by Kathy Reichs
“Nothing menacing,” I said.
“Just creepy as hell.”
“Not when you’re young and poor. A stay here costs, what? Ninety bucks a night?”
“Forty-two, Wi-Fi and breakfast included, fleas and bedbugs thrown in gratis. I’m sure customers are busting walls to get in.”
Vislosky disengaged her seat belt. I did the same. We got out and walked a flagstone path to the side steps and climbed to the entrance. A tiny sign said Garden Hotel. A tinier one asked visitors to ring the bell. With a smiley face. Vislosky did. Without one.
“You wantin’ to check in?” Tinny, like the voice in my dream.
“Detective Vislosky, Charleston PD. I have some questions about one of your boarders.”
“I ain’t sure what I do here.”
“What you do is open the door.”
Locks rattled, and the heavy panel swung inward.
The woman, making a point of blocking the doorway, looked like a house in polyester sweats. Her face was cocoa, her hair black and slicked sideways with a product that made it look waxy. Her plump lips were fire-alarm-red. Hoops the size of pizzas dangled from her ears.
Vislosky badged her. Sweats looked at the shield, back up at us.
“Your name?” Vislosky asked.
“Sondra Tong.” Tong’s lashes were sharply curled and stiff with mascara.
“You own this place?”
“Uh-uh. I jus’ run it.”
“For how long?”
“All day.”
“How long have you managed the hotel?”
Tong shifted her weight. It was a lot to shift. “ ’Bout four years. I ain’t big on calendars.”
Vislosky slapped her forearm. Scratched. “We can do this here, Sondra, let the mosquitoes keep snacking. Or maybe we could talk inside?”
Tong looked confused. When Vislosky moved forward, she stepped back.
We entered a small foyer, most of which Tong filled. A counter paralleled its right wall. Looked like IKEA, modern and jarringly out of place.
Ahead, a narrow staircase curved to a second floor. Wooden banister. Threadbare runner. Beside the staircase, a hallway stretched to the back of the building. Off one side, a dining room, off the other, a parlor, both entered through pocket doors that appeared to be stuck in place. As in the foyer, tarnished brass chandeliers turned every interior an anemic yellow.
Tong led us to the parlor, and we all sat. Vislosky got right to it.
“Two young women stayed here in February of 2018. Lena Chalamet and Harmony Boatwright.”
“You the one called?”
“Yes.”
“Askin’ ’bout the two white girls? One had bodacious hair?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah.” Nodding slowly. “They was here.”
“For how long?”
“I ain’t good with calendars.”
As Vislosky pumped Tong, I took in what looked like a silent-movie set. Floral paper covered the walls, faded now but once gaudy bright. Lots of carved mahogany pieces. Acres of dark plum fabric. Lamps with tasseled shades, turned on but having little impact. A ratty Persian underfoot, which had long since given up trying to look real.
“Do you have a guest book?” Vislosky was speaking slowly, a teacher to a dull pupil.
“Yeah. We got that.”
“Could you get it, please?”
“I don’t know if I’m allowed.”
“You’re allowed.”
Crimped brows, then Tong pushed to her feet and lumbered off.
Vislosky and I waited.
Time passed. I forced myself not to think about Vislosky’s flea and bedbug remark. Didn’t fully succeed.
Antsy, I got up and began checking drawers and compartments in sideboards and end tables. Vislosky didn’t join in but didn’t order me to stop.
Footsteps clumped down the stairs, then a kid with a mullet and pimples passed by in the hall. After slowing to gawk through the open parlor door, he continued on his way, looking like an ad for a posture-control brace.
My illegal search turned up no tapes. I returned to the sofa.
Ten minutes after leaving, Tong was back, a red and gray ledger pressed to her bounteous bosom.
“I called my boss. He says you can’t have this.”
“If we need to confiscate your register, I’ll return with a warrant. For now, I just want to verify that the girls were here.”
The red lips pooched out in indecision. Apparently, the boss hadn’t ruled on that possibility.
“Or I bring you downtown and we do this at headquarters.” Mildly threatening.
Tong handed the ledger to the big bad cop.
Vislosky flipped pages. Not many. Seemed business wasn’t brisk at ye olde Garden.
A few more flips, then Vislosky looked to me and nodded.
“Chalamet and Boatwright were here for eight days in February of 2018. Show me their room.”
“I’m not ’sposed—”
Vislosky turned the ledger toward Tong and finger-jabbed a notation.
“D Two.” Sharp. “Show me.”
“No call to be rude.”
“I haven’t even begun.”
Tong led us to a gloomy second-floor dorm with two sets of bunks and two mismatched twin beds. Double-tiered metal lockers lined the rear wall, only one with a padlock.
“Where did they sleep?”
“What boarders choose ain’t my bidness.”
Arms crossed, feet spread, Tong watched us search. Not a good stance given the tight polyester.
The lockers were empty. Nothing was wedged behind or hidden under either of the bunks. Ditto for the twins.
Vislosky and I stood a moment, eyeing the single beds. The one farthest from the door had a high wooden headboard.
We had the same thought. Vislosky voiced it.
“Let’s pull this sucker out.”
Easier said than done.
But well worth the effort.
33
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 18–FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 19
Behind the headboard was a makeshift hole in the plaster. Tucked in the hole was a plastic-wrapped package.
I dug surgical gloves from my purse and handed them to Vislosky. As I shot video with my phone, she removed and unwrapped the package.
“What’s Jean Coutu?” she asked, reading the logo and pronouncing the name Gene Cow-too.
“A pharmacy chain in Quebec.”
Inside the bag was a single videocassette tape.
“Jesus, take the wheel!” I’d never seen Vislosky so animated. “This baby goes with me.” Side glance to Tong.
Tong started to object. Rethought the impulse and closed her mouth. Stood mute as the rude cop and I hurried down the stairs and out into the night.
Vislosky was silent on the trip downtown. Suited me. I was exhausted from my long day of air and highway travel.
We were turning onto Lockwood when her mobile buzzed. She answered. Listened. Responded curtly, saying she’d be there.
“Goddammit.”
“What?” In case the expletive was for my benefit.
“Herrin’s parking portable morgues outside the hospital. My LT says they need extra security.”
“Because?”
“The lookie-loos are getting rowdy.”
“Why?”
“They know what’s in the reefers.”
“Capno cases?”
Vislosky nodded, her faced patterned with neon from nearby store window signs.
“The death count is that high?”
“Through the roof.”
“COVID-19 is still a fresh memory, and people are frightened.”
“Whatever. It means my ass won’t be going home anytime soon.”
Approaching headquarters, she spoke again. “I’m guessing the tape was made with some sort of video camera.”
“Florence Sorg had a camcorder.”
“Pretty common item twenty years ago.”
“Sony sold
kajillions.”
“Sounds like a lot.”
“Every proud dad had to capture his adorable progeny.”
“Why?”
“To bore his friends.”
“Mine didn’t.”
“Were you adorable?”
“Did Sony make many models?”
“Kajillions.”
“Hopefully, the e-geeks can lay hands on the right one.”
* * *
Anne had left her own scribbled note.
Off to see Josh. He landed a part in a soap, and they’re shooting in Savannah. Back Monday.
Ciao!
I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or disappointed.
After feeding Birdie, I grilled a Havarti and Swiss sandwich and warmed a can of tomato soup. Not gourmet, but comfort food appealed.
For diversion, I found the remote and clicked to WCSC, the “Lowcountry’s News Leader.” Half-watched while I ate.
A gunman had robbed a Dollar General and shot the clerk. An overturned eighteen-wheeler was causing a traffic mess on I-526. Deputies were looking for a van whose driver was allegedly trying to lure kids. The spike in capno cases was placing a strain on medical resources in Charleston and elsewhere in South Carolina. Columbia, Florence, Georgetown, Greenville, Aiken, Spartanburg.
The station went to a commercial break. A twentysomething with a body-fat index below twelve percent hawked a diet plan guaranteed to change my life. Subway tried to entice me with a deal on the classic foot-long. A gecko urged me to switch insurance carriers.
Then an ad that caused me to go ruler-straight in my chair.
An actor sat at a microscope wearing a lab coat and a look of forty-karat concern. Sullie Huger’s company logo hovered above and behind him, a partially uncoiled double helix topped by GeneFree in bold green letters.
The screen filled with a tight shot on the would-be scientist’s face. Looking right into the camera, he asked a series of rhetorical questions.
“Do you worry about the current pandemic in our state? Do you fear that you or a family member may be susceptible to this menace? That your beloved pet may be threatened? Listen to what the experts are saying.”
A white-coated woman appeared, a stethoscope looping her neck. She said a few words about capnocytophaga and explained that immunity to the infection was a matter of genetics. Disturbing images of capno sufferers and caged dogs scrolled beside her. Then the original actor reclaimed the spotlight.
“Take no chances. Protect yourself and your loved ones and reduce unnecessary stress. It’s quick and easy to order our kit online. Send us a swab, and we’ll tell you what’s in your genes.”
The logo expanded to full screen, and a male voiceover gave the GeneFree web address and a phone number. Both appeared in large print. Then, “Don’t delay! Act today! Blah blah blah!” The usual infomercial hard sell.
As I copied the contact information, a gaggle of cells in my lower centers did their annoying elbow nudge.
What?
The anchor returned with a report on the upcoming Holiday Festival of Lights at James Island County Park. I’d taken Katy every Christmas season when she was little. She’d loved the meandering drive through the electric fantasyland displays.
I finished my soup, carried my dishes to the sink, then climbed to my room. Birdie joined me in bed.
So did the vigilant gaggle in my hindbrain. Shifting tactics, the cells launched their rehash routine.
At last, I knew the names of the container vics on both sides of the border. And I understood how, in this age of the FBI, RCMP, IAFIS, CODIS, WWW, and DNA, all four had vanished without leaving a ripple.
Each had fallen through a different crack in the system. Melanie and Ella Chalmers/Chalamet had been hiding out as illegals in Canada, using aliases. Harmony Boatwright had lacked any meaningful familial support structure. Ditto Lena Chalamet, who’d bounced from foster home to foster home and eventually ended up on the streets.
No one had made an inquiry or raised an alarm. No one had entered a police station to fill out a form.
All had been murdered, and their killer had gone undetected.
Killers?
Was my gut right? Was that killer Arlo Murray?
If so, what had motivated him?
Melanie Chalmers and Arlo Murray had both worked for the Human Genome Project. Same place, same time, but he’d lied about knowing her. Why?
Sullie Huger had also worked for the HGP. Was that fact relevant? Where had he been employed? Doing what? His expertise was in chemistry and computer systems. Might Huger have useful information concerning Lena or Murray?
Lena had gone to Charleston apparently pursuing a lead concerning her mother. Harmony had met her there.
Had Murray traveled south to strike again a decade and a half after killing Melanie and Ella in Montreal?
* * *
Unified Theory jarred me awake.
The French doors showed a limbo mix of grays and pinks, a sky not finished with dawn but not quite ready for morning.
I fumbled for my phone.
Seeing Ryan’s name lifted my spirits. Hearing his voice did not.
“There was an explosion at InovoVax last night.” Brisk and clipped. “Murray may have been inside the building.”
“Seriously?”
“A security guard thinks he saw him go in around ten, never saw him come out. The place blew around midnight.”
I was too stunned to answer.
“The fire was massive. When the rubble cools, firefighters will go in to search for bodies.”
“Sonofabitch.”
“Well put.”
“What caused the explosion?”
“The arson boys suspect a bomb.”
“Sonofa—”
“Yeah.”
“Keep me looped in?”
“Like you kept me looped in on your arrival last night?” Note of reproach.
“Sorry.”
“Roger that.”
* * *
I spent the next few hours engaged in mundane tasks. Groceries at the Harris Teeter. Flounder at Simmons Seafood. Scheduling the damn MRI. Then I pounded out three miles on the beach. Took a very long shower.
My mobile sang again at eleven. I’d changed to War. “All Day Music.”
Caller ID suggested a “maybe” that surprised me. The name wasn’t in my contacts. How did the bloody phone know?
“Good morning, Dr. Bangoboshe.”
“Good morning, Dr. Brennan. Is this a good time?”
“Of course.”
“I took another look at that second page of notes. The one with the coded entries.”
“Yes?”
“I think each line incorporates a date and a batch number.”
I didn’t respond.
“Every batch of vaccine is numbered.”
“Of course.”
I waited.
“That’s all. The rest meant nothing to me.”
“This is very helpful.”
“I doubt it’s anything worrying. Batch numbers make sense, given your subject’s interest in vaccine production.”
“Thank you so much for taking the time.”
“My pleasure.”
I sat a while contemplating the significance of Bangoboshe’s insight.
* * *
Ryan called again at one.
“Les pompiers retrieved a body.” When exhausted, or agitated, Ryan often jumbles French and English. I knew he meant firefighters.
“Badly burned?”
“A crisper.”
I waited.
“It’s Murray.”
“Beyond a doubt?”
“LaManche rousted a forensic dentist. She confirmed ID.”
“Any theory on the cause of the explosion?”
“The arson boys are finding traces of explosives. I forget which ones.”
“They’re thinking IED?”
“They’re not sharing their thinking with me.”
“I
s Murray being viewed as a victim or as a suspect?”
“Same answer.”
“Talk to Claudel?”
“My next call.”
Again, I sat pondering the significance of Ryan’s news. Hadn’t worked with Bangoboshe. Didn’t work now.
Frustrated, I glanced through the living room toward the floor-to-ceiling glass wall. Outside, a cloudless blue dome wrapped the island and the sea beyond, and a warm autumn sun sparked pinpoints of radiance off the zen-calm waves.
The window was similar to that in the Montreal condo, the views like scenes from different planets.
I got iced tea from the fridge and went out onto the deck. As on the plane, I closed my eyes and let my thoughts roam free, the afternoon rays warm my face.
They roamed among newly acquired data bytes.
The explosion at InovoVax. Ryan’s crisper, Arlo Murray. CRISPR. The tape left at the hostel by Harmony and Lena. Capnocytophaga. HGP. The television ad for GeneFree.
My eyes flew open.
Bytes were colliding in my brain.
34
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 19
Sullie Huger had worked for the Human Genome Project. So had Arlo Murray. And Melanie Chalmers.
More relevant than I thought?
I dug out my notes. Huger went to work for the HGP immediately after getting his first doctorate at UNC in ’90, left in ’95 to take a position with GlaxoSmithKline.
So Huger, Murray, and Chalmers were all with the HGP at the same time. Murray and Chalmers were at MIT. Was Huger there also?
I hit my laptop. Found no answer.
Almost immediately, another data byte clicked in, triggering an avalanche of new questions.
Florence Sorg said a “hotshot colleague” got Melanie her job at InovoVax. Was Huger that hotshot? Had he also arranged a position for Murray?
More bytes.
The genetic genealogist determined that Sullie Huger and Harmony Boatwright were distant cousins.
Had Harmony and Lena come to Charleston to see Huger?
I hopped back online and found an address. God bless the internet.
Quick call to Vislosky. Voice mail. I left a brief message.
It was time for some follow-up.
* * *
