“What is this?” Quinn asked. Turning to Nathan, he said, “I’m not a rat.”
“Course you’d say that.” Eli downed another gulp. “But how can we trust you?”
Quinn narrowed his eyes at him.
“I had this partner once,” Eli said as he returned to his rocker. “Like you, Rook, he was a boy scout. I thought—what do I care if he doesn’t want a taste? More for me, right?”
His cat meowed and leaped back up. It turned around a few times before settling in his lap. Eli resumed stroking its fur. “Problem is, the day always comes when you have to trust your partner with your life. And you can’t trust someone who isn’t like you.”
“Course you’d say that.” Quinn shifted on the sofa.
“Ha!” Eli smiled at him without mirth. “You’re quick. Why don’t you step outside a moment, Rook, give the grown-ups a chance to catch up?”
Quinn turned to Nathan who nodded. Standing, Quinn moved toward the door but stopped dead in his tracks. His gaze rested on a photo displayed on the bookcase. In it, a somewhat younger Eli smiled next to a face of distinction. “You grew up in Hollins?” Quinn whispered.
“Born and raised,” Eli said, “But how—” The penny dropped for him, and he said, “The photo. From my retirement party. You recognize Reggie Winslow, right?”
“How did you know him?” Quinn asked.
“Everyone knew him,” Eli answered, “One thing wanting us to believe you’re an honest man, Rook, but an honest man from Hollins? Bit of a stretch, isn’t it?”
“Reggie was honest,” Quinn said.
“You knew him?”
Quinn scowled at Eli before he once again turned for the door. “Like you said, everyone knew him.”
“Nice to meet you, Rook,” Eli hollered to his back.
Nathan moved to refill his drink before they got down to business. Facing his old mentor, he asked, “What was that all about?”
“Nothing,” Eli answered, “just a do-gooder from the old neighborhood.”
“You know why I’m here?”
“Vargas mentioned something ridiculous like you trust the rookie,” Eli asked, “That isn’t the case, right?”
Nathan sipped his scotch. “You don’t trust him?”
Eli shook his head. “I taught you better than that, Nate. There’s only one type of person you can trust. He isn’t the type.”
Nathan drained the rest of his glass and grimaced. “Let’s get to it then. What will it take for you to tell Vargas different?”
“You serious?”
Nathan arched his eyebrows as he nodded and waited for an answer.
“You trust him that much?”
Nathan moved back to his seat. “I know he didn’t talk to King. Having him served up to Vargas won’t help me.”
Eli sighed and shook his head. “You’re blind to this, Nate—that boy is not to be trusted. Listen to me, a partner is like a cat. You can have them by your side for years, but the moment you get too comfortable, you get scratched.”
Growing tired of the conversation, Nathan said, “What will it take?”
Eli leaned forward and said, “All right, Nate, if that’s the way you want to play it. Your take on the next two shipments is now mine.”
Nathan’s eyes widened as he ground his teeth. “Kind of steep, isn’t it?”
Eli smiled. “I could always tell Vargas the truth if you prefer it?”
“We have a deal,” Nathan said, standing up.
“You’d give up that much coin for him,” Eli asked, “Why?”
Silent for a moment, Nathan’s expression grew pensive before he smirked. “I have my reasons, make it one shipment, and I’ll tell you.”
Eli shook his head and raised his palms to him. “Forget I asked.” Pointing a finger at him, he said, “You just better hope you’re right about him.”
11
“Oh my god.”
Alexis lifted her head off the desk and stared at her assistant in the doorway.
“Tell me you did not stay up all night?”
Alexis exhaled and returned her attention to the projections around her desk. Her tired eyes struggled to stay open. “I slept a few hours.”
“What?” Elise said, “Here?” She dropped her shoulder bag on the floor as she entered the room.
Her gaze settled on the images of Nathan Miller, Michael Logue, and Willie Vargas projected in a triangle on the wall with Miller at the apex.
“What is all this?”
“Research,” Alexis said.
“Yeah.” Elise sat beside her. “It looks like research we’ve already done—back when we started after Miller. Why drag all this out again?”
Alexis rubbed at her eyes and sighed. “My source is getting scared. I don’t know if they’ll see this to the end.”
“You mean they’ve come to their senses.”
Alexis narrowed her eyes at her. Without humor, she asked, “Where were you last night? You weren’t answering your Viz.”
Elise fidgeted. “Nowhere,” she answered, “I was just out.”
“You mean you were gambling.” Alexis watched her assistant’s cheeks redden and knew her guess was right. “You were at Cain’s dive again, weren’t you?”
Elise stood and turned away from her. “I’m a grown woman, and I don’t need another mother. I know what I’m doing.”
“Did you win?” Silence greeted her question and told Alexis all she needed to know. “He’s dangerous Elise. You want to gamble your money away, that’s your right, but do it somewhere else. You don’t want to owe money to Austin Cain.”
Elise sat back down beside her. “I’m fine, really. Now, why are you looking through our research on Miller?”
“I need a backup,” Alexis said, “If my source walks, I need another way to get to Miller. An old enemy, maybe? Someone who hates him enough to cross him and isn’t afraid to do so.”
Elise shook her head. “You won’t find it in here.”
Alexis gave her a withering look. “Hear me out,” Elise said, “I’m helping. Think about it, Lexi. All these news accounts on Miller detail his victims, who may hate him but…they’re either dead or too afraid. You need to look elsewhere.”
“You have a better suggestion?”
Elise grinned as she nudged her boss to the side. Her fingers danced through the images, collapsing and reorganizing them into a new pattern. “We can’t rely on the victims themselves, but what about those close to them? They would have no love for Miller and could want to talk.”
“But what would they say?” Alexis asked, her exasperation showing. “They had no direct contact with Miller—they know nothing.”
“Not necessarily,” Elise answered, “Miller took their loved ones out for a reason—they knew something he wanted kept quiet.”
“Then they knew it,” Alexis said, “Anything their family has to say is conjecture and inadmissible.”
Elise held up her finger. “Not if there was proof.”
She threw images up and swiped others down at a frantic pace as she searched for something in particular. “Here,” she said, “I remember coming across this story during our research.”
She leaned back and said, “Meet Mickey Spagnuolo—partner at the accounting firm of Spagnuolo & Kerr—reputed to be the money launderer for the Cabal’s finances. Or he was until he went missing. Body was never found, but he’s well and presumed dead.”
Elise displayed another photo with a flick of her wrist. “And this here is his son Leo. Before he left Union City, he cried foul over his father’s disappearance. Pointed the finger at Miller and mentioned a ledger—his father’s illicit ledger.”
Excited, Alexis sat forward, her exhaustion forgotten. “This is good. Real good. Can you find Leo Spagnuolo?”
Elise gave her a look. “Does the sun rise in the East? He’s not in witness protection so, yeah I can find him.”
Alexis patted her
on the shoulder as she stood. “Go to it then. Get me an address.”
“Where are you going?”
With a smile, Alexis said, “As you pointed out, I need sleep so…I’m off to bed.”
Nathan watched Omar Singh approach through the aisles of the Clubhouse.
“What do we know?” Singh asked.
Nathan blew on his steaming cup of coffee. With a dismissive look, he took a long sip and returned his attention to his HoloSphere.
“Very little, I’m afraid,” Quinn answered, “We expect forensics on the church scene this afternoon. Our victim list came in overnight.”
“All identified?”
“Ten by Identchip, three by dental records,” Quinn said, “We’re processing the list now.”
“Show me,” Singh said.
Quinn used his HoloSphere to display the personal information and photos of three victims. “These are the three identified by dental records. Looks like the perp didn’t take their Identchips though—they never had them.”
One by one, Quinn pointed to the photos. “Mason Gray, 81, born before the requirement to have an Identchip. He worked his whole life in Union City as a school teacher until he retired twenty years ago. Nothing there.
“Ava Bell, 75, also born before the requirement. She’s not native to Union City. She moved here from Canada thirty-four years ago to work in health care administration. Also retired.”
“So, nothing then?” Singh said.
Quinn pointed to the last image. “The last one is interesting. Larry Ward was in his seventies and was just visiting our fair city. He called Cleveland home.”
Nathan shook his head. “That hardly makes him interesting.”
Quinn flicked through the hologram, changing the image to a detailed biography. “Do you recognize the name?”
Singh shrugged. “There a reason I should?”
“He worked as an epidemiologist and instructor with the Epidemic Intelligence Service, part of the CDC in Atlanta. After he retired, he published a tell-all autobiography about his career—Warden’s Way.” Quinn displayed an image of the book cover: Larry Ward with a serious stare in front of the CDC logo.
“It sold some copies,” Quinn said, “but those in the know said it was the controversy attached to the book that garnered the sales. Seems Larry fancied himself a hero. He attributed deeds to himself in print that were later discredited, chief among them his role in the capture of Ryan Heath.”
Singh gave him a glassy-eyed stare.
“Also known as The Toymaker in the popular press of the day,” Quinn said, “A prolific serial killer.”
“Right,” Singh asked, “and when was all this?”
Quinn answered, “Three decades ago, give or take a few years.”
Singh pressed his lips together in a slight frown. “Then I think we can discount Heath as a suspect here, don’t you?”
Nathan raised his eyebrows. “I guess when you said interesting, Rook, you didn’t mean relevant?”
Quinn felt his cheeks redden. Without a word, he removed the biography from the hologram.
“What about at the mall?” Singh asked. His hurried tone roused no interest in Nathan.
Quinn shook his head. “Seven confirmed dead inside Bennington Place but no further details yet. Lead on-site cautioned we’re dealing with displaced people so identification may not be easy.”
“We have twenty dead in two days,” Singh said. “Tell me we have a clue who this bastard is?”
Prolonged silence greeted his question.
“Motive?” More silence.
Singh pursed his lips and rubbed at his eyes. “You have anything to add Miller?”
Nathan lifted his mug to his lips and took a loud slurp. Setting it down he gave Singh a fuck you grin and said, “Just that you’re doing a bang-up job, boss.”
Singh’s mustache bristled as he curled his lip. “Have you forgotten the conversation we had? Show a little respect. This is a high-profile case—I could find another detective to run it.”
Nathan continued to smile. “It’s adorable you think you could. Have you forgotten our conversation? This is my case because your boss overruled you. Again.”
Nathan glanced over at Quinn and said, “That’s got to sting.”
His nostrils flaring, Singh said, “Get me some fucking answers and get them fast. I want this asshole off the streets.”
Singh turned on his heel and stalked back to his office. The slam of his door echoed throughout the Clubhouse.
“Was that necessary?” Quinn asked.
“Necessary?” Nathan answered, “Maybe not. But it was fun.” He finished his coffee and asked, “So aside from the geriatric crew, you find anything relevant on the list?”
Quinn waved to the image projected on Nathan’s desk. “You’ve been looking at the same list as me.”
Nathan pointed a finger at him before he returned his focus to the victim list. Ten names in all, with photos, occupations, addresses, and brief histories. He paused for a long moment on the fourth name—Antonio Reyes. It sounded familiar. Why does it sound familiar? He closed his eyes and wondered where he’d seen that name before.
It struck him like a lightning bolt on a clear day. His eyes snapped open. He stood and grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair. “C’mon, Rook,” he said, “boss wants answers—and I know where to find them.”
12
Nathan stared out a sixth floor window, watching the protestors in front of AmeriGEN headquarters as they hollered and paced. He had to give them credit—it seemed not even freezing winds could deter them.
“You want to let me in on what we’re doing here?” Quinn asked behind him.
Nathan jutted his chin toward the window. “Look down there, Rook,” Nathan said, “Tell me what you see.”
Quinn stepped beside him and glanced out the large picture window. “The same protestors we passed on the way in.”
Nathan voiced his displeasure with Quinn’s flippant answer. “What I see,” he said, “And what you should see Rook, is anger and hatred boiling over. To commit what was done in that church—you’d have to be some pissed off.”
Quinn took another look at the roiling mass of humanity. “Granted,” he said, “but where’s the connection?”
“About a week ago, those protestors laid into a researcher who happened upon them. Beat him up pretty bad too. You remember hearing about that?”
Quinn shrugged. “Might have heard something about it.”
“The name, Rook,” Nathan said, “Do you remember his name?”
Quinn furrowed his brow. After a moment his eyes widened and his jaw dropped open. “Jesus,” he whispered, “Antonio Reyes. That’s why we’re here.”
Nathan nodded. “The church killer could be right down there.”
“But if Reyes was the target, why kill everyone else?”
Nathan kept his gaze on the crowd below. “To cover their tracks. To eliminate witnesses. Just because.”
“A mob could explain why no one tried to run,” Quinn commented.
“It could,” Nathan admitted. “First we need to find out why Reyes might have been a target.”
“Maybe I should ask the questions?”
Nathan’s gaze shifted to Quinn’s reflection in the glass. Quinn raised his palms. “Just saying, your pleasant disposition might not be what’s needed here.”
Nathan shoved his hands in his pockets.
“Sorry to keep you waiting detectives.”
Nathan and Quinn turned from the window and watched a slim figure in a knee-length lab coat approach them. He gave them a smile and extended his hand as he drew near. “It’s been a real madhouse around here today. Daniel Scofield. You wanted to speak with me?”
Nathan stood back as Quinn moved forward and accepted the handshake. “Detective Quinn Baker. My partner, Detective Nathan Miller. Can we go somewhere private to talk?”
Scofield lo
oked around the otherwise empty waiting area but managed to keep his grin from faltering. “Of course,” he waved them forward, “this way please.”
Nathan took one last look at the angry mob below and fell into step behind Quinn. Scofield led them into a bright white corridor, lit by LED lamps spaced too close overhead. The harsh light began to play behind Nathan’s eyes, threatening to bloom into a headache. Scofield swiped his wrist over a keypad set next to a sliding steel door, and a chime sounded as the door slid open.
“My office gentlemen.” Scofield stood to the side and ushered them inside. Nathan noticed the security band around Scofield’s wrist as he passed him and wondered what other doors it might open.
Once the door closed behind them, Scofield went around behind his desk and sat. “How can I be of help?”
“That’s quite the mob scene you have outside,” Quinn commented.
“Yes, I’m afraid it is,” Scofield agreed. “Some people can’t help but fear change, I suppose.”
“And what is the change they fear?” Quinn asked.
“Ectogenesis,” Scofield answered.
Quinn showed a slight smile. “Forgive my ignorance but, what exactly is that?”
“The future of this company,” Scofield explained, “It’s been ten years since we patented our hybrid gene for cancer treatment, fifteen since our revolutionary liposome solved the gene expression problem inherent in treating genetic disorders. Ectogenesis is a breakthrough in line with those successes and will fund AmeriGEN for the next decade.”
“Only if the Senate bill passes though, right?” Nathan said.
Scofield nodded in his direction. “Of course, it all hinges on regulatory approval.”
“The protests can’t be helping that?”
Scofield returned his gaze to Quinn. “No innovation is without its share of controversy. The very same groups that decry ectogenesis as meddling with the natural order voiced the same complaint about our hybrid gene. We weathered it then, and we’ll weather it now. You don’t hear anyone protesting the use of hybrid genes now that cancer is all but eradicated. It will be the same for ectogenesis in ten years. The only conceivable difference between them is our cancer treatment solved a problem everyone was aware of. Once the public learns more about the problems ectogenesis can solve, the furor will die down.”
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