The Black Market DNA Series: Books 1-3

by Anthony J Melchiorri

  Memories of his early-evening chase through the Visionary Art Museum persuaded him to change the destination to a location one block away from his condominium complex. At least he would have the opportunity to survey the area for any idling Corvettes.

  The cab stopped on the corner of East Ostend and Light Street at the Cornerstone Bakery and Coffeehouse. Chris debated stopping in for a hot coffee to go but figured that he’d already taken sufficient time for Tracy and Jordan to question his tardiness. He took his comm card from his pocket, surprised that neither of them had called to inquire regarding his whereabouts after Tracy’s initial message. With hands in his coat pockets, he trudged along the salt- and puddle-covered sidewalk toward his building. He saw no sign of the Corvette on the street. Of course, the men might not be in a Corvette now, wise to Chris’s knowledge of their chosen mode of transport.

  Still, he made his way toward his building and ducked into the side entrance on East Ostend. He lunged up the stairs to his floor. There, the hallway was empty except for a couple of plastic plants standing sentry next to the elevator doors.

  He crept toward his own door and pressed his ear to the cool metal. He heard no noises, no breathing, and no voices from within. Gripping the door handle, he held up his comm card. The lock clicked open, and he stepped in. No one rushed to subdue him. No one yelled his name. Everything in the apartment appeared just as he had left it, at least from the doorway.

  Tiptoeing through the hallway, he peeked into his bedroom and the office just to be sure. He peered out his bedroom window over South Charles Street but saw no suspicious onlookers or black Corvettes.

  When no one showed themselves, he packed a duffel bag with an extra change of clothes for the rest of the day and for work on Monday. From a dresser drawer, he pulled a set of Tracy’s clothes that she left at his apartment for when she spent the night. He slipped out of Jordan’s clothes, folded them up, and put on a pair of jeans and sweater from his own closet. A wave of comfort washed over him, with his own clean clothes fitting as they should. No dragging pants cuffs, no hands swallowed by shirt sleeves.

  In his office, he picked through the closet. He found the stainless steel portable freezer packed in a box of cords and other electronic knickknacks.

  Continuing to search through the box, he found the electric charging station for the freezer. He pushed aside the collared shirts, pressed pants, and underwear in the duffel to make room for the device. As he stood up, the brown leather of Vincent’s notebook on his desk caught his eyes.

  The notebook lay closed, where he had left it weeks, almost months, ago. He couldn’t bear to open the thing, and he had stopped trudging around with the journal stowed in his leather bag. The memories of the attack returned. While he spoke about his prison experiences with Tracy, albeit infrequently, his words often came out as if he relayed distant dreams or scenes from a movie he had seen as a child. The scars on his side reminded him of his near-death experience each time he rubbed body wash over himself in the shower. But still, those scars could have been from anything if his imagination and denial proved strong enough.

  The notebook, though, reminded him of someone he was supposed to have died with. He could not snoop through its contents lest he evoke a deep-seated emotion that he had struggled to suppress those meager months he had been reporting to his parole officer.

  Now, a strange urge to bring the book with him manifested itself within him as he left the office. The nagging voice in him grew louder, demanding he take the notebook. Slipping it into his duffel, he left the condo, directing his thoughts back to Tracy, away from prison and Vincent and the notebook. He hoped bringing a fresh set of her clothes would be an adequate peace offering or at least an effective distraction when he returned later than expected.

  ***

  When Chris arrived at Jordan’s place, the elevator opened up to an empty loft. No one greeted him in the atrium. He called out for Tracy, Jordan, and Greg but heard no response. No one rustled about in the bedrooms or in the kitchen. No one sat on the plush white couches or served drinks from the bar. His pulse raced. He checked his comm card again, but he found no missed messages or calls.

  He placed a call to Tracy and waited for her to answer. A muffled buzzing piqued his interest. He walked toward the sound, which was coming from Jordan’s office. As he pushed open the French doors a voice answered the card. “Hello?”

  Tracy turned around in the leather chair at Jordan’s desk, the comm card in her hand. “Hey, that didn’t take long.”

  “Really?” Wrinkles formed along Chris’s brow in a skeptical expression.

  Looking at the time on her comm card, her eyes widened. “Oh, I guess not. Must have lost track of time.”

  “Where are Jordan and Greg?”

  “They left for the lab a while ago. The more we talked about everything that happened, the more I think I piqued Jordan’s interest. I told him about the weird guy at Randy’s funeral that you call the businessman. Jordan asked me what the shithead looked like, I told him, and then he got curious about this business. Are you sure you didn’t know that man from before? You know, when you worked with Jordan.”

  He let out an exasperated sigh. “I’m positive. I never saw the guy until the day they let me out of prison. Does Jordan know him?”

  “Don’t know. He said he didn’t, but he changed when I described what the guy looked like. I think if he doesn’t know the guy, he has an idea about what that guy represents.”

  “What does he represent?”

  “If I knew, I’d tell you. Either way, it seems like Jordan wants to know what the son of a bitch had to do with Randy’s death. Or, more accurately, Randy’s hidden samples.”

  Chris dragged a wooden chair from a corner of the office and placed it next to Tracy. He sat down and scanned the documents she had projected from Jordan’s computer onto the desk. “What’s going on here?”

  With rushed, excited words, Tracy explained that she had investigated the names on their list further. The five that had died particularly interested her. While he had been gone, she had uncovered a wealth of information.

  “See, I got interested in this bastard here.” Tracy gestured on the computer to bring up a holoprojection of a man with cropped black hair and a short goatee. “Gordon Katz. I found his obituary easy enough, but I couldn’t find out why he died. No police reports and nothing in any of the Baltimore crime blotters suggested a suspect or arrest that might be responsible for Katz’s death. Nothing. Weird, right?”

  “I guess. But what if he died of natural causes?”

  “Sure, sure. I considered that. Then I found three more of the guys’ obituaries, but no cause of death. Nada.” She made a cutting gesture to emphasize the point. “All right, all right. Maybe something is fishy, or maybe all these guys died of natural causes, right?”

  Tracy continued before he could answer. “Well, this guy, this bastard right here.” She brought up another floating head on the holodisplay. This time, a bald man with baby smooth skin and a prominent Roman nose appeared over the desk. “Ugly asshole. Anyway, this guy died in a stabbing. Want to know what’s even more screwed up?”

  Chris nodded.

  “He knew Randy. Or at least, he did a long time ago. Both of them worked, I think in research, at Myogenetics before Randy left for his current—er, former—position at Respondent.”

  “Okay, so you’re going to have to explain to me what all this means.”

  Tracy’s eyes widened with an excited, almost rabid look. “I don’t know. I have no idea.” She leaned closer. “But there is no way this is just a coincidence. News streams say he got stabbed just two days before Randy. Both worked in genetic research. And we both know Randy’s been dabbling in extracurricular shit on the side. There is just no way this means nothing.”

  “Fair enough. You’re still going to have to explain the significance of the other four guys and what it means that you couldn’t find out about the causes of their deaths.”

>   “You know I can be a bit stubborn, right? A bit tunnel visioned, if you will?”

  He chuckled and nodded. “No, no. I’ve never thought that.”

  Tracy nudged him in the side and gave him a quick peck on the lips. Despite the innocuous intentions of the prodding, he recoiled at her touch. Maybe she was stronger than she thought or maybe his sides remained weak. He wondered when he’d get over someone getting near his rib cage, playfully or not, and whether or not the pain was real or just a fragment of a memory left embedded in his mind by the prison stabbings.

  “I appreciate your white lies, but let’s not bullshit around. Anyway, I just caught myself staring at Jordan’s bookshelves, wondering what the hell was going on. And I didn’t get it. Couldn’t figure it out. Then it struck me.” She prodded his side again and he winced. “The stabbings, Chris. You told me about the riots and how others died. How your roommate—”

  “Cellmate.”

  “Same damn thing. Anyway, here’s what’s important,” she said. “All four of the other guys—their deaths match up with the date of the riot.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure as shit.” Tracy smiled triumphantly.

  “Can you show me the other guys?”

  She called up a projection. “Terrence Hart.” Another. “Brady Allen.”

  When she brought up the last image, a pit formed in his stomach. He reminded himself to breathe. There before him shone a face he had gotten to know well over the eight months in Fulton. He recognized the small scar on the lip, the bright green eyes that always seemed to glow with an uncanny and often unwarranted cheerfulness. “Vincent,” Chris said.

  Raising an eyebrow, Tracy shook her head. “No. The guy’s name is Jeremy Kar.”

  “No way. That’s Vincent.”

  “You sure?”

  Chris nodded.

  With a couple quick commands, Tracy performed a quick search. “Holy shit. You’re right. Full name: Jeremy Vincent Kar.” She stared hard. “Are you sure you don’t know anything else about this guy?”

  “Of course, I know plenty of other things. But I don’t know what’s relevant. He told me he went to prison for murdering his wife and her lover.”

  Her eyes narrowed until only the smallest portions of her pupils were visible. “That’s it? Never said anything weird, nothing about this businessman of yours? Nothing about Randy?”

  “No. Nothing. I swear, Tracy. Why does it always feel like you’re interrogating me?”

  “I’m not interrogating, just trying to see if you might’ve forgotten anything.”

  Chris disagreed but didn’t bother voicing his protest. “I had no idea. Was he actually in prison for murder?”

  “Apparently so.” The excitement in Tracy’s eyes seemed to fade. “Sure, enough. Killed his wife and a Raymond Borsch. Borsch was the alleged lover.” Tracy’s eyes were lost in stories projected on the desk that Chris could not quite make out. He scooted his chair nearer to her. As he did, she jumped back from the articles, waving her finger at the projected words. “Look! Shit. Shit. Your buddy Vincent got a PhD in molecular engineering from Hopkins.”

  “All right. Where’d he work?”

  “Consultant at Tallicor. Not so close a connection.”

  “Maybe he worked for Tallicor, but he consulted at biotech companies.” His tone made his statement sound more like a question, but Tracy’s eyes lit up again.

  “You might be right. That would make sense. Please, tell me you know something else about this guy that we can use. Now I want know what the hell is going on.”

  “Believe me, I do, too.” Exhaustion, emotional and physical, dropped over him in a hazy shroud. He leaned back in his chair and sighed. “I just want this all to be over.”

  Tracy grabbed Chris’s wrists. “I know that I can’t possibly know what you are going through. I do know this, though: if all of this is not just a big coincidence, if that businessman of yours makes good on his threat, it’s not just a matter of you going back to prison. It’s a matter of your life. And if you want to pretend you aren’t being selfish, you’ve got to think about the other people on that list. There are three other women and three other men that are still out there, Jordan included, that might not even know their lives are in danger.”

  In his mind’s eye, Veronica’s blue eyes flashed and danced. Her fingers interlaced with his in a warm, soft grip. “I’m not just thinking about myself anymore.” He put his hand on Tracy’s. “Maybe I should just give it up and go to the police. If I give them this list and Randy’s notebook, they’ll have to believe me. Hell, we could even turn over the other samples to them.”

  Tracy recoiled. “No, no, you can’t do that.”

  “What do you mean? It’s the right thing to do.”

  “No. It’s not. If they think you’re part of this, you’ll be thrown back in prison. And if the Baltimore PD doesn’t think so, you can sure as shit bet that your parole officer will when you lose your job because all this comes out at Respondent.”

  “Hell, at this point, maybe I’d be better off if I just ended up back in prison.”

  Tracy waved her hands in a panic. “No, no. Come on. I don’t want you to go back. I want you to be here.” She held both his hands in hers and massaged them with her thumbs. “With me.” Her cheeks flushed red. “I know it sounds stupid, but I’m worried that going to the police will just backfire. Besides, the businessman friend of yours told you things would just get worse if you went to the police, didn’t he? The only way going to the police is going to help us is if we can find out more. If we give them the entire puzzle, put it together into the pretty little picture they want, they won’t have to do any work. They’ll have to take your word for it.”

  Chris half smiled at her and closed his eyes. He waited a moment, breathing slowly.

  “Come on. Don’t be an ass.”

  Opening his eyes again, he embraced Tracy in a tight hug. He gave her a quick peck on the lips and looked straight into her eyes. “I don’t think I can do that. Every step forward we think we’re taking just puts you in danger.” His thoughts whirled to an apartment on Fell’s Point filled with canvases, a few adorned in lush oil paints, others half finished. “I can’t go on this fool’s errand and get anyone else hurt.”

  “Dammit, Chris.” Tracy stood up. “Don’t be so goddamn stubborn. I’m already in this with you. I’m not going to give up on finding this businessman and putting a stop to all this.”

  “You want to find him now? How deep do you think we need to go before we can turn this guy in? Is it worth risking both our lives?”

  She paced back and forth behind the desk. Chris watched her, his hands clasped in his lap.

  When Tracy sat on the edge of the desk, she looked away. She wiped the side of her face, and Chris thought he saw a lone tear budding at the edge of her glistening eye.

  “I have to go to the police. It’s the best thing I can do.”

  Eyes reddened, cheeks flushed, Tracy turned to him. A venomous grimace spread across her face. “It’s not. It’s really not. But, if that’s what you want, we’ll go to my apartment now. We’ll get the damned notebook, the samples, and we’ll give the PD everything we have.”

  “It’s what I think is best for me. For everyone.” He tried to grab her hand but she pulled it away. “I don’t want you to risk your life for me. I couldn’t live with it if I lost you.” She let him take her hand this time. “We have to at least try to get the police on our side now, and I think we have enough evidence to make a worthwhile effort.”

  “Fine,” Tracy said, closing her eyes. “But I’ll be pissed if you let them throw you back in prison.”

  Chris smiled. “Well, if I tell the PD that, I’m sure they’ll see our side of things.”

  Chapter 23

  Silence dominated the cab ride to Tracy’s apartment, broken by the occasional muffled squeals of the tires or a jolting bump as the cab hit one of the many potholes that pockmarked Baltimore’s streets. Each
time the car jostled in response to the shoddy roads, Chris winced. He gazed out the window nearest him, while Tracy stared out her window.

  While the air still bit with a cold wind, the sun pierced the gray clouds. Treacherous icy patches melted into puddles of water, and the sunlight warmed his skin. People milled about on sidewalks toward clothes boutiques and coffee shops, bags in tow. Laughing, chatting, everyone seemed in a better mood than the one that pervaded their taxi. His eyes, it seemed, unconsciously sought out couples walking side by side, hand in hand, and he scoffed aloud. Everyone else probably fought about stupid things like whose turn it was to do the dishes or who left the toilet seat up. The arguments that characterized his relationships possessed an unhealthy habit of revolving around illegal genetic enhancement conspiracies.

  “What?” Tracy turned to him, her narrowed eyes expressing a sour sentiment.

  “Nothing.” Chris shook his head.

  “What?”

  “Really, nothing.”

  She sighed and turned back out the window, her chin resting in her hand.

  Blocks away from her apartment, a pressing thought made Chris straighten up. He stared at the back of Tracy’s head for a moment before speaking. “Maybe this is stupid, but do you think it’s possible those guys might show up at your place?”

  A brief glimmer of something—hope, happiness, maybe—shone in her eyes before she frowned. “The Corvette guys, you mean? Shit, I don’t know. I didn’t think that they caught a glimpse of me or even know who I am, but you might be right.” She pushed her palm into her forehead. “Oh, God. They probably saw me with you that night they killed Randy. Dammit. They could be at my place.”

  He shrugged. “Could be. I didn’t see them at my place today.”

  “I suppose we should put a hold on your plan for now, huh?”

  Chris input a new destination in the taxi’s display. The cab passed by the main entrance to Tracy’s apartment and took a left to circle around the blocky gray building.

  “Wait. Where are we going?” Tracy asked.