“I think that would be best, Leonard.”
“Okay.” He thought about it for a minute. “You know oxygen bonds are highly unstable when they’re chained together, right?”
“No.”
“Well, they are. They’re almost…I’ll put it like this. You ever heard of high-test peroxide?”
“It’s possible I’m going to need the really easy version of this, Leonard,” I said.
He sighed. “Okay. High-test peroxide used to be used as rocket fuel, but basically it’s just concentrated hydrogen peroxide. Most people wouldn’t get near the stuff. You could try to synthesize some in any modern lab, but you so much as look at it wrong and it’s going to blow you away.”
I nodded. “I get it. So someone got their hands on rocket fuel and used it to make a bomb.”
Leonard looked at me like I’d suggested unicorns had been behind the bombing. “No. Of course not. I was just using the example so you’d understand that oxygen bonds are unstable. This isn’t high-test peroxide, but it’s a peroxide.”
“I don’t mean to be rude here,” I said, “but I think I’d also like the short version of this story.”
Leonard crossed his arms in front of him and smirked at me. “Fine. You want to know what this is, Detective?” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “It’s malaria medicine.”
I crossed my arms to mimic him and smirked back. “I can also have them take away your commissary, Leonard.”
“I’m serious.”
“Explain it to me like I’m an idiot, then, because I clearly am.”
“Artemisinin is a drug. It’s used as a treatment for malaria.” He tapped the paper. “This is a variant form of it. I might not have recognized it, but the peroxide bridge gives it away. That’s where this oxygen bond,” he pointed and then frowned at me, “forget it. I can tell by its structure. If it’s not unique, it’s damn close. I’d bet you anything whoever came up with this was working with artemisinin in a lab. They were probably trying to come up with a new delivery system. How that would have worked I don’t know. That part’s beyond my expertise.”
“Artemisinin. So…it’s medicine that makes people explode. I guess that would take care of the malaria part of the problem.” I glared at him. “This is some Bugs Bunny shit, Leonard.”
“Well, it’s not exactly artemisinin, anyway, but even the real stuff I wouldn’t light on fire if I had it in its pure form. But nobody takes it in its pure form. Once it’s in a larger molecule with water or whatever they use, it’s more stable. So you can put it in a syringe or a pill. The real stuff actually comes from a plant they found in China a while back. You ever seen a plant explode?”
I thought about it. “No.”
“Same thing. But you refine and refine and refine, you might come up with something you weren’t expecting. Whoever made this probably wasn’t looking to make a bomb. They just noticed they had something that went bang if you hit it right. But if you made a mistake with your formula, or you used too much, it’s a whole different thing.”
“Okay,” I nodded. “So I’m looking for a scientist.” Michael Lewis, the only suspect Howard Lanford had ever taken seriously, had been a chemistry professor. He was dead now, but I still had a lead. If I could tie him to the bombing, I’d be able to put this thing to bed.
Leonard smiled. “I did good, right? You sure you don’t want to show me your tits, Detective? I think I might have earned it.”
“I’ll send you a Playboy,” I said.
“They don’t let us have porn in here, either.”
“Really?” I asked. “What do you guys do in here all day?”
“You want me to tell you?” he shrugged.
“No,” I said. “I don’t think I do. Anything else you can think to tell me?”
“If you find the guy who did this, tell him to look me up. I want to talk to him when I get out.”
“I don’t think I’m going to do that.” I stood up and collected my papers. “Thank you, Leonard. Really. I’ll load up your commissary on the way out.”
“I appreciate it.”
“If you think of anything else, make a call to the police switchboard and have them transfer you to me. They’ll know how to get in touch.” I gave him a serious look. “That’d be worth something to me, Leonard. You understand?”
“You could just give me your number, Detective.”
“I could also start working as a phone sex operator, but that’s not really likely, either.” I nodded at him. “Take care of yourself, Leonard. Try not to blow anything up in here.”
“I’m not going to blow anything up anytime soon.” He smirked. “Not for 17 months, anyway.”
Chapter 16
I thought about what Leonard had said on the way back to my motel. Michael Lewis, although deceased, was my most likely suspect in the bombing. If I could establish that he had anything to do with artemisinin research, this would be over. He had the radical background, after all. That couldn’t be a coincidence. But to prove it I was going to need access to his work. Odds were that would only be available at a research library at UCSD.
That presented a problem. I was neither a teacher nor a student at the university. I needed access to material that wasn’t going to be accessible to the general public. I could hardly walk in there and start poking around. But odds were what I’d need would be accessible in their computer system. I didn’t know anything about computer hacking, but I knew several people who did.
My phone buzzed as I was driving. It was a text from Sarah Winters. Can you talk? Have a weird idea on the copycat case. Could use your ear. I put the phone down. I’d deal with that later. I didn’t really want anything more to do with that case. Given my reaction at the last crime scene, who knew what insanity I’d get up to at the next one.
Back at the motel I got out my laptop and used a program I had to access a proxy server that would both encrypt everything I did and conceal where I was doing it from. As far as any average person would be concerned, I was now connecting from an Internet café in Belgium as opposed to a motel room in San Diego. It wouldn’t fool the NSA, but I didn’t need to fool the NSA. They didn’t have any reason to be looking for me. Even if they had, they certainly weren’t going to care about any of this.
Once my connection was up I logged into a webmail account I kept for this purpose. It identified me as someone named Trevor Sebastian, which was a name I’d made up a few months ago. I liked to imagine Trevor was the dashing playboy type, maybe sipping a glass of champagne while he looked over his stock portfolio from his own private island somewhere. Not that it mattered much, but it had seemed like Trevor needed a backstory, even if I never told it to anyone.
I opened a new email message, putting “Abercrombie” in the “to” field. Need help, I typed as the subject. Then I saved the email as a draft. It was never going to be sent to anyone.
That over with, I turned on the motel television and watched half an hour of The Price is Right. Nobody won a new car. The show seemed pointless to me if nobody won a new car.
When the show was over I went back to my laptop and looked at the message I’d typed earlier. The word “what” had appeared in the message body. I wasn’t the only person with access to this account, which was the whole point.
I thought it over, then started a new line in the message. UCSD faculty research, professor Michael Lewis, anything on antimalarial drugs or development, artemisinin, variants of artemisinin, explosive properties, peroxide bridge (?), possible explosive applications. That was about all I could think of, but it seemed like it covered everything. I saved the draft message and waited.
A moment later more text appeared. Is this one of your stupid jokes?
No, I typed, and saved the message again.
A minute passed. If this is a joke, tell me now. You get full credit for the funny, but I’m not wasting a day on this only to have you throw a pie in my face.
I’d never actually thrown a pie at the man I was typin
g to, but given some of our history he wasn’t wrong to be suspicious. No joke, I typed. Research for Anita Collins bombing case in 1993. Bomb composition suggests chemist doing malaria research. I know it sounds stupid. Deal with it.
I waited. It did sound like a joke, of course. I’d hardly believed it, myself. But my jokes tended to be a bit more elaborate and less science-based.
Will contact appeared on the screen. Confirm.
Confirm, I typed. A second later the entire draft email disappeared, erased and lost to cyberspace.
Fake emails that never got sent weren’t the most secure way to communicate under the radar, but it would do. We weren’t planning to blow up an airplane. If Abercrombie had really been concerned, it would have been a very different conversation.
I had very little else to do until I was contacted again. On a lark, I picked up my phone and dialed Anita Collins. She answered on the second ring. “Hello, Nevada.”
“Have you ever heard of Michael Lewis?” I asked. “He was a UCSD professor.”
“I can’t say that I have,” she said. “Is he a suspect?”
“Maybe,” I said. “He’s been dead for a while, but so far he’s the best lead I have. I should know more in a little while. I was just wondering if the name was familiar. If maybe he was someone you or your husband knew.”
“I don’t remember the name, but we do have any number of donors affiliated with UCSD.”
“It could be nothing. Believe it or not I’ve got a guy checking to see if he was involved in malaria research. I know that sounds stupid, but there could be a connection. Don’t ask me to explain it, though. Chemistry wasn’t my subject.”
Anita was silent long enough I started to wonder if we’d lost the connection. “Hello?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just that one of my foundations supports malaria programs in South America and Africa. It’s a massive project. That seems like quite a coincidence.”
I thought it over. “It’s a coincidence,” I said. “I don’t know whether it’s significant. I would think a lot of charities fund malaria programs, and you yourself probably fund more programs than anyone could remember.”
“I suppose that’s true,” she said. “I may look through my records and see if I can find this Mr. Lewis, though. We started funding the drug distribution…maybe ten years ago. One of my donors came to me with the idea.”
“Was he by any chance a chemist?”
“No. He owns a soccer team.”
“Probably not a mad bomber, then,” I said. “I’ll let you know if I come up with anything. It’s too late to put him behind bars, but at least you’d know the truth.”
“That’s all I want, Nevada. I can be satisfied knowing the truth.”
“I’ll let you know as soon as I know something.”
“Thank you for the call.”
“No problem.” We hung up. I looked over at the dresser drawer where my vodka was stashed. It wasn’t even afternoon yet, way too early for my nightly booze-holding ritual. It was tempting, regardless, but I decided it could wait until later. The day I needed to pour two glasses of vodka down the drain to make it through the day would probably be the day I drank one of them.
My phone buzzed. It was Dan Evans texting this time. Channel 5 asked where you are. They want an interview.
When hell freezes over, I sent back.
That’s more or less what I told them. Clever boy, that Dan.
There was a knock at my door. I took my Glock off the bed. “Who is it?”
“Tapestry Flowers,” a man’s voice called back. “Delivery for Nevada James.”
Only one person ever sent me flowers. It had been a little while since he’d done so, which probably made me overdue for an arrangement. I fingered the Glock and went to look through the window. A teenage boy in a blue polo shirt stood just outside my door with a bouquet in his arms. The coast seemed to be clear of anyone else.
I opened the door, holding the Glock behind my back so the kid didn’t see it and wet his pants. “For me?” I asked. “How sweet.”
The teenager smiled halfheartedly. The flowers were carnations in a variety of cheerful colors. “There you go, miss,” he said, offering them to me. I liked that he called me miss instead of ma’am, but I was never going to admit that to anyone.
I took the flowers in one arm, keeping my gun hand behind my back. “I don’t suppose you have any idea who sent them?” I asked, scanning the parking lot behind him to see if anyone was watching.
He shook his head. “I just deliver them. There’s a card on there, though. Have a nice day.”
I shut the door and watched through the window as he walked back to his car. There was no other activity in the parking lot. The Laughing Man could be sitting somewhere farther away with a set of binoculars if he’d really wanted to see my reaction, but somehow I doubted that was the case. The Laughing Man didn’t do things like this to get a reaction out of me. He did them because, in his own twisted way, he genuinely cared.
I put the bouquet down on the table and sat the Glock next to it. Carnations seemed a little pedestrian for the Laughing Man, but maybe he had decided to change things up. Or maybe I had a secret admirer. That didn’t seem all that likely, though. Had Llewellyn Carter worked out where I was and decided to send them as a peace offering? No. He’d have had to know I’d just set them on fire and send him the ashes.
The card was in a small white envelope. Someone had written Hope You Like These! on it. Underneath the words they’d drawn two little hearts.
My stomach did a flip-flop. I sat the card down on the dresser, then picked up the Glock and went back to the window to look outside again. Nothing had changed.
I thought for a minute about what to do, then I went to the dresser, took my vodka out, and tossed it into my suitcase. My laptop followed it, along with my toothbrush and everything else I had in the bathroom. I jammed my dirty clothes in on top and zipped the suitcase shut. The .45 Dan had given me went on my hip and the Glock found its place in my shoulder holster. I looked around. That was everything I had in here other than my Laughing Man files, and I wasn’t going to try to move them now.
There was no small amount of nostalgia involved in leaving the room. It had been home for a while. There was no way in hell I was staying here, though, and it was hard to say when I’d be back, or if I’d be back. I took a last look at the flowers on the table and then headed for my car.
I called Dan as I drove up I-15. “What’s going on?” he answered. “Don’t tell me you actually want the interview?”
“I’m disappearing,” I said. “Go to my motel and get my files. You shouldn’t have any trouble getting a key from the desk. The guy likes me. Don’t tell him I’m checking out, though. As far as anyone else is concerned I’m still there.”
Dan inhaled sharply. “What the hell is going on?”
“Someone sent me flowers today.”
“The Laughing Man? That’s nothing new. Why are you running? Did he make a threat?”
“That’s the thing, Dan,” I said. “They weren’t from the Laughing Man. They were from the copycat.”
“What?”
“He knows where I am, Dan. He knows me. I don’t know what this is yet, but…I guess I’m part of it now.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say. “I’ll call you in a while.”
Dan started to say something but I hung up and tossed the phone onto the seat beside me. I didn’t feel like talking. I felt like shooting someone. Talking was just going to have to wait.
Chapter 17
I ignored half a dozen calls from Dan as I drove up the freeway. He finally gave up, which I took as a good sign. He’d be on his way to the motel to see what was what. Meanwhile, I needed to find a new place to live. I obviously hadn’t been careful enough last time. That was what I got for checking into a hotel under my own name. It was time to be someone else. Julia Roberts, maybe.
How the hell did Julia Roberts check into hotels anonymously
, anyway? Most places made you show identification. Somehow I doubted she had a fake driver’s license. Or maybe she did. The truth was I didn’t know much about Julia Roberts.
I made a stop at my bank and took out ten grand in cash. I wouldn’t be using plastic to pay for anything for a while. Debit and credit cards were easy to trace. Cash was anonymous. Anonymity had just become even more important to me than it had been before.
The only reason I was still alive today was that the Laughing Man valued playing our game more than he did just killing me outright. He’d had me at his mercy twice and could have ended me with a flick of his straight razor. But doing that meant the game was over, and he didn’t get to have any more fun. He’d never find a playmate he enjoyed as much as he did me. The copycat was another situation entirely. What that unstable asshole was up to I didn’t know yet, but I didn’t have a way to hunt him and the cops hadn’t gotten very far. Sarah was still asking me for advice, which meant she had nothing. Death didn’t scare me; I’d accepted that I was going to die young a long time ago. Dying for nothing bothered me a great deal, though. Having some idiot walking up behind me and sticking a knife in my neck wasn’t the way I wanted to go out. I’d either die by my own hand, or by the Laughing Man’s. Nobody else got to dance with me.
I found a motel near Miramar that looked like it was on the edge of being condemned. Compared to this place my old motel was the Ritz Carlton, but this one had good sight lines of the parking lot and the nearby streets. It would do. I went into the office where an older man in his 60’s sat behind a desk that also looked to be falling apart. For a moment I thought I saw a group of cockroaches doing aerobics in the corner by the copy machine.
“I need a room,” I said. “I’ll pay cash up front.”
The old man looked me up and down. “It’s thirty-five dollars a night. Includes tax.”
Those were flophouse rates for San Diego. “You rent by the week?” I didn’t plan to stay long, but I didn’t want to ever be in this filthy office again, either.
Scars (Nevada James #2) (Nevada James Mysteries) Page 11
