DIRTY BLOND

by Mark Terry

  Watanabe got up again and this time walked out of his office, closing the door behind him.

  Derek looked at the lieutenant. “This strike you as a little odd?”

  “It strikes me as bullshit.”

  “Okay, so it’s not just me.”

  “It’s not. I don’t know what’s going on, but it smells weird.”

  “To me it smells like—“

  Consul General Watanabe reappeared and did not sit down. Instead he handed a business card to Derek. Glancing at it, Derek saw that is was an official card from the Consulate of Japan. It had the name Yoshiki Mori on it with two phone numbers. It also had an email address.

  The job title was: Deputy Director of Science, Technology and Health.

  “I’m afraid I have an appointment shortly. My assistant will provide you with her card. Please call if you have any more information.”

  With that, they were ushered out of the Consulate.

  In the elevator going down, Sandy Beach said, “That is the biggest—“

  Derek put a finger to his lips and shook his head. Once they were on the street, Beach said, “What was that all about? Do you think they have listening devices installed on the elevators?”

  “Frankly, I don’t know. All I know is that Watanabe knows significantly more about what’s going on than he was saying.”

  “You said it smelled like something.”

  “Yeah, I was going to say it smelled like ‘spy shit.’ All this cloak-and-dagger crap.”

  “Yeah,” Beach said. “I thought so, too. Now what?”

  “Next victim.”

  5

  Ronin

  The Ronin spent the next day studying the blueprints of the Makatashi Building that he hacked from the architectural offices of Sawyer, Nuto and Nakahara. It was a complicated building with multiple express elevators. Like some buildings of this size, certain elevators went to the first eighteen floors. Other elevators only went to the remaining seventeen floors. A single elevator went only to the penthouse level. However, the other elevators could get to the penthouse level, but required a keypad, key or palm scanner to access that level.

  Not insurmountable.

  There were stairs, of course.

  He was very interested in the security cameras. The security offices were in the first basement level along with maintenance and power plant.

  There were cameras everywhere.

  He worked out several plans.

  The Ronin bought a black suit and white shirt and black shoes. It took a little bit of shopping, but he came up with a peaked hat that would look like a chauffer’s hat. It was one of the scenarios. He hadn’t decided yet if it was the best one. But he was a pro and prepared for various contingencies.

  He noted with some amusement that the same store that sold him the chauffer’s hat also sold a “sexy women’s Green Hornet Kato costume.” It also sold Men’s Deluxe Green Hornet Costume, which had a certain style that he liked, but would only draw attention.

  He did not want to draw attention to himself.

  The limousine was a trickier issue. He decided to rent a black Lincoln Continental. He rented it for a week using a credit card that went to a shell corporation in the Cayman Islands. It was under the name Robert Takata.

  Before he made his attempt he would change the license plate.

  He wrote nothing down. It was all in his head, even though the blueprints and other information were on the laptop.

  Sitting in the hotel bar that night, he drank single-malt scotch, Glenmorangie, watching the Chicago Cubs get smacked around by the Tampa Rays. The bar was getting a little rowdy, but he didn’t mind that. Nobody was paying attention to him. He was just another Asian businessman killing time at night in the big city.

  Killing time.

  He smiled.

  6

  Sandy

  Back out on the street, Stillwater turned and glared up at the building. Chicago pedestrians responded the way they always do, by ignoring us and flowing around us like a sandbar in a river. I said, “Problem?”

  “Besides the obvious? What the hell was that all about?”

  “I thought you were being unreasonably pleasant.”

  “I could have kicked him in the head, but it probably would have been counterproductive.”

  “I think he was blowing smoke. I wanted to push him on it.”

  “I’d like to know more so I have some facts to shove down his throat. Besides, technically the Consulate is Japan territory. Nobody will back us up if we try to pressure this guy in his office.”

  We started walking back to headquarters. “Okay,” I said. “Which victim? The math professor or the laser guy?”

  Stillwater shrugged. He seemed distracted. “You comfortable driving in the city?”

  “Sure. My car’s a piece of crap. What’re you driving?”

  “Big Buick. It’s a rental.”

  “You get to drive.”

  “Sure.”

  “I think we might want to bring my partner in on this. It’s going to snowball as we get going.”

  “Orville?”

  “Yes. Do you know him?”

  “No. Saw his name in the reports and in the news. Is he any good?”

  “How do you expect me to answer that?”

  “Something reassuring?”

  “Yes, he’s—“

  “Sandy! Sandy! Sandy, Sandy! Sandy!” It was a very familiar voice. We turned. Sure enough, it was Guy LeClare, trotting toward us. But the second he spotted Stillwater, the color ran out of his face.

  “Uh, hey, Agent Stillwater, howya do—“

  I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anyone move as fast as Stillwater. I’ve studied Tae Kwon Do for years and still work out once a month, but I’ve seen masters who didn’t have the kind of “quick” that Stillwater demonstrated.

  One second he was next to me, the next he was on Guy, his fist gripping Guy’s throat.

  “You remember what I told you last time? What I would do if I ran into you again?”

  Guy let out a strangled gargling sound. He raised his prosthetic to grip Stillwater’s wrist.

  “LeClare, you touch me with that thing and I swear I’ll tighten my fist.”

  “Let him go,” I said, even though I was kind of enjoying this.

  “I don’t want to see you again,” Stillwater said, and let go.

  Guy, massaging his throat with his good hand, said, “Jeez, Stillwater! You some kind of psycho or something? I’m just here to talk to Sandy.”

  Scowling, Stillwater walked to the curb, leaning one arm on a parking meter. He didn’t take his gaze off Guy.

  “What do you want, Guy?”

  “It’s about my spacesuit—“

  “For crying out loud, Guy. Give it a rest.”

  “I loaned it to you and you ruined it.”

  Guy had a spacesuit of sorts that he uses for God knows what fetish and he loaned it to me when I needed to enter a house the Chemist had booby-trapped. The suit was ruined and Guy wanted me or the city to reimburse him for it.

  “Go find some other kink, Guy. In the meantime, send your bill to the mayor’s office.”

  “Hey, I got a party to go to—“

  Stillwater took his gun out of his holster.

  Guy gulped. “You know what, Sandy? I don’t think it’s a good time. I’ll talk to you later.” And he turned and rabbited down the street.

  Stillwater put the gun away, which was a Colt .45 1911 semi-aut with a pearl handle. It seemed a little flashy for him.

  “I don’t know whether to thank you or chastise you. How do you know Guy?”

  We continued walking. Stillwater said, “I was in Chicago about four years ago investigating a bioterror threat and our paths crossed.”

  “I gather it didn’t go well.”

  “I threw him out of a windo
w. It was closed at the time.”

  Something I had considered doing many times. “You have a temper?”

  “Not so much, but LeClare brings out the worst in me.”

  “He does that to people.”

  #

  Orville was in the conference room with a box of Twinkies and a Big Gulp of Diet Coke. “Doing my paperwork for me, Orv?”

  “Captain came by to tell me you’ve been cleared from it to work something else. He wants me to try to sort through this mess.”

  “Um, sorry. This is Dr. Derek Stillwater with Homeland Security.”

  They shook hands. “You want a Twinkie?”

  “Maybe later.”

  I filled Orville in on what was going on. “We can probably use some help.”

  “I’m not sure the captain’s going to back you up on that. He didn’t seem too happy about something.”

  “I bring sunshine everywhere I go,” Stillwater said.

  “Oh, speaking of sunshine. Guy was by looking for you.”

  I grinned and told Orville about Stillwater’s encounter with LeClare. Orville looked at the DHS agent with a fondness he usually reserves for deep-fried Snickers bars. “You’re my hero.”

  “Aw, shucks. T’weren’t nothin’.”

  “So, besides doing paperwork by the pound, how can I help?”

  “Can you run some background on these two other victims?” Stillwater said. “The usual, credit checks, criminal checks, that sort of stuff. You’d know better than me.”

  “You sure you’re a federal agent?” Orville said.

  “Don’t tell anyone,” Stillwater said. “I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

  “So, you a medical doctor?”

  “No, biochemistry and microbiology. PhD. I have an unhealthy interest in biological and chemical terrorism.”

  Orville leaned back in the chair, which creaked alarmingly under his considerable weight. “You think these three killings are what, exactly? A copycat?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Spy stuff,” I said. “Of indeterminate origin.”

  “We don’t have much experience with that. We’re more gangbangers and guilty husbands,” Orville said.

  “Well, we have been dealing with a lot of serial killers,” I said.

  “And mass murderers,” Derek said. “Do the background. Maybe something will stick out for us. Thanks, Orville.”

  “Any enemy of Guy LeClare is a friend of mine.”

  7

  Derek

  Ken Maeda had been the force behind Maeda Photonics. Picking up his tan Buick Century in the parking garage, Stillwater headed the car toward Schaumburg, northwest of the Chicago Loop.

  “Stop wincing,” Derek said to Sandy, sitting in the passenger seat. “You don’t like the way I drive?”

  “Do you drive with your eyes closed?”

  “No.”

  “Stop, stop—“

  He hit the brakes. Traffic had come to a screeching halt and Derek had been a little slow to react.

  “I saw it,” he said. “Relax.”

  Beach rested one hand over her heart and used the other to wipe her brow. “You’re killing me here. Pay attention to the road.”

  He grinned. “I’m just not used to this kind of traffic.”

  “I thought you lived in Baltimore.”

  “I do, but I’m not far off the train route, so whenever I need to go into DC I take the train. And when I’m in the field I’m usually teamed up with somebody else who knows the city.”

  “Like me.”

  “Like you. Exactly.”

  “Don’t kill us.”

  “I’ll try not to.”

  Maeda Photonics was a sprawling two-story building in a high-tech industrial park in Schaumburg, not far from Lake Michigan. The receptionist was an Asian woman, presumably Japanese, who looked at their identification and said, “I don’t understand. Who do you want to speak with? The head of our company died last week.”

  “Yes,” Derek said. “That’s what we’re here about. Who’s in charge now?”

  Her English was excellent, but she had a heavy Japanese accent. She said, “That would be Ms. Tsutsui. She was the Vice President, but she is in charge now. I will let her know you’re here.”

  Her full name was Sakiko Tsutsui and Derek thought all these Japanese names were going to drive him crazy. Beach didn’t seem to have a problem with it, though, and he decided to let her take the lead, not that he had much choice in the matter. As soon as they were ushered into Sakiko Tsutsui’s office, Beach stepped forward and provided her badge, introduced herself and then him.

  Sakiko Tsutsui was probably middle-aged, about fifty, but looked younger. Her hair was done in a stylish short cut and had streaks of reddish-brown in the black. She wore silver wire-rimmed glasses, a white Oxford shirt and jeans. She shook their hands from behind her desk and gestured for the two chairs. She wasn’t what Derek was expecting, especially when she spoke, which was with a distinctive Texas accent, not a hint of Japan.

  “Ms. Tsutsui,” Beach began, but was cut off with a wave of the woman’s hand.

  “Everybody calls me Kiko. What’s this all about?”

  “We’re investigating Ken Maeda’s death.”

  Leaning back in her chair, Kiko propped herself up on the arms of the chair, elbows akimbo. “Why would you be investigating that? It was the Chemist.”

  “Some evidence has come to light to suggest that Mr. Maeda was killed by a copycat,” Beach said.

  Kiko Tsutsui took a deep breath, let it out slowly. She turned to Derek. “I guess that explains why Lieutenant Beach is here, but Homeland Security? Is that because of our contracts?”

  “What contracts?” Derek said.

  Kiko adjusted her glasses and glanced at the closed door. “We have a couple contracts with the Department of Defense. But I can only talk generally about them. They’re classified.”

  Spy stuff, Derek thought.

  “Let’s talk generally about them then,” Derek said. “My understanding is that Maeda Photonics designs and manufactures surgical lasers, like the ones used in Lasik eye surgery.”

  “We do. But our research division has been working on targeting lasers.”

  Derek shot Beach a glance, who met his gaze. Beach said, “I’m assuming you’re not talking about laser sites for guns.”

  “No. I’m talking the types of lasers used for missiles and bombs. But that’s really all I can tell you about it. You don’t have the security clearance for it.”

  “I do,” Derek said.

  Both Beach and Kiko looked at him now. Derek shrugged. “But I’m not really sure I need to know details. But it would be useful to know if Ken Maeda had any connection with Itsunori Sato and Bill Stonewell.”

  Kiko Tsutsui would have been a lousy poker player. Her eyes widened and she gasped. “What about them? Of course … but I can’t talk about that. Not until I check your security clearance. Oh my God! Oh my God!”

  #

  Back in the car, Derek said, “I think that’s what you folks call a clue.”

  “Yeah, we found the connection, but we don’t know what to do about it or what it means.”

  “What we do about it is keep digging. Somebody wanted these three dead. Presumably the killer or killers took advantage of the Chemist using botulin toxin to make it look like they were accidental victims. That poses its own issues, but I was aware of them before.

  Beach narrowed her eyes at him. “What issues?”

  “Well, the Chemist cultured Clostridium botulinum from honey, then purified the toxin. That takes time and more than a little bit of expertise. The type that killed these three—presumably just three, because the CDC is still performing tests—came from type B. That’s the kind used for Botox. Which makes me think that once the Chemist’s cases went public, our killer decided to do something
similar. Only he wasn’t growing Clostridium, he went out and stole or bought Botox and somehow injected it or put it on our three victims’ food or something similar.”

  “You think we’re dealing with some sort of international assassin?” Beach asked.

  Derek took a deep breath. “Yes. That’s exactly what I think.”

  #

  Beach had done what she could with the security problems imposed upon them. She had gotten a copy of Ken Maeda’s calendar and his contacts list. Without a subpoena, which given the clear national security issues involved, getting a look at Maeda’s emails was going to take a while.

  Maeda lived in Schaumburg, was married and had two kids, both in high school. Derek wasn’t look forward to talking to them.

  He tapped his fingertips on the steering wheel. “What do you suggest?”

  “The university and get some background on Bill Stonewell. Maybe the university will be less obsessed with security.”

  “You want to drive? I think I can get them to open up to us.”

  “Going to call Johnston again?”

  “He’s a retired two-star general. He’ll get me what we need.”

  “And I won’t die behind the wheel.”

  #

  Heading back into the city, Derek got off the phone with Secretary Johnston and placed another call.

  “Hey, Carter. I need some records.”

  “A favor, no doubt.”

  “What do you want, Carter?”

  “Depends on the favor.”

  “I need a search on known assassins. Good ones.”

  “Parameters?”

  Sigh. “Expert. International. Japanese—“

  “You want an ID on a Japanese assassin?”

  “No, but at least two of the victims are Japanese.”

  “Sure. What else?”

  “Poison. Biological agents. Botulin toxin.”

  “Anything else?”

  He thought about it. “Natural causes.”

  “When you want it?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “It’ll cost you.”