by Neal, Toby
“Here.” Cindy Moku, not to be outdone, turned to a nearby monitor and woke it up. “Check this out.”
She activated a video icon, and Marcella watched a time-lapse video of a small patch of algae seemingly exploding in size to fill the pond area. “This is time lapse of two days.” Cindy pointed to the counter in the corner of the video. “We just developed this video before we harvested a batch of cell stock.”
“Where is that?” Marcella asked.
“We keep the data, the lab books, and the cell stock formula locked up, and only Ron Truman, our lead researcher, has the key besides Dr. Pettigrew.”
“Where’s Mr. Truman?”
“Dr. Truman. Don’t know. He was supposed to be in,” Abed said. They all glanced at one another.
“Let’s take a look at the back room,” Marcella said.
Kim led the way to a door in the corner of the lab, and his abrupt stop caused them to pile up.
The door had been jimmied. Splintered wood and pry marks gave testament to an illegal entrance. Inside, papers were scattered everywhere in the small windowless space, boxes of materials upended.
“Oh my God,” Moku breathed. “We had the results on a laptop on the desk and our lab books piled next to it with the cell stock in a sealed canister. It’s all gone!”
Rogers took a camera out of his bag and photographed the scene as Marcella oversaw Kim making calls to all the numbers they had for Ron Truman, and he eventually answered his cell phone.
“Come down to the lab,” Kim barked. “Dr. Pettigrew’s dead and the formula and cell stock are gone.” He closed his phone on the head researcher’s hysterical squawks. “Do you think Dr. Truman did it?”
“We’ll proceed with our investigation and pursue every lead,” Marcella said evenly. She herded the interns out of the back room and turned to Rogers. “Impressions?”
“Moku told me nothing else seems to be missing. This mess could be a red herring, trying to make it look like some outsider broke in,” Rogers said. “Let’s keep them here, get initial statements before they have time to figure out their stories.”
“I’ll get some background checks in on these lab rats.” Marcella stepped outside into the hallway and called the central Bureau office for a full workup on each of the interns, starting with Dr. Ron Truman. She was still on the phone when a man approached her at a run, white coat flapping.
The ID badge bouncing just above his crotch declared him the missing Dr. Truman. He pulled up in front of her, fisting bulky arms on his hips. Bold green eyes lit a face better suited to magazine covers than a laboratory as he flexed square jaws in a good imitation of outrage. He was definitely hot, and she felt a tingle.
“What the hell’s going on in my lab?”
“Dr. Pettigrew’s been murdered and your research is missing.”
“Holy shit,” Truman replied, and punched a code into the pad by the steel door, pushing it open with Marcella close behind. “What happened?” he bellowed to the interns clustered around Rogers.
“Someone stole the cell stock, our lab books, and the formula laptop!” Moku said.
“And Dr. Pettigrew’s dead!” Abed wailed.
To Marcella’s surprise, Truman opened his arms as he walked toward them, and each of the PhD candidates dropped what they were doing and crowded in for a group hug, Abed and Moku giving in to renewed tears and Fernandez croaking like a jungle’s worth of tree frogs.
“It’s probably one of them, given the restricted access to the main door,” Marcella whispered to Rogers, unimpressed by the emotional display. “Let’s isolate them, take fingerprints and DNA, do alibi statements, and seal the lab.”
“Copy that.” Rogers picked up the portable crime case he’d brought in and moved in on Peter Kim while Marcella pulled Ron Truman aside.
“Come with me, please.” She led him into the back room, took up a power position behind a counter. The handsome Dr. Truman propped one ass cheek on a stool and folded his arms.
“I heard you tell the other agent you were going to seal the lab. That’s out of the question. There are a plethora of time-sensitive projects in the works.”
“This lab is part of a crime scene. Who knows; Dr. Pettigrew may have been killed here. In any case, this lab is now officially closed.”
“Can we at least put some of our work on thumb drives?”
“Out of the question. Until cleared, these computers are a key element in the investigation.”
Truman pushed away from the tall steel stool, paced. His eyes fell on the pry marks around the open door, and he spun to pace the other direction, pushing a hand though blond Ken-doll locks. “This is bad,” he muttered.
“I need you to give a brief statement, which I will record. We’ll follow up with longer interviews later.” Marcella set her phone on the counter, turning the video feature on, and Truman sat, frowning into the blinking red light. “Where were you yesterday evening?”
“With someone.”
“Name and address?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Murder is complicated. This is your alibi; I suggest you provide the information.” Marcella softened her voice and gave a dimpled smile.
“Well. It’s like this. I’m married. But…I met someone. We were together.”
Marcella felt the tingle he’d aroused drown in a wash of contempt. “Name. Address.”
“I told my wife I was working late at the lab. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t bother her about this.”
“I can’t promise that she won’t find something out, but I don’t see at this time that your alibi need concern her.”
“Well, then, I’m not going to say—and anyway, it’s nothing to do with Dr. Pettigrew.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
“I’m sorry. Right now I’m not going to tell you.”
Brown eyes clashed with green. Marcella shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll find out where you were. It’s just going to take longer and be more embarrassing—your choice. DNA sample now, to rule you out, and fingerprints.” He submitted to the fingerprinting and DNA swab with ill grace. “Send in Moku. We’ll talk more.”
He straightened up, jaw squared, and strode out.
Marcella’s phone rang, a blare of “We Are the Champions,” the ringtone she used for the Honolulu Police Department. She sat on the metal stool and picked up.
“Special Agent Scott here.”
“This is Detective Kamuela. We wanted to check in with you before we went and did death notification—next of kin is one Natalie Pettigrew, niece. Dr. Pettigrew wasn’t married and had no other relatives in the area.” Kamuela had a voice like dark chocolate—husky, with the underlying rhythmic cadence of the islands.
“We’ll do the notification,” Marcella said, thinking fast. “Dr. Pettigrew’s research project is gone—stolen—and we’ve got some interesting possible suspects in the lab crew. Looks like it could be an inside job dressed up to look like a burglary.”
“Want me to send in a sweeper crew?”
“We’ve got our own lab, but thanks.”
“So much for interagency cooperation.” The chocolate had some bite to it.
“This is us cooperating. Trust me. You want our people working the lab stuff. We’re much less backed up.”
“So why do you want to do the death notification?” He still sounded pissy.
“Next of kin is always an important interview. We need to get eyes on this girl.” Marcella was already pulling Natalie Pettigrew up on her phone’s connection to the local law enforcement database. “Looks like Miss Pettigrew has some priors—marijuana possession and two assaults that look like bar fights.”
“Yeah. Girl’s got some psychiatric history, too,” Kamuela said. “Rumor has it she’s bipolar, no meds.”
“Who’s your source on that?”
“I’ve got a confidential informant—no need for more detail at this time.”
Marcella winced. He was paying her b
ack for taking over so much of the investigation. Well, screw him and his tender male ego, she thought irritably. “We’re sealing the place and doing initial statements with the microscope jockeys in here. We’ll do follow-up interviews with them back at HQ. You can be present for those.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“We need your assistance. I didn’t mean to sound…” She tapped her toe against the metal rung of the stool, annoyed with the standoff. “Dammit. Don’t be like that. We need to work together.”
A long pause. He seemed to relent, because he said, “Well, we didn’t turn anything up in the canvassing of the beach.”
“Not surprised. I’m guessing she went into the Ala Wai Canal and washed up on Waikiki later. I’ll check in with you guys after the death notification. Thanks for calling.” Marcella punched off, hoping her next contact would go better. Keeping things moving with local PD always had its challenges.
Truman had closed the door behind him, and Cindy Moku looked through the little glass pane in the door. Marcella got up to let her in, gesturing to the steel stool.
She activated the phone’s record feature. “Please state your name, address, and where you were last night.”
Moku’s shiny brown complexion had gone gray around the lips and nostrils. Her eyes were puffy from crying.
“Dr. Cindy Moku. Or almost. I’m finishing my doctorate on this project. I live in Honolulu.” She gave an address. “I was home. Studying.”
“Anyone able to verify your whereabouts?”
“You don’t think one of us did it? We all loved Dr. Pettigrew. Or at least, we respected her. We needed her. She was our PI.”
This was the first glimmer of a side to Pettigrew that was less than ideal. “You didn’t love her? And what’s a PI?”
“I…I respected her. She wasn’t the warm, fuzzy type. And she was our PI, which is a primary investigator, the head of a project. Without her and the research…I don’t know. The last two years of our work could be gone. The last two years of our lives. My doctorate.” Moku’s voice wobbled.
Marcella pushed a roll of paper towels over, and Moku blew her nose with a honk that vibrated the camera phone.
“Anyway, there’s no one. Oh wait. I had an online chat window open. I was talking online to Abed and Fernandez.” A rosy blush marbled up Moku’s neck.
“Good. We’ll check that. Something going on between you?” Marcella kept her voice neutral, her eyes on the young scientist’s betraying skin.
“No, it’s nothing. We’re all friends. We were comparing notes, that’s all.” The blush darkened to mulberry.
She was lying.
Rogers stuck his head in. “Almost done? I got the rest.”
“Yes. Thanks, Cindy. We’ll talk more.” She punched off the phone and collected a swab and Moku’s prints. The young woman left, wiping the ink off her fingers with a bunched-up wad of paper towel.
“It’s late, but let’s go to lunch. I’m hungry for some of your mama’s cooking.” Rogers sealed the door with crime tape and contacted the university to change the touch pad at the door to a new code. Marcella called the Bureau to send out the evidence-collection team.
Marcella was a little light-headed with hunger by the time they hiked across the lush grass toward the building that housed the Culinary Arts Cafeteria, where students studying to be chefs cooked for the rest of the campus at reasonable rates. She trailed Rogers, who pushed open the door to a pleasant café-style setting, where hairnetted students served choices from behind a gleaming glass counter. Little tables dotted the room.
“Marcella! Mattie! You sit. I serve you!” Anna, swathed in a white apron with a chef’s hat dwarfing her head, waved at the tables. “Sit. I bring the food!”
Marcella picked a table in the corner and sat facing out.
“Everything your mother says seems to have an exclamation point to it,” Rogers observed as Anna loaded two plates, chattering in Italian to another student.
“You should see my parents together,” Marcella said. “Can’t get a word in edgewise.”
“That why you never had me and the family over? You live with them, right?” Rogers poked her with a grin.
“Hells, no. I’ve got my own place,” Marcella growled as Anna set loaded plates, redolent with garlic and spices, in front of them.
“Eat. Eat!” she exclaimed. “Or as my husband would say, Mange! Mange!”
“Where’s yours, Ma?” Marcella asked, forking up the delicious chicken dish. “Sit down with us.”
“I ate already.” Anna Scatalina perched on a chair. “So, Mattie. You have a family, don’t you?”
“I do, Mrs. Scatalina.” He cut his eyes at Marcella with a slight emphasis on the full form of her last name. “I have a wife, Bettina, and two little girls.”
“So you can have a family and be in the Federal Bureau of Investigation.” Anna pronounced it “infestigation.” “I asking Marcella who she dating, when I get some grandchildren, she always saying she have no time. Always working.”
Marcella rolled her eyes.
“It’s not easy, Mrs. Scatalina. I found the right woman, and she works part time to be home with the children. I think it would be very hard to have two working parents with the hours I put in. Besides, Marcella is picky. She’s waiting for just the right guy.” Rogers addressed his chicken, keeping a straight face.
“You got that right.” Marcella bolted down the glass of water Anna had brought with the meal and stood up, gripping her chair back. “I’m waiting for the right guy, Ma. We’re not even going to think about babies until that’s settled. If ever.”
“Well, of course not, darling. No good, that single-mother thing. Though if it happened, we would help you with the baby.” She patted Marcella’s white-knuckled hand. “We just want you to have the happy of a family.”
“I have the happy of family—you and Dad. Matt, you ready?” Marcella picked up her tray. “Thanks for the great lunch, Mama. We really need to get going.”
“Yes, it was delicious, Mrs. Scatalina. Thanks so much for the invite. Where do we pay?”
“Your money no good here,” Anna said, standing and straightening her chef’s cap as she addressed Marcella. “I see you Sunday?”
“I told you I would come.” Marcella hugged her petite mother hard. “I’m sorry, Mama. Just please leave this alone, will you? I love what I do. It’s enough for me right now.”
“I know. I no understand, but I know. Okay then. Don’t get shot.” She blew Marcella a kiss.
Marcella tightened the FBI Twist and made sure her buttons were all the way up as they parked in front of a run-down apartment building a few blocks off the hotel district—Dr. Pettigrew’s next of kin’s address. Whiffs of the Ala Wai Canal, redolent of ripe algae and unpleasantness, tickled Marcella’s nostrils as she slammed the door of the Acura and faced the building. Tired bougainvillea struggled to brighten a moth-eaten scrap of lawn in front of the entrance. Inside a linoleum-floored lobby lined with aluminum mailboxes, the elevators were out of service.
“Dammit,” Marcella said, looking down at her beloved impractical shoes. It was all her dad’s fault—he’d given her the Manolos the last time she’d had dinner at the parents’ condo. Maybe it was time he gave her something more orthopedic…
“Getting my cardio on. The apartment’s on the fifth floor.” Rogers pushed through the glass doors and headed up the metal-and-cement stairs on the outside of the building at a brisk military trot.
Marcella followed, and by the fifth floor she’d developed a blister and had to redo her hair yet again. Fanning herself with the folder on Dr. Pettigrew, she gave an irritated squint to Rogers’s grin as she rang the bell on the sun-bleached door.
A long moment passed. Marcella took in the view off the banister (nondescript) and the decor she could see through the blinds (early 1980s, well worn) before she leaned on the bell again.
The door flew open so abruptly that Marcella’s hand landed on her weapon. A tall,
whippet-thin young woman glared out of violet-blue eyes raccooned in mascara. Jet hair capped a shapely skull, and tattoos banded wiry, pale arms. Natalie Pettigrew was an attenuated Goth cartoon.
“Yeah?” The girl sported an attitude evident in her cocked hip and narrowed eyes.
“FBI. May we come in and speak to you a moment?” Marcella and Rogers flipped open their creds.
“No.” Automatic, decisive. The girl took the cred wallets and studied them, handed them back. “What’s going on?”
“Some bad news. It would be better shared in privacy.” Rogers tried a friendly smile.
“No thanks. I take my bad news standing up.”
“All right then. We’re here about your aunt—Dr. Trudy Pettigrew. She’s—dead.” Rogers’s voice had gone appropriately somber. Marcella waited for a reaction—surprise, grief, anger, denial—nothing.
Finally the girl said, “I bet you want to ask me questions about it. That I’d prefer to do inside.” She retreated, leaving the door open.
“We’re sorry for your loss.” Rogers followed her, Marcella bringing up the rear. “We hear she was a great scientist.”
“She was a prize bitch, is what she was.” Natalie walked into the kitchenette—roughly the size of a double bed—and poured herself a glass of unfiltered cranberry juice, sipping it. She didn’t offer them any.
Marcella still hadn’t spoken. She did a three-sixty in the narrow living room, taking in furnishings that hadn’t improved on closer inspection. “Mind if we sit?”
“Yes. But sit anyway.”
Marcella parked on the battered pistachio microfiber couch. Rogers was still trying to engage.
“So you and your aunt weren’t close?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You said she was a bitch.” Marcella locked eyes with the girl. “Cut the shit. Talk to us here, or we can take it back to the Bureau office.”
Natalie took a leisurely sip of cranberry juice, a stray sunbeam catching in the red liquid and dropping a reflection on the girl’s white skin like a drop of blood. She strode on black-jeaned pipestem legs to sit on the love seat across from them. She set the glass down and crossed bare feet on the coffee table.
