Pip bent over at the waist and wondered if grief could kill you. It hurt so much.
“Or I can come to you if that makes it easier.” Emotion laced his voice. “Where are you staying?”
Pip stared numbly at the stained carpet. “Right now, I’m in some crappy motel, hoping this is all a horrible dream. I left Florida. I had planned to stay with Cindy until I figured out my next move.” Her tongue felt thick and dry. Her eyes like something was scratching the backs of them with sharp claws.
“How about I arrange a hotel room for you downtown and bring the papers by this afternoon?”
“I don’t have money for a hotel.” Her former employer owed her a month’s wages but she wouldn’t see it until the end of the week. She could use her credit card but hated spending money she didn’t have.
“The estate will take care of the bill until you’re able to move into Cindy’s house. I know you’re good for it.”
She shrank away from the idea of spending Cindy’s money, or of moving into Cindy’s house without her. The thought of selling up was worse. She felt stuck. Numb. Shock and grief rendering her unable to make decisions she usually made with ease.
Pip pushed her hair out of her face as one thing came into focus. “I need to organize Cindy’s funeral.”
“We can go over that this afternoon. How about I meet you at six? I’ll text you with the hotel details…”
“Okay,” she said uncertainly. What else could she do?
“Drive safe.” Lightfoot rang off.
Pip’s legs trembled. A fresh wave of tears made her want to crawl back under the covers and sleep for a week.
A knock on the door had her jumping to her feet. She glanced at the digital display on the clock. 11:03 AM. She was supposed to checkout by eleven.
At the door she found a man standing there with a form to sign and credit card machine. He held out her car keys.
After he’d left, Pip grabbed her purse and the box containing her computer stuff and took it out to her car. In the few seconds she was gone, the maid nipped inside and started dragging the linen off the bed.
Pip paused for a moment, watching the woman work.
It was stupid to feel unwanted and as if her life was out of control simply because a maid was getting on with her day, but…
Snap out of it.
Meeting with Adrian Lightfoot would be the first stage of organizing a fitting memorial for her friend. She had a lot to do. People to contact. Details to arrange. Cindy wouldn’t care about the money or even the house. She would care that the cops thought she was stupid enough to die of a drug overdose.
Pip’s specialty was finding out the truth.
She went back into the room and politely claimed the last of her belongings and left the maid a tip. She got into her car and her fingers curled tight around the wheel as her journalistic instincts began to emerge from the numbness of grief. Kincaid had told her he didn’t believe Cindy’s death was a homicide, yet the FBI was still investigating. Kincaid said it was routine because Cindy worked on anthrax.
Kincaid’s reasoning didn’t quite ring true, and when things didn’t ring true they were generally bullshit.
Pip needed to figure out what had really happened to her friend and why it so interested the Feds. And one thing was for damn sure, FBI Agent Kincaid was no more likely to keep her in the loop than he was to declare his undying love.
She’d do it on her own terms. Screw the FBI.
* * *
It was early afternoon when Hunt drove to the small private research facility on the outskirts of North Druid Hills, fifteen minutes from the new FBI Atlanta Field Office, and five minutes from the CDC.
The headquarters of Universal Biotech Ltd was made of mirrored glass with solar panels on the roof. The overall effect was slick with a lot of dazzle.
He gave his name at the gate and drove his senior-style Buick inside the secured area and slid it into a bay between an Audi A8 and a Mercedes-Benz CLS.
He got out of the car, raised his sunglasses and eyed a sun-baked blue beast across the lot.
Pip West’s beat up Honda.
What the hell was she doing here?
He shook his head, locked his car and headed toward the building.
Heat shimmered from the newly laid black asphalt and pressed against the soles of his shoes. If this was April, July was going to be a slow roast in hell.
His reflection in the mirrored door showed a distinct lack of sleep and too much caffeine over the last thirty-six hours. He dropped the glasses back into place and rubbed a hand over his chin. At least he’d been able to shave on the way over. Hoover might not be around anymore but there were definite standards of appearance street agents were expected to maintain.
Yet another reason to apply to HRT. Shaving every day sucked.
Inside the glass and chrome building he hit a welcome wall of cold air. And the unwelcome sight of Pip West in the arms of another man.
A bolt of something disturbing and unpleasant shot through him.
The guy looked about her age, late twenties, six feet, one ninety, overlong black hair and thin wire-framed glasses. Wannabe hipster, which was right up there with emo as Hunt’s least favorite vibe. The man wore a dark blue suit with a burgundy t-shirt and black converse trainers with no socks and he was hugging Pip West like a Burmese python hugged a goat.
And Pip West…
Holy hell.
The side view was eye-popping.
She’d applied makeup, masking the dark circles and adding a subtle glow to her skin. Her eyes looked bigger, darker, and crimson stained her lips in a way that made his thoughts turn strictly unprofessional. Her long hair was up in a silky-looking bun, leaving her neck bare except for soft tendrils of dark hair. She’d changed from old jeans and t-shirt into a tight-fitting skirt that framed a knockout ass, and a flowery blouse that clung to her slim waist and full breasts in a way his hands wanted to touch. His mouth went dry. The skyscraper heels had last been seen on the floor of the backseat of her car. They’d be a deadly weapon in the wrong hands. He wasn’t convinced she wasn’t the wrong hands.
Get a grip, Kincaid.
Hunt stood saying nothing until they finished their touching exchange. Then Pip pulled away from the guy’s clasp and half-turned, acting as if she’d just spotted Hunt standing there, but he was pretty sure she’d been aware of him since the moment he’d walked in the door.
Or maybe that was his ego talking.
He angled his head and raised his brow, expecting her to acknowledge him. Instead, she ignored the questions in his eyes and brushed past him as if she’d never seen him before. A ripple of sensation flashed over his skin in response to the fleeting touch of her arm against his. Then she pushed open the Windex-bright front door and exited the building.
What was she up to? He’d find out later.
Hunt stepped forward and sidestepped the assistant who arrived five seconds too late to guard the gate. Hunt wasn’t leaving without what he’d come for.
“Mr. Dexter?” He recognized the guy from the company website. Cindy Resnick’s former longtime boyfriend.
The guy’s eyes were red, as if he’d been crying. Kincaid took an instant dislike to the man and told himself it had nothing to do with grabby hands.
“It’s Doctor Dexter, actually.” Dexter’s self-deprecating chuckle grated across Hunt’s nerves.
“Exactly who I want to talk to.” Hunt ignored the correction. “I’m Special Agent Kincaid from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I need a moment of your time.”
“Sorry.” Dexter wiped his eyes. “This isn’t a good…” Dexter looked wildly at the assistant who opened her mouth to try and take control.
“I made an appointment to talk to your PA, Ms. Grantham?” He nodded to the redhead. “As she said you weren’t in the office this afternoon.” Hunt smiled at the young woman who was trying to get a word in. “Obviously your plans changed.”
Dexter rubbed his forehead
as if being questioned by the FBI was a minor inconvenience. “I’m—”
“I’m afraid Dr. Dexter has just heard news of a terrible loss,” Ms. Grantham finally cut in, “and won’t be able to meet with you today, Agent Kincaid. We can reschedule for tomorrow—”
“This won’t take long.” Hunt should feel a little ashamed he was using a woman’s death to get inside a private company, but it gave him a perfect opportunity that he wasn’t about to pass up. McKenzie had been all over the idea once he’d found out where Cindy Resnick’s long-term ex had worked.
Perfect opportunity.
Dexter blew out a shuddering breath, then swallowed loudly. “It’s fine, Bea. I don’t want to waste the FBI’s time. Come this way, Mr. Kincaid. I can spare you five minutes.”
Hunt ignored the lack of title from a man who obviously valued them. His gun and handcuffs and power of arrest worked just fine, regardless of what someone called him.
He glanced around at the spotless checkered floors and fancy framed monochrome photographs that lined the hallway. The lighting was LED but sunlight sparkled in reflected light from a window at the end of the corridor. They hit the elevator but Dexter didn’t make conversation. His shoulders slumped. Expression turned bleak. As if he really had just lost someone he cared about.
They strode down another long corridor. Hunt didn’t see any sign for labs or biohazard warning signs.
Dexter unlocked the door to his office—interesting that he locked it in his own building—and waved him inside.
Dexter lowered himself into a chair behind a desk empty of papers. The computer wasn’t on. There were a couple of generic pictures on the wall.
Not the CEO’s office, Hunt realized. Maybe it belonged to an associate who’d left or was ready for a new recruit. Or where they conducted interviews? But it raised Hunt’s suspicions. Why didn’t Dexter want Hunt to see his office? What was he hiding?
“Please take a seat, Mr. Kincaid.”
“Agent Kincaid,” Hunt corrected him this time. “I assume you’ve heard about Cindy Resnick’s death?”
A spark of anger lit Pete Dexter’s brown eyes. “Her best friend, Pippa West, came and told me about it. That’s who I was talking to down in the lobby. It’s all a bit of a shock to be honest.”
The fact Dexter called Pip West “Pippa” made Hunt irrationally smug. “Can you tell me the status of your relationship with Ms. Resnick?”
“We dated for a couple of years but broke up before Christmas.”
“You weren’t involved in her life at all anymore?”
Dexter winced. “If you’re here to make me feel like shit, you just scored a direct hit.” The man looked genuinely upset.
“When was the last time you saw Cindy?” Hunt pulled out his notebook which Dexter eyed warily.
The guy rolled his shoulder. A shark’s tooth necklace hung around his neck. “The day she dumped me. I’m not sure of the date exactly.” He brought up an electronic calendar on his phone. “There we go. December twelfth. Shit.” He rubbed his eyes. “More than four months ago.” He swallowed hard. “We’d gone up to her cottage.”
“Why did you break up?”
“Is that really FBI business?”
“I’m just trying to figure out what happened to Ms. Resnick.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Hunt asked curiously.
“The FBI doesn’t usually investigate drug overdoses, does it?” Dexter flexed his fists.
Hunt raised his brow in question.
“Pippa told me,” Dexter admitted. “She wanted to know if I’d ever seen Cindy using drugs when we were together.”
So, she was pursuing this. Interfering with his investigation and digging her nose in where it didn’t belong. Damn. “You good friends with Ms. West?”
Dexter shrugged. “I wouldn’t say good friends.”
Dexter had looked pretty damn friendly downstairs.
“She was Cindy’s confidante, not mine. They spoke all the time. I was jealous at first. I think Cindy loved Pippa more than she ever loved me. I guess that’s obvious now. I’m surprised she came to see me, but I’m grateful. I guess she recognizes I was an important part of Cindy’s life for a long time.”
“Why’d you two break up?” Hunt pushed.
Dexter looked out the window and a pink stain hit his ghostly pale cheeks. “She found out I slept with another woman.”
“You cheated on her?”
Dexter’s mouth tightened at his blunt terminology. “Yes.”
“Who with?”
Dexter held his gaze. “I’d rather not say. It was a hookup. We got drunk and slept together. I loved Cindy.” His fists clenched again.
Hunt let his skepticism show. A man in love didn’t cheat. “How’d Cindy find out?”
“I told her. Stupidly.” Dexter huffed out a strained laugh. “The guilt was eating me up inside. I wanted to propose, but felt I needed to come clean first. I should have kept my big mouth shut. She might be alive today.” He gave a bitter smile. “She wasn’t very understanding about my mistake.”
“Smart women don’t like to be messed around.”
“And she was smart.” Dexter looked at him with earnest brown eyes. “She was the smartest person I ever met.”
Hunt kept hearing that but he found it hard to believe. Maybe she was book smart. “Where’d you two meet?”
“Grad school. We had the same supervisor.”
That was news.
“I was in my final year when she started so we didn’t overlap by much. I fell in love after just one conversation. Prions. She was perfect for me.”
“Until you nailed another woman in a drunken haze.”
Dexter picked up a pen and gripped it tightly. The muscle in his jaw flexed with suppressed anger. “I made a mistake that I’ll regret for the rest of my life. Why do you care so much, anyway?”
Possibly because Dexter had had his lousy hands all over Pip West when Hunt had walked in the door. Not that it really mattered. Not that it should matter.
“You knew what she was working on?”
“Yes and no. We spoke in general terms but she’d never go into great detail with me.”
“That must have burned. Finding a soulmate who was your intellectual equal but who wouldn’t share her work?”
Dexter just looked at him. “She wasn’t allowed to talk about anything because of the university administration.” He held his hands up and indicated the building around him. “I run a private biotech firm. I can understand why she wouldn’t cross that line.”
“You’d use her findings?”
“To cure deadly diseases?” Dexter pressed his lips together. “Damn straight.”
It might be more noble if the guy didn’t drive that fancy Audi sitting in the parking lot.
“What do you actually make here?” Hunt had read the website. He knew.
“Vaccines.”
Hunt cocked his head. “Same as Cindy?”
“It shouldn’t be a big surprise that we were both interested in creating vaccines considering where we met.” Condescension tinged his voice. “The grad students at Blake are a social group. We spent a lot of time together.”
“Did you also study anthrax?”
Dexter held Hunt’s gaze at that question. “Yes. It’s Professor Everson’s main focus.”
“You work on that here, too?” asked Hunt.
“Yeah, we’ve been developing new vaccines. Also, for HIV, influenza and prions.” Dexter sounded defensive. “Do you know what a prion is?”
“As a matter of fact,” Hunt’s feral smile probably wasn’t in the FBI handbook, “I do. I should have mentioned. I’m also the new WMD Coordinator at the Atlanta Field Office. Took over from Rose Geddy while she’s on mat leave. I’d appreciate a tour of the facilities if you can arrange it.”
“Of course.” Dexter straightened his shoulders, suddenly more deferential. “I’ll ask Simon to give you a call and arrange a tour.”
“Simon?”
“Simon Corker. One of my partners who handles the PR and admin side of things. I spend most of my time in the lab. He’s not in today.”
“How many partners do you have?”
“Simon and another scientist, Angela Naysmith. She was also at Blake.”
“You guys cover a lot of different specialties.”
“We have other virologists working for us.” Dexter looked defensive. “We’re good at what we do.”
Hunt thought about the fancy office building. Hell of an investment to make in someone who’d only recently finished their doctorate. Hunt would get Libby Hernandez to check into the company financials in-between the five billion other things she had on her plate.
“Did Cindy ever do drugs when you were together?”
Dexter reared back like Hunt had slapped him. “No.”
“Never? You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“What about you?”
Dexter laughed. “I’m a partner in a multi-million-dollar startup. Do you think I’d admit taking drugs to an FBI agent?”
“You’d lie?” Hunt pushed.
Dexter glared. “No.”
“I’m not interested in harming your reputation. I’m interested in how Cindy died.” And in shaking up this guy a little so the people at SIOC could monitor his response.
“I still don’t understand why the FBI is looking into her death if it were an accidental drug overdose.”
“Are you refusing to answer the question?”
Dexter looked flustered. “I never said that. I don’t do drugs.”
Hunt noted the careful use of present tense but let it go. “And you’re sure about Cindy?”
The long pause was telling. “I know there were other students in the lab who did drugs and they were friends of Cindy’s. I never saw Cindy touch anything, but I have no idea what she did after we broke up. Now I really am busy and have a lot to take care of even though I’d rather just take the day off.” Dexter raised his eyes to the doorway where the assistant appeared like magic.
Hunt nodded and shook the man’s hand which was firm but damp—Hoover would not have approved. Hunt followed the assistant along the corridor and into the elevator. She sported a tight bun that had a pencil sticking out of it.
Cold Blooded Page 9
