GD00 - ToxiCity

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  “Does that mean the Feds are taking over?” Georgia recognized Brewster’s voice.

  “No.” Stone launched into an explanation, but the sound of footsteps at the other end of the hall distracted her. A woman was hurrying towards the conference room. She was incredibly attractive, with dark hair and eyes that seemed to eat up the light. She carried a package in silver paper with a blue ribbon.

  The woman brushed by her as if she didn’t exist, and opened the door to the Detectives’ room. Craning her neck through the open door, Georgia saw Matt’s face brighten in a way it never did with her. He stood up, and the woman, her back to Georgia, raised her fingers and placed them on his lips. Then the door to the conference room closed.

  Georgia should have left. She should have gone home. Instead she hid in the parking lot behind a tree. They came out an hour later, walking close together, the woman’s arm linked through Matt’s. He bent his head toward her. Georgia was close enough to hear them.

  “I love it,” Matt said. “Let’s go to my place and put it up.”

  “But you already have one, right?” she asked. She looked worried.

  “You can never have too many mezuzahs.”

  The woman’s face cleared. Georgia winced. “The best news is that Dad seems to be coming around. Today he even tried to speak. I’m starting to think he’s going to make it after all.”

  Matt kissed her cheek.

  She giggled. “What’s that old Yiddish saying? When a Jew breaks one leg, he thanks God he didn’t break both; and when he breaks both—”

  “He thanks God he didn’t break his neck,” Matt finished.

  “I have a lot to be thankful for.” She slipped an arm around Matt’s waist. The woman fished in her purse, drew out her keys, and unlocked the door to the Mercedes Georgia had seen that morning. “Don’t forget, we need to get gas.”

  Matt leaned over and opened the door, the way he used to do for Georgia. Once she was settled, he kissed her again. “Later.” She heard him say.

  He walked around to the passenger side. The fucking bounce was back.

  ***

  After a few margaritas at Italian Gardens, Georgia dimly heard Ed tell her to call it a night. Right, buddy. No way she was going home to an empty apartment. She shuffled to her car and revved the engine. A moment later she was speeding down the Kennedy. Exiting on Fullerton, she headed north to Diversey and parked a few doors from the Bullet Lounge. She checked her watch. Ten.

  Waves of heat, perfume, and beer hit her as she pulled open the door. Georgia made her way to the bar and ordered a glass of wine.

  By her second glass, she had her plan. First she’d shoot the woman with Matt, whoever that was. Then Matt. Then herself. She ordered another glass. She spotted a woman at the other end of the bar making eyes at her. She slid off her seat, thinking she’d play a few tunes on the jukebox, but gravity was against her, and she bumped into the woman on the next stool. She picked herself up, ready to apologize, but checked herself when she saw the woman locked in an embrace with another woman.

  The two women were oblivious to the crowd, the noise, and the music. Georgia was curious. What would another woman’s lips feel like? As soft as Matt’s? And a female body—would it feel the way Matt’s did, his sinewy limbs weighing her down, making her feel wanton but protected?

  Stumbling over to the jukebox, she scanned cuts from kdlang, Melissa Etheridge, Cher. There was also a decent selection of Blues. She settled on a Muddy Waters track and threw in some coins. When she turned around, Clark Addison was in front of her. Dark hair, jeans, thick sweater, work boots.

  “I thought it was you. I saw you come in.”

  Georgia looked up. She’d forgotten how tall Clark was.

  “What brings you down this way, sweet Georgia?”

  “I came—I came to find you.” Georgia whispered, realizing with a drunk’s clarity why she’d driven downtown.

  Clark raised her eyebrows. “Is that right?”

  “Thassright.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “You tell me.” Georgia smiled suggestively.

  Clark took in a deep breath. “Oh, sweet Georgia. If you only knew…”

  Georgia stole a glance at the couple she’d jostled, still wrapped in each other’s arms. She turned back to Clark.

  “Show me.”

  Clark sized her up slowly, then shook her head. “Not tonight.”

  Georgia could feel heat on her face. “Whassa matter?”

  “You’re as drunk as a skunk.”

  Georgia started to giggle, but when she saw Clark’s face, the giggle died in her throat.

  “When I make love to you, Georgia,” she said, I want you to remember everything. No excuses.”

  Georgia felt the room shift around her. Her eyes fixed on a wall sconce that seemed to be revolving in circles. She almost lost her balance, but Clark broke her fall. “But I will buy you a cup of coffee.” She started to guide Georgia back to the bar.

  “Take your arm off me.”

  “Sorry. I wish it were different.”

  “Prove it.”

  Clark looked Georgia up and down again. Georgia saw a wavy image in front of her. Clark sighed, then spread her palms. “Okay, sweet Georgia. You win.”

  ***

  Hazy, sensual images floated through Georgia’s mind; half-remembered impressions of lips, tongue, and fingers playing her body up and down, in and out. Sweet sensations. Someone knew her better than she knew herself. She was just sinking back into a haze of pleasure when the blast of a car horn startled her. She rolled over. Green neon numbers announced it was one-fourteen. Damn. That always happened when she drank too much. She’d pass out for a couple of hours, then be up all night.

  She was about to turn on the light when she realized she wasn’t at Matt’s, and it wasn’t his body curled next to hers. She came awake with a jolt, bands of pain squeezing her temples. As she heard steady breathing beside her, the events of last night flooded back. Speeding down the Kennedy. The Bullet. Clark Addison. Her hand flew to her mouth. Jesus. What had she done?

  She got out of bed and felt around for her clothes. Despite the darkness, she found them on the floor. Gathering them up, she crawled on her hands and knees to the other room. As she reached the doorway, Clark stirred. Georgia held her breath until she was sure Clark wouldn’t wake up. Dressing, she found her purse on the couch. She fled through the door.

  She spotted her car halfway down the block. Thank God. She sprinted to it and dove inside. She keyed the engine and pulled out fast, her tires screaming.

  Well, at least she didn’t have to wonder anymore. Except she’d been loaded; maybe it didn’t count. Right, lady. And you didn’t like it either. She braked at a light. It didn’t matter. Bottom line? Clark didn’t give a shit about her any more than Matt did. They were both just after a piece of ass. Hers. And she had rolled over. Made it easy for them. What did that make her?

  Speeding south on the Drive, Georgia switched on her Springsteen CD and blasted “Born to Run.” She remembered Stone telling her how he’d heard Springsteen twenty-five years ago in Asbury Park. He’d always known the guy would make it big. Georgia hadn’t believed him, but Matt said Stone would never bullshit about the Boss. Who knew Stone knew his way around rock music?

  “Strap your hands cross my engines…”

  At North Avenue, Georgia headed down LaSalle Street. The street was empty. She floored it.

  “Trash like us, baby we were born to run”. Her Toyota was a plane. If she could just get enough groundspeed, she could throttle back and lift off. Climb up through the clouds. Away from everything.

  “A suicide rap, a death trap.”

  Seconds later, she was barreling down Halsted towards Greek town. Soon she’d be passing the restaurant where Stone and Deanna had their wedding dinner. This stretch of road, flanked by concrete abutments on both sides of the street, extended under a viaduct. She couldn’t remember which street crossed above. Sh
e checked the clock on the dash. Almost one-thirty. Maybe she should slow down. Turn around. Go home.

  She hit the brakes, intending to make a U-turn before she went under the viaduct. But her speed was deceptive. She was doing over sixty. The Toyota fishtailed, swerved out of control, and smashed into the concrete barrier.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Matt nailed the mezuzah to his door jam, said a blessing, and took Ricki in his arms. As she lifted her face for a kiss, he had a clear view over her shoulder. He froze. There, near the bedroom door, was a ghostly image of Georgia. Leaning against the doorframe. Smiling. He blinked, knowing it wasn’t real. Some kind of optical illusion. A trick of his subconscious. He was exhausted. He released Ricki.

  “I’m going to take a quick shower, then we can get something to eat, okay?”

  “Want some company?” She grinned. Then she looked around. “Nice place.”

  He forced a smile. She was being polite. His place, small enough to fit into her house six times over, was minimally furnished. Georgia had suggested they buy a few things, make the place more homey, but he kept putting it off. Maybe this was why.

  “You don’t mind if I check my e-mail while you’re showering, do you?” She asked. “I’ve been waiting for a deal to go through. A new lease on an office building.”

  “No problem.” He flipped on the power switch of the old computer and headed into the bathroom.

  After he showered he came back into the living room. Ricki was hunched over the computer, one hand on the mouse. He walked over and gently kneaded her shoulders. She lifted her free hand to cover his, but didn’t turn around.

  “Matt, you know, there’s one thing I can’t tolerate.”

  “What’s that?”

  She twisted around. “Secrets. They doom a relationship. Please, no matter how difficult it is, don’t keep anything from me. I can handle most things, as long as you’re honest.”

  “Okay.”

  She nodded. “Good. Now, tell me about this. And why you didn’t tell me before.”

  A fresh twinge of uneasiness swept through him. “What?”

  She pointed to the monitor. He peered over her shoulder. She pulled down an icon from the menu bar and highlighted a file. As it opened, he squinted. It was a text file, full of small print. The title read: “Characteristics of Ricin.” She scrolled down the page, past sections headed with “Diagnosis,” “Medical Management,” “Prophylaxis.”

  “What is this?”

  He frowned. “I don’t know.”

  “Come on.” She pulled down more files: “Guide to Poisonous Plants;” “How to Make Ricin.” She leaned back. “When were you going to tell me?”

  He spread his hands. “Where did you find these? I didn’t know—”

  Her face hardened. “Matt, what did I just say about secrets? This is your computer. In your apartment. If you’re suspicious about the poison these killers are using, isn’t it your responsibility to let me know? How can I protect myself against something I can’t see, hear, or touch?” Angry patches of red flared on her cheeks. “I’m not helpless. I can handle it. But I need to know.”

  Matt backed away from the computer. Where had those files come from? It had been months since he’d used that computer. He and Georgia had even talked about getting rid of it. Buying an easy chair instead.

  Georgia.

  “Matt?” Ricki’s voice came at him from a distance.

  He stared at the screen, piecing it together. Georgia must have been researching the case by herself. While she was suspended.

  “Matt, answer me.”

  His eyes flicked back to her. “Hold on.” He bent over the printer, snapped it on, and grabbed the mouse. “I have to print these.” He activated the print command.

  “Matt? What are you doing? We need to talk.”

  He went into the bedroom and called Stone.

  “I’ll call Vaughan,” Stone said after Matt explained. “Call you back.”

  By the time the phone rang a minute later, the printer had spit out copies of the files.

  “Vaughan and Van Thorsen are on too,” Stone said.

  Matt told them what he’d found. “So, what do you think?”

  Van Thorsen spoke first. “Ricin’s a biological agent. You process it from castor beans and it’s one of the most lethal toxins there is. Only botulism and plutonium are more toxic.”

  “It comes from the same stuff as Castor oil?” Stone asked.

  “Castor oil is mother’s milk when you stack it up against this. Ricin is the mash that’s left over after the oil is processed out. It’s in the pulp of the castor bean, not the shell. In fact, the shell casing is pretty hard. But inside is an oily whitish material….”

  “How does it work?” Matt cut in.

  “It prevents protein synthesis which, as you may know, is a critical function of cell activity.”

  “Speak English, buddy,” Cecil Vaughan interrupted.

  “Sorry. What happens is that on a cellular level, it causes the breakdown of red blood cells in the tissues. Essentially it kills all the cells of the body.”

  “How?” Matt asked.

  “It depends on how it’s administered,” he said slowly. “Ricin can be processed several different ways.”

  Stone broke in. “Can it be inhaled?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ingested?”

  “Yes.”

  “Injected?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, isn’t that convenient? We have all three possibilities with our vics,” Stone said. “How long would the entire process take, from the onset of symptoms until death?”

  “Depends on the dosage.”

  “As long as thirty-six, forty-eight hours?”

  “It could.”

  The men fell silent.

  “How much is a fatal dose?” Matt asked.

  “We’re not sure. In some cases it could be as little as one milligram for every kilogram of body weight. Which is an extremely minute amount.”

  “But you don’t know for sure?”

  “We don’t have much data on humans. For obvious reasons. We test animals and extrapolate from that.”

  Cecil Vaughan cleared his throat. “There was a fairly well known case of it not so long ago. A Bulgarian national who worked for the BBC in London was assassinated—stabbed on a street corner with an umbrella dipped in ricin.”

  “What happened?” Stone asked.

  “Within a few hours a pimple like swelling appeared on his thigh where he was stabbed. It was sore but the guy stayed at work. That night he developed a high fever and went to hospital. The doctors there treated him for blood poisoning, but he went into shock, and died. At the time, the doctors were unable to diagnose the cause—aside from sepsis. It was only later they deduced it was ricin.”

  “Exactly what happened to Landon,” Stone breathed.

  “Did I know that?” Vaughan asked.

  “I sent you the autopsy report,” Stone said.

  “Shit. I didn’t read it.”

  “I’m not sure it would have mattered. How did they figure out it was ricin in the London case?”

  “During the autopsy they found a tiny pellet where he’d been stabbed. There was no poison in it, but they suspected there was at some point. So they tested a variety of substances on animals. When they injected ricin into a pig, the animal developed the same symptoms as the diplomat and died within twenty-four hours.”

  “Process of elimination,” Stone said.

  “They got lucky,” Van Thorsen said. “Because of its molecular structure, ricin is virtually impossible to detect. And it’s not something you routinely test for. Most pathologists don’t even know what it is.”

  “But it’s easy enough for a layman to process?” Matt asked.

  “If you have the right tools you can cook it down to a white powder that looks a lot like meth.”

  Vaughan picked up. “Some asshole down south has been putting out ricin recipes for years; h
e even put together a cookbook. And there’s another moron they call Uncle Fester—you know, after that TV show—who wrote something called “Silent Death”. It’s got ricin recipes too.”

  “The Julia Child of poison,” Stone cracked. No one laughed.

  “And get this,” Vaughan went on. “A few years ago, the authorities caught a guy at the Canadian border with enough ricin in his car to annihilate a small city. He claimed it kept coyotes away from his chickens. Turned out he was a white separatist. A year later, they got some other guy in Wisconsin who was planning to mail ricin to his enemies. He was a separatist too. In fact—Jesus Christ…” Vaughan fell silent.

  “You think it just might be a Family Favorite?” Stone asked.

  “If it isn’t, they’re using something just like it. And just as lethal.”

  ***

  Matt hung up and stared at the phone. Stone and Vaughan hadn’t asked how he’d come up with the lead, and he didn’t tell them. But he knew. The message Georgia had left on his voice-mail. She said she had something important to tell him. She wanted him to call right away. At the time he thought it had something to do with her suspension, and, not wanting to deal with it, he didn’t.

  He’d fucked up.

  Ricki’s voice floated in from the other room. “Matt, come out here, will you?”

  He threw on some clothes and hurried out to the living room. Ricki was thumbing through the printouts, her face filled with fear.

  “It’s ricin, isn’t it? What they’re using.” Her hands trembled.

  “Could be.”

  “What do we do?”

  He knelt in front of her and placed his hands on her knees. “We make sure you stay here until it’s over.”

  Her features smoothed out.

  He double-locked the door and made sure all the windows were locked. Moving into the kitchen, he reached for his coat. Pulling out his Beretta, he released the clip, checked to see that it was fully loaded, and snapped it back in. Chambering a round, he laid the gun on the counter.

  Ricki followed him into the kitchen. “That a Beretta?”