His phone rang as he was crossing the service road. Libby Hernandez from SIOC.
“Parents and younger brother died in a crash September before last. Drunk driver piled into them doing ninety on the I-85. Concertinaed their car and a fuel leak caught fire before the Resnicks could get out.”
Burning to death in a car wreck had to be near the top of the list of horrendous ways to die. Right next to contracting a deadly disease like anthrax. Tragic as those events were, it meant Pip West had just become a very wealthy woman. But the look in her eyes when he’d told her the news about her inheritance had been one of intensified grief, not greed or satisfaction.
Maybe Pip was good at lying. Maybe she’d purposely bought toxic cocaine and encouraged her BFF to suck it back and then go swim in the lake so she could inherit the cash. People did worse things—ever single day.
The Medical Examiner put a time of death of between midnight and two AM. They were still trying to pin down Pip’s exact location at that time and agents were examining surveillance tapes from the gas stations and crosschecking cell tower information.
Hunt wanted Pip eliminated from this case, and not just because he liked the look of her dark eyes and soft mouth. He had more important things to investigate, like looking for a bio-terrorist willing to sell out his or her country and the lives of its fellow citizens, in exchange for cold, hard cash.
“What happened to the other driver?” he asked Hernandez, climbing the steps.
“Died on impact. Guy named James Roma. Seventeen years old,” said Hernandez.
The insanity of youth.
How had that loss affected the sole survivor of the family? Could it have turned her into a terrorist? But there were no red flags. No weird internet searches. No virtual private network or alternative online personas. No suspect connections. No obvious need for cash.
“Anything on the laptop or cell phone?”
“HMRU sent everything to Quantico last night. They also took swabs and sent them to USAMRIID and they are waiting on final results from CDC before they proceed.”
Which meant the lab hadn’t even started processing the electronics yet. Hunt stowed his frustration. He didn’t want to put anyone at risk. It was difficult to process evidence quickly when dealing with a potentially deadly infectious material even though the general consensus was the cottage was clean.
“What about those BLACKCLOUD samples?” The so-called bioweapon. “Did they make it to the CDC and USAMRIID?” Until it was confirmed the substance was anthrax rather than his grandmother’s talcum powder this might all be for nothing. A con they’d all fallen for.
Wouldn’t that be fucking awesome?
“Cleared for import and arrived late last night. Scientists got straight to work. Initial reports suggest weapons-grade anthrax.”
So much for the hoax theory.
“They’re doing more studies to see if they can identify the strain. DNA is being sequenced as we speak.”
And in the meantime, the bad guy might be mass producing this microbe and doing who knew what with it. Or burrowing down so deep they’d never find him.
“Any other leads?”
“Not yet. Whoever it is covered their tracks. But we’re watching. We have some seriously talented cyber security people helping us out.”
He grunted. They were basically playing hide-go-seek with a brainiac.
The scientific component of the case frustrated him because it was out of his control. He didn’t know as much as he wanted.
“Thanks anyway. Oh, one more thing…” He felt guilty for a split-second before reminding himself he was looking for a heartless terrorist. “Can you run a deep background check on Pippa West?”
“The girl who found the body?”
If he called Pip a “girl” most women he knew would flay him alive. “Yeah. The woman who found the body.”
“No problem. I’ll start on that today.”
Hunt rang off, headed to the departmental secretary to get a visitor badge and directions to the professor’s office.
He found the man surrounded by shelves full of text books, and a desk piled high with folders and forms. The door was ajar.
Professor Everson was bald with deep set features and prominent cheekbones that made him appear emaciated. The eyes were sharp, though. Observant and wary.
“Agent Kincaid?”
Hunt nodded and stepped into the room. “Professor Everson.”
They shook hands.
“You’re here about Cindy.” The professor sagged in his chair. “I can’t believe this has happened. Such a terrible loss. Please, take a seat.” He pressed his lips together and looked down at his desk.
Composing himself? Or hiding something?
Hunt took a seat and let the professor take the lead. Hunt sometimes flaunted his authority and sometimes he reined it in. Whatever got results.
“Can you tell me how she died?” the professor asked.
“I’m afraid I can’t release any details at this time.”
The professor frowned, bushy brows meeting to form a solid line. “She was a wonderful young woman. Brilliant, hard-working, dedicated. I can’t believe she’s gone. I just spoke to her on the phone day before yesterday and she said she was ready to submit.” His fingers curled and uncurled into fists.
“You were in Nashville?”
The professor nodded. “NAMS meeting. I was president for a few years, so I always try to go and support it. It’s a small meeting, but a friendly one.”
“There are unfriendly ones?” Hunt asked conversationally.
“You better believe it.” The professor’s knee bobbed up and down in a nervous rhythm. “Can I ask why the FBI is involved in Cindy’s death?”
“What was Cindy working on?” Hunt asked instead.
The professor got up and closed the door. “The information is a little sensitive.”
“I’m not about to spill your scientific secrets, Professor Everson.”
Everson sat back down and Hunt waited him out, pencil poised over his notebook.
The professor cleared his throat. “We’ve been keeping it very quiet. Cindy was developing a new type of vaccine for anthrax. One that might revolutionize the field.”
Hunt was surprised. From his talk with Jez Place from CDC Cindy had never so much as presented her work. “Why so much secrecy?”
The professor shifted and huffed. “The work has wide-ranging implications.”
Hunt played dumb. “Like what?”
The professor shrugged. “Medical. Research. Military. Terrorism.”
For some reason Hunt flashed back to Pip describing that big black vehicle she said had almost run her off the road.
The professor’s mouth twisted into a cynical knot. “We’ve been told not to talk about it.”
“Who told you not to talk about it?”
“The university. They’re set to share the monies generated from the patent and intellectual property rights with myself and Ms. Resnick. They forbade us to discuss our results or methodology with our colleagues until Cindy was ready to submit, by which time the patents should have been granted.” His voice dropped lower as if someone might be listening in. “They didn’t want anyone stealing our methodology.”
Hunt dipped his chin. “Does that happen a lot?”
Everson shook his head. “Not at all. Scientific research and breakthroughs depend on shared knowledge. But her idea was so incredible, so simple—”
“Cindy’s idea?”
“Yes. Yes. I never pretended otherwise.” Everson nodded. “I was getting ready for retirement and this young grad student comes up to me with an idea she wanted to discuss. I thought I was doing her a favor even listening to her, intending to put her out of her misery and correct the course of her experiments.” His eyes were wide. Arms animated. “Her idea blew my mind. She ran a few trials and once we realized what we had on our hands, I went to the IP office because I wanted to bring other institutions onboard for greate
r funding and clinical experiments. Instead they put a virtual gag order on us.” Bitterness laced his words.
“What about freedom of speech, and publish or die, and all that?”
The professor shook his head. “You either learn to work with the administration or you get the hell out.”
The same ideals held true within the Bureau.
“So how much is Cindy’s idea worth, do you think?”
Everson’s eyes held a gleam. “Millions.”
Hunt must have looked skeptical.
“Who is the biggest buyer of anthrax vaccine?” the professor asked.
“The military.”
“And during a conflict? The need for vaccine goes up exponentially. Also, her idea might work for vaccines for other diseases, too, although that’s pure conjecture. So that patent is potentially worth millions to the university. Hundreds of millions.”
Enough to kill Cindy for?
“We agreed to not publish any of our findings until all the preliminary work for Cindy’s Ph.D. was completed and she’d submitted.” The professor looked angry. “I understood why the university did it. They do have a business to run. But they denied her some of the experiences she should have had as a grad student. And now she’ll never get the kudos she deserved.”
“So no one else knew about her discovery?”
The professor shook his head.
“Not colleagues or friends or co-workers?”
“No one.” The professor was emphatic. “Just Cindy and I and the IP people and the patent office. They made us sign an NDA that would have bankrupted us both had we violated it, but neither of us wanted to be scooped in our discovery.”
“You ever meet a friend of hers, Pip West?” asked Hunt.
Everson nodded. “At Cindy’s family’s funeral. Dark-haired, pretty little thing. I know Cindy was close to her.” Those eyes grew sharper. “Why? Did she have something to do with Cindy’s death?”
Hunt ignored the question. “What happens to the research and patent if a student doesn’t submit?”
The professor scratched the back of his neck. “I honestly don’t know. I will submit her papers to peer-review journals. Income from patents will pass on to whoever her beneficiary is.” He swallowed tightly. “There will probably be endless meetings as admin figures out how to bend this to their advantage.”
Hunt leaned forward. “Is Cindy’s death advantageous to the administration?”
The professor laughed. “I can’t see the suits from IP putting a hit on the girl. She was probably worth more to them alive than dead, especially if she stayed on at Blake.”
At Hunt’s expression the professor sat up straighter. “Don’t tell me someone murdered her.”
His expression morphed from amused to horrified, but Hunt couldn’t get a solid read on the guy. Was he hiding something, or just socially awkward?
“Can you tell me anything specific about Cindy’s work?”
The professor considered for a moment. “When Ken Alibek left Moscow in the early nineties, he gave us an insight into just how vigorously the Russians had lied about, and were pursuing, a biological-weapons program. It was terrifying. Strains were being heated up in the lab, spliced, and made resistant to traditional vaccines. It was probably only the fact that there were no vaccines available, no cure, that stopped them being used as weapons. Cindy’s work might change that.”
Hunt felt a growing sense of dread at the range of threats out there and the importance of the researchers countering it. “This vaccine of Cindy’s works on even resistant strains of anthrax?”
The professor took a breath, as if considering how much to dumb down his explanation.
Hunt set his teeth.
“We think so. She developed a DNA vaccine where she incorporated the gene that encodes the lethal factor of the plasmid pX01—also known as the pathogenic island of the anthrax molecule—into a plasmid we then used to inoculate mice. We tested the vaccine against every strain we could get our hands on.” He looked away, avoiding eye contact. “Obviously it’s possible it wouldn’t work on people or against certain strains—we haven’t been able to conduct clinical trials yet.” The man sounded annoyed with this fact. “But because she used one of the key proteins that contributes to the bacteria’s virulence, we hypothesize it will work against even the most deadly variants.”
That sounded promising.
Worth killing for? Hunt would say so.
“It wasn’t just Cindy’s idea of developing that specific DNA vaccine, but her technique cut down production time by half. I can’t go into more detail than that without talking to the IP department.”
If Hunt came back with a warrant the IP department could go fuck themselves.
The professor stood and rested his hands against the window glass as he stared out across the campus. “Cindy was an incredibly bright young woman.” He swallowed loudly and turned around. “Her technique could also dramatically speed up research into many other diseases, including cancer.” The man’s eyes went diamond bright. “Do you have any idea how big this is?”
Hunt nodded. “Curing cancer. Got it.” Nobel prize big. And the lead architect was dead after snorting cocaine laced with fentanyl and then going for a midnight swim.
But maybe that worked for the professor. Now he didn’t have to share the glory.
“Can you show me your laboratory?” asked Hunt.
The professor let out a surprised chuff. “There’s nothing to see from the outside and there’s a strict policy about who can enter. We’ve just moved into a new facility—”
“I realize that. Professor Spalding showed me some of the new labs yesterday.” Hunt didn’t bother saying he was the WMD Coordinator, instead he let Everson mull over the information that he’d already spoken to the man’s boss. Hunt wouldn’t recognize anthrax from yeast cells so there wasn’t much point in him insisting on a site visit—yet. “You keep logs of the people working on anthrax in the labs?”
The prof nodded.
“I’d like to see those logs. For the old labs as well as the new.”
“How is that related to Cindy’s death?”
Hunt just stared at the man without saying a word.
Everson cleared his throat. “The departmental secretary will be able to give you a copy of that information.”
“I’ll also need a copy of Cindy’s thesis. I’m assuming you have one?”
The professor shook his head. “That’s not possible, I’m afraid. Didn’t you hear what I told you about the restrictions?”
“I’m looking into a young woman’s death. I can get a subpoena if that makes it easier for you?”
This time the professor didn’t budge. “You’ll have to. I’m not having that work end up in some FBI file for anyone in the government to read, not without going through official channels.” Everson’s jaw muscles flexed and his eyes narrowed. “What about Cindy’s computer? That must have a copy on it. Where is that?”
“If you think of anything else feel free to contact me.” Hunt stood and handed over his business card with all his contact details. “My colleagues will be in touch.”
The professor frowned down at the card, clearly annoyed. “What about Cindy?”
Hunt didn’t understand the question. “What about her?”
“Well, how did she die?” the professor asked impatiently.
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss an active investigation, Professor.” Hunt stood.
“Active investigation?”
Hunt pressed his lips together and nodded again. The analysts on the taskforce would be following every move these people made in the wake of the Resnick woman’s death and hopefully the bioweapon manufacturer would reveal themselves. Hunt just hoped Pip West didn’t figure out the real reason the FBI were still interested in Cindy’s death.
Chapter Seven
Pip paced the floor of the tiny motel room in Allatoona waiting for the mechanic to drop her car back. They’d done a ful
l service and oil change and although the Honda wouldn’t win any beauty pageants it should get her where she needed to go.
Her cell rang and she snatched it up. She kept hoping someone was going to tell her this was all a big mistake, some dark, grim, horrid practical joke.
“Ms. West? This is Adrian Lightfoot. Cindy Resnick’s lawyer?”
How’d he find her number? Pip had avoided calling him. Ignored what Kincaid had told her as it hurt too damn much.
“Perhaps you remember me? We met after Cindy’s parents and brother died?” There was a forced cheerfulness to his tone, but underneath he sounded fraught.
He wasn’t that old. Early forties. Movie star handsome. The son of Cindy’s father’s original attorney, Cindy had often joked Adrian Lightfoot was too hot to be a lawyer.
Pain twisted in Pip’s stomach and she sank down onto the lumpy mattress. She missed Cindy’s mom and dad and kid brother more than she missed her own blood. Now she got to miss Cindy, too. Life really wasn’t fair.
Pip’s mouth felt arid and her voice came out croaky. “I remember.”
There was a long pause, as if he wasn’t certain how to proceed. “I know this is a difficult time. I understand you found Cindy’s body?”
“That’s right.”
He cleared his throat. “I’m so sorry. It must have been awful. The authorities aren’t telling me how she died except to say it wasn’t suicide and doesn’t appear to be foul play…”
Silence filled the air but she didn’t know what to say. Nothing made sense to her either.
“Well,” he continued after an awkward moment, “the thing is, after Cindy’s parents died, I urged her to make a will. She said she didn’t have time and she’d leave everything to you anyway. I told her to put that in writing otherwise you’d never see a dime.”
Her nails bit into her palm. Kincaid had been telling the truth. She was probably a wealthy woman and she had this man and Cindy’s untimely death to thank.
She didn’t want it. She didn’t want any of it. She wanted her friend back.
“There will be a period of probate but if you can come into the office today to sign some papers I can get the process started for transferring Cindy’s bank account details, etc. Before you go home to Florida.”
Cold Blooded Page 8
