The Black Market DNA Series: Books 1-3

by Anthony J Melchiorri

  Chris sighed and stole another furtive glance around the bar.

  “Quit acting so suspicious. I’m positive no one followed me here.” Dellaporta licked her lips after another long drink. “Here’s the deal: the feds are calling this an act of terrorism. They might be partially right, but you and I know the good senator left this world without telling us everything he knew about Vincent’s Tallicor organization. If Vincent is alive and well out there, I know for a fact my department doesn’t have a damn clue where the guy is.”

  “From what the news streams say, this is out of your department’s hands anyway,” Chris said. “It’s become a joint effort between the Department of Homeland Security, FBI, and who knows whatever other spooks are involved to go after last night’s attackers.”

  “Right,” Dellaporta said. “They’ll put enough manpower into it, but I don’t think their hearts are into it.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Look, they’ve got to save face. It’d be a disgrace if they were unable to locate the group responsible.” She toyed with the bandage on her arm. “But they aren’t going to be scrupulous about who they think is responsible. You know what I mean?”

  “I think so. You believe the FBI or DHS or whatever is going after the easiest target rather than the correct target.”

  “Of course,” Dellaporta said. “Like I’ve told you before, even our esteemed commissioner in Baltimore PD feels the stress of keeping the case list clear. If there are too many unsolved cases, it usually ends up with the commissioner’s head on the chopping block. I’d assume it’s no different with the feds, especially with the added pressure of an entire nation full of people far too easily riled up by a couple of sensational news stories on their comm cards,” she huffed.

  “I see your point.” Chris eyed the bandaged arm. “Are you sure you’re up to the task, though?”

  Dellaporta’s face flushed red as she glared back. “Of course I am.” Her expression relaxed as a slight grin spread across her face. “Besides, it’s much easier to chase the fox back to his den when you’ve got your own foxes.”

  Chris’s brow wrinkled. “I’m not sure that makes sense.”

  “You know what I mean.” She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “You and Jordan ought to know better how to track Vincent down than the feds do. Judging by my discussions with them regarding how we should be treating Senator Sharp, they don’t know a damn thing about the biotech black market. They’ve got their heads up their asses.” She glowered. “If they would’ve listened to me in the first place, we could’ve avoided this mess.” Her eyes met Chris’s again. “But it’s too late. I want Vincent and his gang brought to justice. If you and Jordan can put feelers out there, if you have any connections at all to that underground industry of yours, I’d appreciate it if you could help me out.”

  Chris wasn’t as sure as Dellaporta seemed to be. His involvement in illicit biotechnology had been relegated to the development and manufacture of enhancements. He’d left the business side of their operation to Jordan. In fact, Chris had been in the dark when it came to the actual distribution, relationships with dealers, and interactions with other criminal organizations. He’d preferred it that way at the time, but now that he knew, he carried all the guilt with him for the lives destroyed in his selfish pursuit of cornering the enhancement market.

  But maybe Dellaporta was right. Maybe Jordan still knew people in that dangerous world Chris had tried so hard to forget.

  “I’ll see what we can do,” Chris said. “I’m not making any promises.” He pictured what Vincent had done to Veronica. He saw her tortured body again, an image burned into his retinas. He recalled his own abduction and imprisonment alongside Robin for weeks without knowing where they were. They had been told they needed to come up with a cure for five sick enhancers caged up with them. When Robin and Chris had succeeded, one of Vincent’s lackeys took their remedy and killed the five enhancers. These were ruthless people—no doubt an attribute Vincent instilled within his ranks.

  And judging by the sheer number of men and women Dellporta’s task force had arrested when she’d stormed the Tallicor facilities, Vincent had seemingly led one of the most powerful genetic enhancement rings in the country. Chris wondered what other atrocious crimes the man had committed on his path to prominence in the black market.

  “I’m not making any promises,” he repeated. “But I’ll make sure we do whatever we possibly can to help bring these people down for good.”

  “That’s all I ask,” Dellaporta said. “I figured you’d be more apt to listen to me than Jordan would.”

  Chris cocked his head and traced his finger around the rim of his ale.

  “And if you ask me, Jordan would bend over backward to do whatever you wanted. So work your magic.” Dellaporta grinned, and Chris couldn’t disagree with her. Jordan had risked his life to help Chris more than once. A beep emanated from her pocket, and she pulled out her comm card. As she read it, her eyebrows scrunched together. “That doesn’t sound right at all.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Last night, when the attack happened, there was a murder at the Baltimore Telegraph. Apparently, they’re calling my unit in.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Chris said. “You’re on Bio, not Homicide.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Dellaporta said. “But this all seems a little convenient, doesn’t it? Murder at the Telegraph, assassination of the senator. If CSI is bringing in Bio, something’s up.” She put her blazer back on. “I’ve got to go.”

  “I thought you said you had the day off.”

  “Screw that. I took the day off from being questioned, but now I have several questions of my own.” She stood. “Stay safe out there, Morgan.”

  Chapter 7

  Jordan turned down the opacity of the expansive windows wrapped around his living room. The setting sun sent pangs of orange dancing across the bar that served as the centerpiece of his penthouse’s entertaining area. Normally, Jordan would busy himself concocting cocktails behind it, but tonight he made only coffee.

  “Are you sure I can’t interest you in a mojito?” Jordan asked.

  Chris shook his head, thinking about what Dellaporta had said about a Telegraph employee found murdered at the news stream’s office. He, Jordan, Robin, and Dellaporta may have survived the previous night, but tonight might turn out differently. He wanted to keep his mind running at full capacity. “I’d rather not take my chances.”

  “All right,” Jordan filled two mugs with coffee and brought them to the L-shaped couch in the middle of the hardwood floor. “How’s the girl?”

  “Robin? Working late as usual.” Instinctively, Chris grabbed two coasters and placed them on the massive preserved tree trunk serving as Jordan’s coffee table.

  “And the other?” Jordan passed one mug to Chris. “How about our friend in the big city? Heard anything from Veronica?”

  “Not since last night.”

  “No news is good news, right?”

  Chris shrugged. “I’m not sure that’s true anymore.”

  “She’s a hardy one. I’m sure she’ll be better off than the rest of us. Between the constant protective surveillance and her attitude, she’ll be fine.”

  Chris nodded but couldn’t help feeling guilty. He wanted to believe Jordan was right, Veronica would be safe, but he couldn’t assuage the sense of responsibility he felt for dragging her into this mess. While the rest of them had confronted or dealt with the enhancer community in one fashion or another, Veronica’s only association with the criminal underground came through having dated Chris. It didn’t seem fair to him she’d almost become another casualty of Vincent’s reign over Baltimore.

  “So Dellaporta wants me to do some digging, huh?” Jordan seemed to sense Chris’s unease.

  Chris nodded and inwardly appreciated the change in topic.

  “And how involved do you want to be in my routing out Vincent’s whereabouts?”

 
For a while, Chris considered the question. He was curious how Jordan would delve into the shadowy world of organized crime to squeeze out information on Vincent. That curiosity was not enough to overcome the more urgent desire to extricate himself from the criminal world. He hadn’t been out of prison for an entire year yet. “Do what you have to—as long as it doesn’t involve hurting anyone—but I’d rather be able to claim ignorance.”

  Jordan let out a deep guffaw. “Sounds fair to me, my man. I’ll go ahead and risk everything to do a favor for a cop who probably would’ve been happy to send me away for life months ago.”

  “Come on,” Chris said. “We owe it to her. She saved our asses before.” And it was true. Chris, Robin, Veronica, and Jordan had barely escaped from Tallicor. When Vincent’s gunmen chased after the group, Dellaporta’s SWAT team had ended the pursuit. Chris rubbed a small scar on his leg where a bullet had hit him. It had healed quickly with the same tissue regeneration scaffolds now in Dellaporta’s arm, but he was no fool. He knew if she had not been there, his wounds could have been far worse and far more permanent.

  “I assume you also want to see Vincent taken down for personal reasons,” Jordan said.

  “There’s no denying there’s an element of truth to that. The guy can’t abduct and torture people at his whim.”

  Jordan seemed to cringe at the statement. Chris recalled Jordan had employed some creative techniques of his own to get people to talk, but Chris hadn’t been aware of any of it until recently.

  “I can understand your vendetta against the man,” Jordan said, “and I’m sure you can understand my own reservations. I don’t like playing with fire any more than I have to. I haven’t been burned too badly myself, but I warrant it’s a matter of time.”

  “I know,” Chris said. “I’m asking a lot from you.” He took a sip of the coffee and peered into the French doors that separated the room from Jordan’s library. A holoscreen glowed on an antique desk. If Jordan had it his way, he would much rather be writing one of his short stories or books instead of playing private investigator for an injured cop. “I’d appreciate it if you would go after this, though.”

  Jordan let out a slow exhalation. “When all our hard work comes to fruition and TheraComp is taking off, when we’re getting our lives in order, you want to throw this into the mix, huh?”

  Chris nodded.

  “Fine, my man. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Chapter 8

  The body was gone, but the blood was not. Ana watched her steps to avoid traipsing in the dark splotches staining the carpet near the entrance of the Telegraph’s office. A couple of CSI techs fiddled with a device to capture three-dimensional images of the crime scene for later reconstruction.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Gordon Huff, a fellow Bio Unit detective, rounded the cubicles and approached her with a wary look. “Aren’t you supposed to be answering questions at the department?”

  Dellaporta arched her eyebrows. “And let you have all the fun out here? Fat chance, Gordo.”

  Huff placed an arm in front of his abdomen as if to shield his protruding belly. He feigned a hurt expression.

  “Oh, quit it,” Ana said.

  “Well, there’s not much fun to be had here anyway. Homicide’s already made their exit, and I’m scraping up the last pieces of evidence for Bio.”

  “What kind of evidence for Bio?” Ana asked.

  “Really, there’s not much of interest here. The vic was apparently doing a bit of lab work in the office for a story. At first, our boys thought the vic manufactured bio contraband, but there’s no evidence of that. Just a bunch of at-home contaminant assays.”

  “Since I’m here, can I see?”

  “You got to believe me, Ana. There’s not much to see. We already trucked most of the lab crap back to the department.”

  “I didn’t come all the way down here to get donuts with you. Let’s see what’s left of his setup.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Gordon led her beyond the cubicles. She looked around the empty offices. “Everybody take the day off?”

  “Not before they took a couple of pictures and published a story on the murder first.”

  “You’re joking? A story about their own damn office?”

  “This shit sells itself.” Gordon motioned to the small space attached to the Telegraph’s break room. “That’s where the guy set up his Frankenstein lair.”

  Dellaporta held out her hands. “You got a free pair?”

  From his pocket, Gordon withdrew a couple blue examination gloves. “You’re lucky I always bring extras.”

  “I know you always bring extras,” Ana said, stretching the gloves over her hands. “It’s why I usually don’t.”

  A large table sat against one wall. While there was no more lab equipment, stacks of Blackbird supplements were laid out. One bottle was open. Its label explained its use for neonate and infant health. She scanned the other plastic stickers with claims of natural remedies for one malady or another. “A bunch of hippy meds, huh?”

  “Yeah, strange stuff.”

  Ana picked up the open bottle. “Do you know what he was doing with this junk?”

  Gordon shrugged. “Nope.”

  “Somebody sets up a lab in the office and not a damn person knows what’s going on? I find that hard to believe.”

  “Well, I mean his boss—Angelina Herold—told us he was trying to write an exposé on Blackbird.”

  “So you do know what he was doing. What else did she say?”

  “She said she was fed up with the project because he hadn’t found anything. Apparently the guy refused to talk to anyone about it or write anything down.”

  “I find it hard to believe he didn’t write anything down. He was a journalist, was he not?”

  Gordon rolled his eyes. “I mean, he took stuff down, but he didn’t put it on the Telegraph’s server or in his comp or anything like that.” When Dellaporta shot him a skeptical look, he raised his hands defensively. “Look, Porter said the guy wrote everything in a notebook.”

  Ana wished she had been the one called to the scene on behalf of the Bio Unit. Gordon barely got by, serving in his job to collect a paycheck rather than to solve any crimes. “So if you’re going to leave me guessing, I’m hypothesizing you don’t have the alleged notebook.”

  Gordon shook his head. “Aren’t you supposed to have the day off? Hell, aren’t you supposed to be taking the whole week off?”

  “Obviously, Bio can’t function without me around, so I’m putting myself back in the game.”

  “Lieutenant Conway won’t like that.”

  Undoubtedly, Conway, the leader of the Bio Unit, would tell Ana she needed to go home. She was breaking protocol and the psych standards the department had set for officers and detectives who’d been shot on the job.

  Ana brushed the thought aside. She figured she could “visit” the department to see how things were going, maybe check on some evidence, talk to the other detectives. She wouldn’t put herself on the official list of investigators assigned to the case, but she didn’t trust the rest of her team to solve this one on their own.

  “What other equipment did the guy have here?” She rolled the bottle of supplements in her hand and reread the label.

  “A bunch of those at-home lab-on-a-chip devices. Stuff to characterize the DNA, check for contaminants.”

  Her heart leapt. What the hell interest did a journalist have in characterizing the DNA of supplements? What kind of genetic material did he hope to find in a tablet said to contain only vitamins and minerals? Alarm bells rang in her head.

  Holding the open container to her face, she squinted and examined the round tablets within. “Any idea why this one was open?”

  Gordon opened his mouth to speak, but Ana interrupted him.

  “Let me guess. You don’t have a damn clue.”

  The other detective glared.

  “See? You don’t know what you’re dealing with. You need me
. Got an evidence bag for this stuff?”

  “I don’t care if you think we need you on the job, but I’m not letting you put your name on that. Lieutenant will roast my ass if he hears I let you in on a hot crime scene and let you bag the evidence. You’ll screw up chain of custody since you’re supposed to be off the clock.” Gordon grabbed for the Blackbird supplements in Ana’s hand.

  With a playful smile, she lifted it out of his reach. Gordon’s face turned red. His nose scrunched into a snarl, and his brow crunched together. “Give that to me.” The words came out of his mouth in a low growl.

  “All right,” she said. “Fine, fine.” She held up a hand to calm him. Gordon was easy to rile up, but she’d never seen him so aggressive. She lowered the bottle, and he wrapped his fingers around it. “When do you think I’ll get to take a look at these pills and the rest of the lab setup the vic had?”

  Gordon’s eyes were still narrowed as he spoke, his hand locked around the bottle. His eyes darted away and then met hers again. “You’re going to have to wait a couple days. Wait until things calm down, and maybe someone can sneak you down to evidence for a peek.”

  “A couple days?” She couldn’t stand twiddling her thumbs and waiting for everyone else to solve the case she had every right to be on. She could hardly do anything about Senator Sharp’s murder now, but she was fully capable of uncovering why the murdered journalist played with a lab setup and whether or not that had anything to do with his death—which she figured, from what she’d heard so far, she’d be surprised if it didn’t.

  “That’s right,” Gordon said. “A couple days. I don’t want to lose my badge by giving in to your stubborn curiosity.”

  Ana slipped a thumb into the bottle while ensuring Gordon’s eyes stayed with hers. “Fine. Take your damn bottle.” She let go, and Gordon whipped it back, spilling several of the supplements on the floor.

  “God damn it.” He bent to pick them up.

  As he turned his back to her to retrieve one that had rolled under the table, Ana slipped one of the pills into her pocket. The Bio Unit certainly would be interested in analyzing the supplements to see what had garnered the journalist’s interest and if it might be connected to his death. They’d send a few samples to the department’s lab for analysis.