fingerprints and dental X-rays from him and from the guy they brought in yesterday with a gunshot wound to the head.” Lucas paused before asking in a low voice, “Are you mixed up in something illegal?”
“I—Luke, I don’t—”
“Because if you want me to make something up to throw them off track, I will.”
Cristina felt the urge to grin. “Thank you, but you don’t have to do that. Look, I have to run, but tomorrow I’ll tell you everything, okay?”
“Over dinner?”
“Yes, Luke. Over dinner.” As Cristina hung up, apprehension crept along the back of her neck. Why would the FBI be interested in Carl Franklin? If he’d been an alcoholic and she hadn’t known, could he have been involved in something else? How much did she know about any of her amnesiac patients?
Cristina entered the line for the escalator. Farragut North was the third busiest station on the Metro line, and today was no exception. She tucked her cell phone into her pocket. Hopefully, she’d make it to L’Enfant Plaza in time to grab a bite before they had to rush to the airport.
As the mass of people pressed against her, something poked into Cristina’s back.
“Watch it,” she said over her shoulder.
The crowd shuffled forward and stopped. As Cristina waited, she got poked again.
“Excuse me.” She started to turn.
A gloved hand clamped onto her arm.
“Don’t turn around,” a robotic voice said in her ear. “Or I’ll shoot you right here.”
Chapter Forty-Five
After ringing the doorbell, Detective Wilson assessed the scene as he awaited a response. Modest white colonial home complete with black shutters and an antique rocking chair on a white porch. Quiet Framingham neighborhood, lots of manicured hedges and trees. Exactly as Wilson had pictured Mitchell Parker’s house on the drive from Somerville—except for the No Trespassing signs and the electric fence bordering the security gate. At least Miranda Parker buzzed him through the gate without hassle.
The red oak front door cracked open, half-revealing a feminine face below the safety chain. An intense pair of green eyes analyzed him. “Show me your badge.”
“I held it up to the monitor when I drove up.”
“I want to see it up close.”
Wilson displayed his badge. After a moment, Miranda closed the door. He heard a sliding sound. The door swung open. A small woman stood inside, wearing a sweatshirt and jeans. Midlength blond hair fell over a forehead riddled with worry lines. She clutched a Beretta pocket gun, her fingers trembling. A shotgun rested against the wall behind her.
Tension crawled up Wilson’s back. He kept his hand on his hip, near his holster. “I’m not here to hurt you, Mrs. Parker. I just wanted to ask you a few questions.”
She aimed the pistol at his groin. “I’m a cop’s wife and a good shot. Move your hand.”
Wilson lowered his hand to his side.
Without dropping the gun, Miranda waved Wilson inside and shut the door. She studied him up and down. “Tell me why a Somerville cop is interested in my husband’s death.”
“I’m actually more interested in a case he was investigating.”
“Why would I know about that?”
“Well . . .” He swallowed. “It seems your husband was involved with a victim in the case.”
She fiddled with her collar with her free hand. “Involved how?”
“They were having an affair before he died.”
Her fingers stopped moving. “No.”
“I’m sorry to have to break it to you like this but—”
“I mean no, he wasn’t having an affair.”
He poked his tongue against his cheek. “Well, she said—”
“I know my husband. We had problems, sure, and we spent some time apart for a few months four years ago, but Mitchell was never unfaithful. When we got back together, we were stronger than ever.” Her lips twisted. “At least until he went missing again for two months, right before he . . .” Miranda Parker shook her head and stopped.
The back of Wilson’s ear started to itch. “You’re sure he didn’t have an affair while you were apart? He never mentioned a woman named Cristina?”
“Never.”
“How about Jorge and Claudia Silva? He investigated an arson case involving their home and later their deaths in a car crash.”
Miranda’s already pale complexion lightened another two shades. She lowered the gun. “Those are the names that agent mentioned.”
Wilson drew back in surprise. “Agent? What agent?”
“He showed up four weeks ago. Said he was FBI.”
Possibilities swirled through Wilson’s mind. Had Forrester already been there? “What did this agent ask you?”
“He said Mitchell had been working with the FBI on a case involving the Silvas. He insisted Mitchell had something they needed. When I said I didn’t know what he was talking about, he threatened me. Said if I was hiding anything or talked to anyone, he’d kill me.” She shuddered. “I know that’s not how the FBI operates. He’s lying, or he’s dirty. Either way, I could tell he had the resources to follow through on his threat. That’s when I installed that electric fence. I haven’t left the house since.”
Those plastic whack-a-moles popped up again. Wilson tried brushing them away. “I hate to tell you, but I can think of at least twenty ways around your defense system. Has this agent visited you again?”
“No.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“Something like Gomez.”
Wilson was startled. “Could his name have been Federico Gomes?”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
The moles started whacking him. “At least you won’t have to worry about him. He’s dead.”
Miranda stared. If she felt relieved, she didn’t show it.
“Mrs. Pa
rker, Gomes was involved in a criminal organization. Is it possible that your husband was involved in something illegal?”
Her eyes widened. “No!”
“Maybe he made a bad deal, betrayed the shield.” The moles toppled like dominoes. “And then he tried to deal with it, failed, couldn’t live with the guilt, and took his own life.”
She stared at the floor. “That’s not what happened.”
“You can’t know what he was going through if he didn’t talk to you.”
“That’s not what I mean.” When she looked up, tears clung to her eyelids. “Mitchell didn’t kill himself. He was murdered.”
“Keep moving, Doctor.” The assailant’s words were filtered through a voice changer. “Nothing sudden.”
“What do you want?” Cristina shuffled with the crowd toward the Farragut North station subway escalator. “Who are you?”
The gun jammed into her back again. “Don’t talk.”
Cristina’s mind raced as she searched for a way to escape. There were too many people around. If she ran, one of them might get caught in crossfire. “I know you think I have something you want, but I don’t know anything.”
Her abductor didn’t answer. The pressure in her back eased. Cristina turned her head, hoping to glimpse him.
“Face front and shut up.” The gun barrel prodded her. “I won’t warn you again.”
Cristina clutched her backpack. Her knees shook as she stopped in front of the escalator.
The attacker nudged Cristina forward. She stepped onto the escalator. He boarded the same step, bumping up against her, looming over her. His bulky ski parka prevented her from getting any sense of his body shape. A whiff of cinnamon passed her nostrils.
They reached the platform. The gunman grabbed her elbow and pushed her toward the nearest track. The other passengers jostled back without making eye contact.
The train pulled up. The door slid open. An automated voice announced, “Red Line to Silver Spring.”
The assailant shoved her onto the train. The other passengers were busy reading newspapers, playing with their mobile devices, or otherwise disconnecting from the world around them.
