“Just what do you expect me to do with this info,” he said, “assuming it to be reliable? I can’t call in every law enforcement agency in the state to sit on a target as huge as the Mall of America, especially with no credible threat in hand.”
“What does a credible threat look like in your world?” This conversation was frustrating beyond belief. “Do you need a memo from the bad guys?”
Costa ignored my irritation.
“No. But some proof that our suspect is in the vicinity would be nice,” he said. “If Mrs. Cho had a car – which she doesn’t, apparently – we could track that down. But we don’t even have that much. She could be visiting relatives in Poughkeepsie for all we know.”
An image flashed in my mind. Something from yesterday. When I had first driven past the Cho house on my way home from the HazMat scene at Park Heating there had been a car in the driveway, hadn’t there?
“Hold on. I’ll be right back,” I said, abruptly ending the call.
I opened the picture folder on my cell and scanned back a few shots. There it was . . . a late model Caddy parked in the Chos’ driveway. I zoomed in, marveling at the resolution of the cameras on these new smart phones. I made a note and punched up Costa’s cell again.
“Yes?” It was more of a growl than a greeting.
“I’ve got a license plate number for Mrs. Cho,” I said.
“According to the DMV, she does not own a car,” Costa said.
“Then it’s probably a rental. Just take down this number and you can find out in two seconds.”
“All right,” he said, sounding haggard. “Hold on. Gotta grab a pen.”
I was pacing now. Where in the heck did he keep his pens anyhow?
“Ok.” He was finally back. “Shoot.”
I recited the license to him.
“It’s a Cadillac,” I said. “If you find the dang thing parked at MOA, can we at least get somebody over there?”
This was taking way too long.
“If this is, indeed, a rental vehicle,” Costa said, “and it appears to have been rented to Cho or his company, and the car is parked at the mall, I will send somebody over there to check it out. Happy?”
This was as far as I was going to get with Costa right now.
“Just get on that plate right now . . . please,” I said. “And call me.”
“Acknowledged,” he said. “Out.” Costa disconnected the call.
I was certain the car was tied to Mrs. Cho. My gut told me. And I didn’t need to wait for confirmation from Costa to take some action.
Back inside the house, I grabbed a backpack and stuffed it with the usual supplies one needs for dealing with biological warfare, at least those I had on hand, and jogged out to the Pilot.
Mall of America, here I come.
CHAPTER 49
Ames, Iowa.
Kent Evans was relieved he had decided to preserve the second sample of the FMD virus just in case his first attempt to infect a herd might fail. It hadn’t been difficult to maintain a viable specimen. The virus was so hardy. He had tucked the tainted facial tissue inside a plastic bag, added a few strips of raw beef and five cotton balls, and squirted warm milk on the whole works. Based on what he had read about the virus, he was pretty sure it would survive. At least he hoped so, because at this point there were no other options.
He retrieved the entire culture stew from its hiding place behind the winter boots in the window well of the utility room. The room had a western exposure that allowed the virus to benefit from lots of sunshine and warmth – two ingredients for optimal growth.
The mistake he had made with the Ottawa County farm, he decided, was that the beef operation had been too small scale. He had considered this a benefit at the time. After all, it wasn’t necessary for him to cause a true epizootic in order to convince producers of the threat of FMD. A small outbreak would do just fine. He had no desire to cause an economic catastrophe, only to boost his own vaccine sales. But somehow, publicity concerning the Holton farm outbreak had been suppressed. He wouldn’t allow that to happen this time around.
Packing the culture baggie, a large water pistol, and a thermos filled with warm distilled water inside his briefcase, he clicked the lid shut and started up the basement stairs toward the new “ground zero.”
“Where are you off to?” It was Jeannie’s voice. She was standing in the kitchen, not ten feet from him.
Damn! He couldn’t let her get in the way. Not when he was so close . . . again.
“Oh,” he said. “You startled me. I didn’t see you there.” He smiled at his wife.
“Where are you going?” she asked again. “The kids will be home soon.” Her voice sounded sad.
Kent had to think quickly.
“Good news,” he said. “I’ve got a client who’s interested in stocking up on antibiotics. They’ve got a laundry list of meds and I’m on my way to see whether I can add a few more.” He smiled, hoping he looked cheerful and not just suspicious.
Jeannie’s face brightened.
“That is good news,” she said. “I knew it was just a matter of time before something broke for you. Good luck and come home soon.”
“I will . . . just as soon as I can close this transaction,” he said. With a wave, he was out the door.
The import of “this transaction” weighed heavily on Kent as he entered his Subaru and started the engine. At first, the blast from the car’s ventilation came hot and sticky, adding to his discomfort. He could already feel the perspiration soaking through his cotton dress shirt . . . and could imagine the dark stains spreading from his underarms. He took a moment to shrug off the navy sport coat.
As he looked down the tree-lined street before him, a bicyclist faded in and out of focus. That was strange. He rubbed his eyes, hoping the finger massage and a couple blinks would clear the haze. Instead, the street scene became even less distinct, morphing before his eyes into the obscurity of a Monet painting with willows drizzling their branches into puddles on the pavement.
Then he felt it – a tightness that started in his gut and rose higher until it became a fist that clamped down on his chest. A shaky hand probed for his jugular, finding a pulse that pounded too rapidly, with a rhythm that skipped too many beats. His breaths came shallow now and his eyes blinked erratically.
He was panicking, he knew. He’d experienced similar symptoms before, though not as acutely – first, while waiting at the altar for his bride to join him, and again in the delivery room, when the alarms had sounded, signaling that their baby’s heart was no longer beating.
The wedding and birth had both turned out well, he reminded himself. A loving wife and a beautiful, healthy baby boy.
The air flowing from the car’s vents began to cool, the AC unit gradually gaining traction in the stifling heat. Kent fumbled for the button at his collar and groped for a necktie, only to realize he hadn’t worn one today.
He had to keep it together.
He closed his eyes and focused on the chilled stream as it poured over him. For long minutes, he imagined the cool air cleansing him, washing away agitation as it swept past. He focused on breathing steadily and deeply, in and out, in and out. His heartbeat was slowing now, returning to normal.
He was winning this battle.
When the attack finally subsided, veterinary pharmacist Kent Evans found his hands clenched on the Subaru’s steering wheel with muscle cramps setting in. He released the wheel, instinctively stretching and flexing hands and fingers until the cramps subsided.
Reaching to the coin tray beneath the car’s entertainment system, Kent withdrew a small brown medicine bottle. He squinted at the label, just to be sure. Valium. He cracked the bottle’s top and poured two yellow tablets into one hand. Kent had hoped to avoid taking the anxiety medication, knowing that it could cloud his judgment or impair his dexterity. But he couldn’t risk a repeat of the panic attack he’d just experienced. He popped the pills into his mouth and swallowed.
; He would feel the drug’s effects soon, he knew. But he couldn’t just sit in the street in front of his house while he waited for it to kick in. Slipping the transmission into drive, he pulled the Subaru away from the curb.
CHAPTER 50
Interstate Highway 35 heading south into Iowa.
As far as Bull could tell, nobody was paying attention to the alleged cow shooter from Ames. He’d taken it upon himself to find out more about one Kent Evans, livestock drug dealer. He knew young Mr. Evans was suspected of attempting to cause a Foot and Mouth Disease epidemic. He also knew that Beck and Beth possessed no direct evidence tying Evans to criminal activity. Getting that evidence would be step one.
Bull planned to follow Mr. Evans around Ames for a while using the nifty Tailgate software Beth had provided. He knew from experience that bad guys were often careless on their home turf, and he expected this young fellow to be no different.
Twenty miles past Mason City, Bull’s iPad beeped at him. He glanced across the front seat to where the device lay, blinking its message: Subject in Motion.
Good. The software was doing its job. The guy was probably headed for work, or maybe a sales meeting. He tapped the iPad’s screen to let Tailgate know the message had been received. Now the program displayed a map with a blinking arrow showing the location and direction of Kent Evans’ cell phone as it traversed the mean streets of Ames.
Bull was still more than an hour and a half from the Ames exit, so he paid little attention to Tailgate as it tracked Evans and his phone across the city and onto I-35, heading north. By the time Bull noticed that his suspect had skipped town and was now moving rapidly in his direction, the two icons showing the relative positions of Bull’s phone and Evans’ had nearly merged.
Bull swung the Jeep off at the next exit and waited for Evans’ icon to reach his. As the blinking arrow on the iPad neared, Bull caught sight of Evans’ green Subaru wagon about a quarter mile to the south. When Evans passed Bull, the red Jeep Cherokee was already rolling down the entrance ramp. After bringing the Cherokee up to highway speed, Bull fell into a tail position about a half mile behind the Subaru.
He punched up Beth’s number on his Bluetooth link. He needed to find out whether she knew where Evans was going.
CHAPTER 51
Southdale Mall. Suburban Minneapolis.
Sun-Hi Cho strolled across the upper deck of the Southdale ramp, shopping bags swinging from her arms, toward the place she had parked the rented Caddy earlier that day. The Cadillac chirped obediently as she approached and the trunk popped open, welcoming the morning’s purchases. Once the bags were onboard, Mrs. Cho lowered the trunk lid and waited for the car to snug it down with a whirr and a click.
Still carrying the Louis Vuitton tote, but free of her other parcels, Mrs. Cho headed back inside the mall. The time had arrived for her to put the general’s plan into action.
CHAPTER 52
Interstate Highway 35, heading north toward Minnesota.
Bull’s phone chirped and he answered.
“Yeah?”
“Bull, it’s Beth. I think I have something that might help you out.”
“Yes,” Bull said.
“I just finished updating the activity log on Evans’ computer. It’s pretty whacky stuff. He spent the whole day yesterday searching the same terms again and again . . . repeatedly . . . like, once every ten seconds. I think he’s coming unglued.”
“Okay,” Bull said.
“He was looking for news reports on ‘Foot and Mouth Disease’ and ‘Minnesota.’ I’m even more certain than ever that he’s our guy.”
“Right,” Bull said.
“There wasn’t anything useful in his computer activity until later in the evening,” Beth said. “He stopped repeating the FMD search and started looking for information on Minnesota stock yards. He finally homed in on General Livestock in Zumbrota and downloaded everything he could find about their auction facilities.”
“I see,” said Bull.
“Bull,” Beth said. “If he’s driving toward Minnesota right now, I’m almost certain he’s headed to Zumbrota. He’s planning another FMD attack for today.”
“Got it,” Bull said. “Anything else?”
“Can you stop him?” she asked.
“Do my best,” he said.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Beth asked. “Maybe call my husband?”
“Nope,” Bull said. “Just talked to ‘im. He’s caught up in a scramble, too.”
Beth’s end of the conversation went silent.
“Sorry,” Bull said. “Didn’t mean to worry you. He’ll be good. Always is.”
“Thank you, Bull,” she said, a note of apprehension in her voice despite Bull’s assurances. “Call me if you need me . . . . Please.”
“Will do,” he said. “Gotta go. Suspect just passed Albert Lea.”
“Goodbye,” Beth said to a dead connection. “And good luck.”
* * *
Beth didn’t know why, but this operation really worried her . . . more than usual. She didn’t think her husband had much experience with biologic agents. And though she trusted his instincts and training, it had been a long time since he had burnished them on a regular basis. She couldn’t help him with his mission today, but she still wished he would call.
* * *
Seconds later Bull was on the phone with the Ottawa County Sheriff’s Department.
“Dispatch,” a female voice said.
“Chief Deputy Gunderson . . . uh . . . please. Tell ’im it’s Bull.” Bull was not comfortable with law enforcement types and would never have called one under normal circumstances. Today’s circumstances were far beyond normal.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the dispatcher said. “Your Caller ID is blocked. Could I have your full name please?”
“Bull.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I can’t put your call through without a full name.”
She had insisted on a full name and Bull gave her one.
* * *
“Ho Chi Minh on line two for you Chief Deputy Gunderson.”
“What?” Gunner replied through the intercom.
“Chief Deputy,” the dispatcher repeated, “a Mr. Ho Chi Minh is holding for you on line two.”
“Who the hell is that, Barbara?” Gunner asked.
“He also said he goes by ‘Bull’?”
Gunner rolled his eyes.
“I got it. Thanks, Barbara.”
He punched a button on his deskset to answer the call.
“Hello, Bull,” he said, “or should I call you Ho Chi?”
“Need your help,” Bull said. “Right now.”
Gunner lifted the receiver to his ear.
“What’s up?”
“Beck talked to you about the guy who threatened some cows, right?” Bull asked.
“Yeah.”
“He’s on his way to Central Livestock in Zumbrota right now,” Bull said. “Should be there in sixty-seven minutes if his speed holds.”
“You’re following this guy?” Gunner asked.
“Yeah. Maybe sixty-six minutes.”
“Look, Bull,” Gunner said. “You know I try to help you guys out when I can, but I got a full slate. I can’t drop everything because some crazy nut wants to make a cow sick.”
“Yes . . . you can,” Bull said. “I’d take care of ’im myself, but I gotta help out a friend.”
“Okay, Bull,” Gunner said. “I know I’m not in the loop on all this cloak and dagger stuff you guys got goin’ on, but I can’t see how some cow maybe gettin’ sick makes the priority list.”
“You miss him,” Bull said. “You will.”
There was a soberness in Bull’s tone that got Gunner’s attention.
Gunner was about to say he’d do his best when Bull spoke again.
“Gotta go,” Bull said. “Don’t eff this one up, Chief.”
There was a soft click and the line went dead.
Gunner checked his watch. Sixty-five
minutes left. He’d better get going.
CHAPTER 53
Twin Cities area, Minnesota.
“You were right, goddammit!”
I was steering the Honda north on Highway 52 toward the Mall of America when Costa had called to yell at me.
“Doh,” I said. I don’t say “doh” often. Sometimes, though, it expresses just the perfect sentiment. “So you’re meeting me at MOA?”
“What?” Costa said. “No. We’ve located Mrs. Cho’s Caddy – a rental, as you suspected – and I have scads of troops closing in.”
“But . . .” I said, “you’re at the Mall of America, right? Tell me you’re at MOA.”
Costa’s pause confirmed that I wasn’t going to like his response.
“No,” he said. “You were right about it being a mall. But she’s at Southdale, not MOA. I’m there right now.”
Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn!
“No . . . she’s not,” I said firmly. “Her car might be at Southdale, but the attack is at MOA. Why would she move on Southdale when she’s been studying the schematics for MOA? It doesn’t fit.”
“Hell,” Costa said, yelling again, “I don’t know. Maybe she likes the food here and wants to grab a calzone on the way out. The point is, this is where her car is parked. I’m telling you, son, the action is at Southdale.”
Man, I hate it when a cop gives me that “son” crap.
“Look, Agent Costa,” I said, as calmly as I was able. “I’m on my way to the Mall of America – the one with millions of visitors and an international reputation. I hope you catch Mrs. Cho over at Southdale. But when you don’t, I hope you’ll get your asses over to MOA and help me out. That place is friggin’ huge!”
“We’ll take it from here,” Costa said, a note of finality in his voice.
I sincerely hoped I was wrong . . . that somehow, I’d misinterpreted the clear signs pointing to MOA as the target, and that by some miracle Costa would catch Mrs. Cho at Southdale. I am truly a believer in hope . . . and miracles, too. I just don’t make all my plans based on them.
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