Whistleblower

by Tess Gerritsen

  At last Cathy slowed to a halt and leaned back against a doorway, her breath coming out in clouds of cold mist. “How did they find you?” she said between gasps.

  “It couldn’t have been the call….” Suddenly he groaned. “My credit card! I had to use it to pay the bill.”

  “Where now? Should we try another motel?”

  He shook his head. “I’m down to my last forty bucks. I can’t risk a credit card again.”

  “And I left my purse at the apartment. I—I’m not sure I want to—”

  “We’re not going back for it. They’ll be watching the place.”

  They. Meaning the killers.

  “So we’re broke,” she said weakly.

  He didn’t answer. He stood with his hands in his pockets, his whole body a study in frustration. “You have friends you can go to?”

  “I think so. Uh, no. She’s out of town till Friday. And what would I tell her? How would I explain you?”

  “You can’t. And we can’t handle any questions right now.”

  That leaves out most of my friends, she thought. Nowhere to go, no one to turn to. Unless…

  No, she’d promised herself never to sink that low, never to beg for that particular source of help.

  Victor glanced up the street. “There’s a bus stop over there.” He reached in his pocket and took out a handful of money. “Here,” he said. “Take it and get out of the city. Go visit some friends on your own.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll be okay.”

  “Broke? With everyone after you?” She shook her head.

  “I’ll only make things more dangerous for you.” He pressed the money into her hand.

  She stared down at the wad of bills, thinking: This is all he has. And he’s giving it to me. “I can’t,” she said.

  “You have to.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t argue with me.” The look in his eyes left no alternative.

  Reluctantly she closed her fingers around the money.

  “I’ll wait till you get on the bus. It should take you right past the station.”

  “Victor?”

  He silenced her with a single look. Placing both hands on her shoulders, he stood her before him. “You’ll be fine,” he said. Then he pressed a kiss to her forehead. For a moment his lips lingered, and the warmth of his breath in her hair left her trembling. “I wouldn’t leave you if I thought otherwise.”

  The roar of a bus down the block made them both turn.

  “There’s your limousine,” he whispered. “Go.” He gave her a nudge. “Take care of yourself, Cathy.”

  She started toward the bus stop. Three steps, four. She slowed and came to a halt. Turning, she saw that he had already edged away into the shadows.

  “Get on it!” he called.

  She looked at the bus. I won’t do it, she thought.

  She turned back to Victor. “I know a place! A place we can both stay!”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t want to use it but—”

  Her words were drowned out as the bus wheezed to the stop, then roared away.

  “It’s a bit of a walk,” she said. “But we’d have beds and a meal. And I can guarantee no one would call the police.”

  He came out of the shadows. “Why didn’t you think of this earlier?”

  “I did think of it. But up till now, things weren’t, well… desperate enough.”

  “Not desperate enough,” he repeated slowly. He moved toward her, his face taut with incredulity. “Not desperate enough? Hell, lady. I’d like to know exactly what kind of crisis would qualify!”

  “You have to understand, this is a last resort. It’s not an easy place for me to turn to.”

  His eyes narrowed in suspicion. “This place is beginning to sound worse and worse. What are we talking about? A flophouse?”

  “No, it’s in Pacific Heights. You could even call the place a mansion.”

  “Who lives there? A friend?”

  “Quite the opposite.”

  His eyebrow shot up. “An enemy?”

  “Close.” She let out a sigh of resignation. “My ex-husband.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “JACK, open up! Jack!” Cathy banged again and again on the door of the formidable Pacific Heights home. There was no answer. Through the windows they saw only darkness.

  “Damn you, Jack!” She gave the door a slap of frustration. “Why aren’t you ever home when I need you?”

  Victor glanced around at the neighborhood of elegant homes and neatly trimmed shrubbery. “We can’t stand around out here all night.”

  “We’re not going to,” she muttered. Crouching on her knees, she began to dig around in a red-brick planter.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Something I swore I’d never do.” Her fingers raked the loamy soil, searching for the key Jack kept buried under the geraniums. Sure enough, there it was, right where it had always been. She rose to her feet, clapping the dirt off her hands. “But there are limits to my pride. Threat of death being one of them.” She inserted the key and felt a momentary dart of panic when it didn’t turn. But with a little jiggling, the lock at last gave way. The door swung open to the faint gleam of a polished wood floor, a massive bannister.

  She motioned Victor inside. The solid thunk of the door closing behind them seemed to shut out all the dangers of the night. Cloaked in the darkness, they both let out a sigh of relief.

  “Just what kind of terms are you on with your ex-husband?” Victor asked, following her blindly through the unlit foyer.

  “Speaking. Barely.”

  “He doesn’t mind you wandering around his house?”

  “Why not?” She snorted. “Jack lets half the human race wander through his bedroom. The only prerequisite being XX chromosomes.”

  She felt her way into the pitch-dark living room and flipped on the light switch. There she froze in astonishment and stared at the two naked bodies intertwined on the polar bear rug.

  “Jack!” she blurted out.

  The larger of the two bodies extricated himself and sat up. “Hello, Cathy!” He raked his hand through his dark hair and grinned. “Seems like old times.”

  The woman lying next to him spat out a shocking obscenity, scrambled to her feet, and stormed off in a blur of wild red hair and bare bottom toward the bedroom.

  “That’s Lulu,” yawned Jack, by way of introduction.

  Cathy sighed. “I see your taste in women hasn’t improved.”

  “No, sweetheart, my taste in women hit a high point when I married you.” Unmindful of his state of nudity, Jack rose to his feet and regarded Victor. The contrast between the two men was instantly apparent. Though both were tall and lean, it was Jack who possessed the striking good looks, and he knew it. He’d always known it. Vanity wasn’t a label one could ever pin on Victor Holland.

  “I see you brought a fourth,” said Jack, giving Victor the once-over. “So, what’ll it be, folks? Bridge or poker?”

  “Neither,” said Cathy.

  “That opens up all sorts of possibilities.”

  “Jack, I need your help.”

  He turned and looked at her with mock incredulity. “No!”

  “You know damn well I wouldn’t be here if I could avoid it!”

  He winked at Victor. “Don’t believe her. She’s still madly in love with me.”

  “Can we get serious?”

  “Darling, you never did have a sense of humor.”

  “Damn you, Jack!” Everyone had a breaking point and Cathy had reached hers. She couldn’t help it; without warning she burst into tears. “For once in your life will you listen to me?”

  That’s when Victor’s patience finally snapped. He didn’t need a degree in psychology to know this Jack character was a first-class jerk. Couldn’t he see that Cathy was exhausted and terrified? Up till this moment, Victor had admired her for her strength. Now he ached at the sight of her vulnerability.


  It was only natural to pull her into his arms, to ease her tear-streaked face against his chest. Over her shoulder, he growled out an oath that impugned not only Jack’s name but that of Jack’s mother as well.

  The other man didn’t seem to take offense, probably because he’d been called far worse names, and on a regular basis. He simply crossed his arms and regarded Victor with a raised eyebrow. “Being protective, are we?”

  “She needs protection.”

  “From what, pray tell?”

  “Maybe you haven’t heard. Three days ago, someone murdered her friend Sarah.”

  “Sarah…Boylan?”

  Victor nodded. “Tonight, someone tried to kill Cathy.”

  Jack stared at him. He looked at his ex-wife. “Is this true? What he’s saying?”

  Cathy, wiping away tears, nodded.

  “Why didn’t you tell me this to begin with?”

  “Because you were acting like an ass to begin with!” she shot back.

  Down the hall came the click-click of high-heeled shoes. “She’s absolutely right!” yelled a female voice from the foyer. “You are an ass, Jack Zuckerman!” The front door opened and slammed shut again. The thud seemed to echo endlessly through the mansion.

  There was a long silence.

  Suddenly, through her tears, Cathy laughed. “You know what, Jack? I like that woman.”

  Jack crossed his arms and gave his ex-wife the critical once-over. “Either I’m going senile or you forgot to tell me something. Why haven’t you gone to the police? Why bother old Jack about this?”

  Cathy and Victor glanced at each other.

  “We can’t go to the police,” Cathy said.

  “I assume this has to do with him?” He cocked a thumb at Victor.

  Cathy let out a breath. “It’s a complicated story….”

  “It must be. If you’re afraid to go to the police.”

  “I can explain it,” said Victor.

  “Mm-hm. Well.” Jack reached for the bathrobe lying in a heap by the polar bear rug. “Well,” he said again, calmly tying the sash. “I’ve always enjoyed watching creativity at work. So let’s have it.” He sat down on the leather couch and smiled at Victor. “I’m waiting. It’s showtime.”

  SPECIAL AGENT Sam Polowski lay shivering in his bed, watching the eleven o’clock news. Every muscle in his body ached, his head pounded, and the thermometer at his bedside read an irrefutable 101 degrees. So much for changing flat tires in the pouring rain. He wished he could get his hands on the joker who’d punched that nail in his tire while he was grabbing a quick bite at that roadside cafe. Not only had the culprit managed to keep Sam from his appointment in Garberville, thereby shredding the Viratek case into confetti, Sam had also lost track of his only contact in the affair: Victor Holland. And now, the flu.

  Sam reached over for the bottle of aspirin. To hell with the ulcer. His head hurt. And when it came to headaches, there was nothing like Mom’s time-tested remedy.

  He was in the midst of gulping down three tablets when the news about Victor Holland flashed on the screen.

  “…New evidence links the suspect to the murder of fellow Viratek researcher, Dr. Gerald Martinique….”

  Sam sat up straight in bed. “What the hell?” he growled at the TV.

  Then he grabbed the telephone.

  It took six rings for his supervisor to answer. “Dafoe?” Sam said. “This is Polowski.”

  “Do you know what time it is?”

  “Have you seen the late-night news?”

  “I happen to be in bed.”

  “There’s a story on Viratek.”

  A pause. “Yeah, I know. I cleared it.”

  “What’s with this crap about industrial espionage? They’re making Holland out to be a—”

  “Polowski, drop it.”

  “Since when did he become a murder suspect?”

  “Look, just consider it a cover story. I want him brought in. For his own good.”

  “So you sic him with a bunch of trigger-happy cops?”

  “I said drop it.”

  “But—”

  “You’re off the case.” Dafoe hung up.

  Sam stared in disbelief at the receiver, then at the television, then back at the receiver.

  Pull me off the case? He slammed the receiver down so hard the bottle of aspirin tumbled off the nightstand.

  That’s what you think.

  “I THINK I’ve heard about enough,” said Jack, rising to his feet. “I want this man out of my house. And I want him out now.”

  “Jack, please!” said Cathy. “Give him a chance—”

  “You’re buying this ridiculous tale?”

  “I believe him.”

  “Why?”

  She looked at Victor and saw the clear fire of honesty burning in his eyes. “Because he saved my life.”

  “You’re a fool, babycakes.” Jack reached for the phone. “You yourself saw the TV. He’s wanted for murder. If you don’t call the police, I will.”

  But as Jack picked up the receiver, Victor grabbed his arm. “No,” he said. Though his voice was quiet, it held the unmistakable note of authority.

  The two men stared at each other, neither willing to back down.

  “This is more than just a case of murder,” said Victor. “This is deadly research. The manufacture of illegal weapons. This could reach all the way to Washington.”

  “Who in Washington?”

  “Someone in control. Someone with the federal funds to authorize that research.”

  “I see. Some lofty public servant is out knocking off scientists. With the help of the FBI.”

  “Jerry wasn’t just any scientist. He had a conscience. He was a whistleblower who would’ve taken this to the press to stop that research. The political fallout would’ve been disastrous, for the whole administration.”

  “Wait. Are we talking Pennsylvania Avenue?”

  “Maybe.”

  Jack snorted. “Holland, I make Grade B horror films. I don’t live them.”

  “This isn’t a film. This is real. Real bullets, real bodies.”

  “Then that’s all the more reason I want nothing to do with it.” Jack turned to Cathy. “Sorry, sweetcakes. It’s nothing personal, but I detest the company you keep.”

  “Jack,” she said. “You have to help us!”

  “You, I’ll help. Him—no way. I draw the line at lunatics and felons.”

  “You heard what he said! It’s a frame-up!”

  “You are so gullible.”

  “Only about you.”

  “Cathy, it’s all right,” said Victor. He was standing very still, very calm. “I’ll leave.”

  “No, you won’t.” Cathy shot to her feet and stalked over to her ex-husband. She stared him straight in the eye, a gaze so direct, so accusing, he seemed to wilt right down into a chair. “You owe it to me, Jack. You owe me for all the years we were married. All the years I put into your career, your company, your idiotic flicks. I haven’t asked for anything. You have the house. The Jaguar. The bank account. I never asked because I didn’t want to take a damn thing from this marriage except my own soul. But now I’m asking. This man saved my life tonight. If you ever cared about me, if you ever loved me, even a little, then you’ll do me this favor.”

  “Harbor a criminal?”

  “Only until we figure out what to do next.”

  “And how long might that take? Weeks? Months?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Just the kind of definite answer I like.”

  Victor said, “I need time to find out what Jerry was trying to prove. What it is Viratek’s working on—”

  “You had one of his files,” said Jack. “Why didn’t you read the blasted thing?”

  “I’m not a virologist. I couldn’t interpret the data. It was some sort of RNA sequence, probably a viral genome. A lot of the data was coded. All I can be sure of is the name: Project Cerberus.”

  “Where is all this vital eviden
ce now?”

  “I lost the file. It was in my car the night I was shot. I’m sure they have it back.”

  “And the film?”

  Victor sank into a chair, his face suddenly lined by weariness. “I don’t have it. I was hoping that Cathy…” Sighing, he ran his hands through his hair. “I’ve lost that, too.”

  “Well,” said Jack. “Give or take a few miracles, I’d say this puts your chances at just about zero. And I’m known as an optimist.”

  “I know where the film is,” said Cathy.

  There was a long silence. Victor raised his head and stared at her. “What?”

  “I wasn’t sure about you—not at first. I didn’t want to tell you until I could be certain—”

  Victor shot to his feet. “Where is it?”

  She flinched at the sharpness of his voice. He must have noticed how startled she was—his next words were quiet but urgent. “I need that film, Cathy. Before they find it. Where is it?”

  “Sarah found it in my car. I didn’t know it was yours! I thought it was Hickey’s.”

  “Who’s Hickey?”

  “A photographer—a friend of mine—”

  Jack snorted. “Hickey. Now there’s a ladies’ man.”

  “He was in a rush to get to the airport,” she continued. “At the last minute he left me with some rolls of film. Asked me to take care of them till he got back from Nairobi. But all his film was stolen from my car.”

  “And my roll?” asked Victor.

  “It was in my bathrobe pocket the night Sarah—the night she—” She paused, swallowing at the mention of her friend. “When I got back here, to the city, I mailed it to Hickey’s studio.”

  “Where’s the studio?”

  “Over on Union Street. I mailed it this afternoon—”

  “So it should be there sometime tomorrow.” He began to pace the room. “All we have to do is wait for the mail to arrive.”

  “I don’t have a key.”

  “We’ll find a way in.”

  “Terrific,” sighed Jack. “Now he’s turning my ex-wife into a burglar.”

  “We’re only after the film!” said Cathy.