by TG Wolff
I kid you not…he beamed.
“So, I can stay? I’ll keep the music down, you know, when you’re here and I’ll…I’ll…I’ll watch your apartments when you’re gone.” Behind those sharp eyes, his brain worked overtime to find the right carrot to get me to say yes. “It’ll be faster to work together if I’m close. And—”
“Enough, Dix. Enough. You can stay.”
He grinned again and slapped his hands on his sides. He was going to hug me. Maybe. Almost. “Do…do you want to see what I found on Doc? Oh, you’re probably tired.”
Tired and stiff and so damn sick of being awake, but it was going to take some time to wind down enough for sleep to take me. “I do want to see what you found but I need a few minutes to…”
“Shower?” He wrinkled his nose.
I pinned him with a laser-sharp glare. “Are you saying I need one?”
He blinked rapidly. “Uh…no?” Dix defied my glare, leaning in and sniffing me. “Well, maybe. Kinda. Yeah.”
“Stop! Fine. I’ll go shower. Turn down the music. This is almost a nice neighborhood.”
I am of the opinion the single greatest invention of modern society is the hot shower. God bless the men who pumped water into houses and those who brought in a gas flame and the brilliant SOB who put the two together. I nearly wept as the hot water washed the miles away.
I dressed, refusing to wear underwear. The human body can only endure so much. Still, I had a seventeen-year-old in my house, so I went with the ambiguous baggy sweats and a hoodie. I emerged into the kitchen to find a sandwich, a bag of chips, a glass of milk, and a note.
I drank half the milk as I read: Meet me in the media room.
“Media room? Since when do I have one of those?” I balanced the glass on the plate, grabbed the chips, and went to find “the media room.”
In my “work” apartment, heretofore referred to as my office, the dining room had been transformed into, well, a media room. Two sixty-inch screens were mounted to the bare wall, one above the other. Wires bound with black ties hung inconspicuously, disappearing behind a computer tower.
“Where did I get the monitors?” I sank into one of three plush seats. The material moved under me, molding to my shape. This wasn’t a chair. It was the mother of all bean bags on steroids…with a beer chaser. “Where did these…whatever you call these come from?”
Dix retrieved a keyboard from a table with enough dents to have fallen dozen flight of stairs. He dropped into the chair next to me. “Internet. Express delivery.” He stared at me with a little half smile, like Mona Lisa.
He was weirding me out. “What?”
He shrugged. “Just glad you’re home.”
“Yeah, well, me too. Thanks for the sandwich. Want a chip?” I tilted the bag his way.
“Def. So, here’s what I found.” He dug into the bag with one hand and typed nimbly with the other. “Doc and the Buford guy emailed a lot.” He opened a file with the titles of over two hundred emails. “So, what I got out of it was Doc invented something, some kind of seed, and Doc wanted to give the seeds away, but Buford thought it was a better idea to sell the seeds and use the money to invest in research.”
“Gavriil’s project was a genetically modified variation of quinoa capable of being grown in arid climates. He was working on the food shortage problem, trying to save populations. Buford wanted the seeds to line his fat pockets.”
Dixon frowned. “Are you sure?”
I nodded. “It was in Gavriil’s journal. Notes on his progress with seeds of different plants. He focused on crops high in protein, to balance the diet. Buford and his AgNow! lobby were named sponsors of Gavriil’s grant and expected him to turn over all the resulting plants to them. Buford was just in it for the money.”
“Huh. You think?”
“Trust me. The only ‘best interest’ Buford cares about begins with a dollar sign.”
He brought up a picture of Buford at some golf outing. His full face was lit with laughter, his cheeks and nose rosy from an afternoon in the sun. The argyle pattern of the golf shirt stretched over a hard belly. “Have you met him?”
I finished my milk, wiped my mouth. “No, but I heard about him. He brought out the Russian in Gavriil. I’m going to meet him though. Very soon. What else do you have?”
Those long, lanky fingers tap danced over the keyboard. The bulk of Buford Winston disappeared and presto, the petite Quili Liu appeared.
“Dr. Quili Liu received her PhD in biology when she was twenty-four. I guess that’s young?”
I nodded. “Most people are twenty-two, twenty-three when then finish their bachelor’s degree. A master’s and a PhD typically adds four or five more years. Gavriil said she had book smarts. She was one of the hardest-working scientists he had.”
“In high school, she was a runner up for the Stockholm Junior Water Prize. I found an article on it. The winner, a kid from Germany, he fell down the stairs in the hotel and broke some of the bones in his neck. I Googled Quili…”
“She Americanizes it to Julie.”
“That’s way easier to say. So, I googled Julie and found a bunch of articles. She’s won all kinds of prizes and awards. There was one in the school newspaper saying she took over Doc’s project.”
I set the empty plate and glass aside and gave the chip bag to Dix. This oversized bag chair just kind of hugged my body. I didn’t have to hold my head up, just my eyelids. “She was Gavriil’s assistant. I heard her name nearly every day. He said she was good but would never be great. He felt her work lacked a purpose, you know?”
Dixon’s young eyes met mine. “Nope.”
“It’s the difference between doing something you have to do and something you want to do.”
“Like how I fall asleep writing a paper for Ms. McGinnis, but I can stay up all night hacking into Doc’s email.”
My gaze narrowed. “How exactly did we get these monitors and chairs?”
Jessica Fielding, feature writer for I8∑π Magazine (pronounced “I Ate Some Pie”), had a lunch meeting set to interview Quili Liu for a series on the top thirty scientists under thirty. I took special care in selecting “Jessica’s” attire to ensure Quili saw only “Jessica.” Quili and I had met twice. The first year Gavriil and I were together, he wanted me to come to the department holiday potluck. Quili was finishing her first semester as a full-time employee of the university. We were introduced but didn’t socialize. She was more interested in the department chair than her supervisor’s girlfriend. Then she came to Gavriil’s funeral. I remembered her as one of the parade of faces. If she said something to me, I had long ago forgotten it.
I was taking a big enough risk going myself—I wouldn’t be stupid enough to count on her not remembering me. At the time, I had blond hair, but I had my eyes. They always gave me away.
Tilting my head and pulling my eyelid, I slid the contact into place. Voila. Brown eyes. Brown hair. I could have been Carlo’s sister—younger sister, of course. I dressed in a black suit. Professional, understated, unremarkable. Sensible shoes. I was dressing to gush over a woman. It wouldn’t do to out-dress her.
I sat in the back corner of the trendy restaurant, paying extra for the table with the view of the entire dining room. With twenty minutes until the appointed time, I used a tablet to re-read the material Dixon put together. The kid had good instincts. Give him a few years to get past puberty and he’d have real potential. He had dumped the years of emails between Gavriil and Quili to a single directory and sorted them into folders by topic. I had read through most of the project emails last night. Here’s a synopsis…
BORING.
I fell asleep and finished it this morning. Wasn’t any less boring but couldn’t fall asleep reading it on a treadmill. There wasn’t a lot to work with. The messages to my husband were completely professional. His were often less professional, more conversational. Hers never were. Each one began the same way. Dear Professor Rubchinsk
y.
“Ms. Fielding?”
It didn’t matter if she was asking for a day off or announcing the results of a months-long analysis. There was one exception.
“Ms. Fielding?”
A folder Dix called “Crybaby.” He read them right. The notes were an eclectic collection of polite but pointed complaints, documentation of injustices, and blatant ladder climbing.
“Excuse me. Are you Jessica Fielding?” A small-framed Asian woman with a round face peered at me through equally round spectacles.
Damn it. How long had she been standing there?
“Dr. Liu.” I jumped to my feet, offering my hand and, when she took it, pumped it for oil. “Thank you so much for meeting me. I was just reviewing my background research. You have led such a fascinating life, accomplished so much at such a young age.”
She tossed her hair over her shoulder, preening under the attention.
“Please, sit. Did you have any trouble finding the restaurant?”
Quili Liu melted into the vinyl seat, rubbing against the arched back until settling into a position slightly askew to the table. “This restaurant is well known to everyone as the university president frequently dines here.”
The chitchat began. We ordered lunch, and I started the interview. Quili straightened her body, folded her hands on the table, and leaned toward me. There was no nonsense in her body language. I quickly learned two things. One, Quili Liu was a name dropper. Proof of her excellence was based on who she had beaten and outsmarted and those who coveted her. Two, Quili Liu did not like to come in second.
“Your magazine is naming the top thirty scientists?”
I played the role as the engaging reporter. “This is our twenty-fifth year. We have five Nobel laureates as our alumni and our past leaders are at leading research institution on five continents. The competition is unparalleled. Nominated scientists go through a rigorous peer review—”
Quili’s chin lifted, her eyes sparkled. “Who nominated me?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know. I just conduct the interviews on the, well, I’m not supposed to tell anyone this, but I can tell you—I interview the top five finalists.” I leaned back, dragging the line, drawing her in. “We are interested in the story behind the scientist. You know, something our readers can really sink their teeth into.”
“Am I the top scientist?” Quili took the bait, the hook lodging in her ambitious jowls.
“I couldn’t tell you even if I knew.” I leaned forward in confidence, conspiracy. “I will tell you the stories count. Two years ago, before I worked here, I heard the top candidate was demoted to number four because he hadn’t attended his grandmother’s funeral. Everybody wants compassionate science.”
“My supervisor died. A year ago.” Quili saved me the trouble of tactfully steering the conversation to Rome. “Dr. Gavriil Rubchinsky. I was with him when he died.”
Gasp. Who knew? “I’m so sorry. What happened?”
Quili began the story with how excited she was to present her research on an international stage. She described how nervous she was, choosing her dress for the reception. “So many people would be there. People who could make or break a reputation. Dr. Rubchinsky was late. He knew so many and promised to introduce me. I called to his room and he came immediately.”
The trained interrogator in me wondered why she chose to start the story here. It was nearly an hour before Gavriil would die on the street alone. She didn’t mention Ilsa Duma-whatever.
“Professor Rubchinsky bought me a glass of wine and introduced me as he promised. I hope you can understand, there were no younger scientists there. Department chairs from M.I.T. and Stanford and Case Western Reserve and Johns Hopkins and everywhere else in attendance. I had presented a paper that afternoon and all were congratulating me on my work.”
Okay, it was getting a bit thick in here. So thick, it wouldn’t have shocked me if she claimed she walked on water. The way I remember it, Gavriil had three papers accepted to the conference. Of course, Quili’s name was on those papers—the second name. She presented one of them, sharing the load and the credit.
“It was such a special night, an important night…but my head was hurting. Professor Rubchinsky noticed. There was a farmacia across the street and he offered to buy medicine. I accepted and…and…when he crossed the street…”
The water works started, but I was too dumbfounded to give the expected reaction. When she sobbed a little harder, I picked up the cue. “Oh, Dr. Liu. How horrible.”
“It was my fault.” She cried out, her confession turning the heads of neighboring tables.
“Oh, no. No, you can’t blame yourself.”
“Yes. I know. It does no good. Instead, I have dedicated this year to Professor Rubchinsky. I tell the graduate students, we are not just working to feed the world, we are fulfilling a great man’s legacy. Yes, it will be my name on the new varietal, but it will be Professor Rubchinsky’s blood in it.”
First, gross. Second, narcissistic much? Third, damn straight it’s his legacy, and she was warping it to win a prize that only existed on the fake website Dixon set up.
Our lunches arrived and Quili continued to talk unprompted. A picture emerged of a bright child, one pushed by parents and culture to achieve the highest levels of academic success. Where the scientist had thrived, the woman seemed to go unnoticed. When asked about life outside of the laboratory, she floundered. She stammered, pretended to struggle with the words, and then her face glowed like a light bulb had just turned on.
“I have been learning golf. Many famous scientists play golf for relaxation. And, of course, there is the business side.”
Business plus golf equaled a big red face. “You wouldn’t happen to know Buford Winston, would you?”
Her face shut tighter than a door on a submarine. “Yes. I have met him.”
Quili definitely did not like Buford. My guess was she inherited the animosity between Buford and Gavriil just as she inherited the grant. “His AgNow! is your grant sponsor, I understand.”
Chatty Cathy had run out of string. “AgNow! provides money for a large number of research grants.” She made busy with her beef tenderloin medallions.
“Have you golfed with him?”
She shook her head, going nonverbal.
“Have you seen him recently?”
Quili primly set her fork down and folded her hands on the table. “Is Buford Winston the top scientist under thirty, or am I?”
Having been put in my place, I looked duly submissive. “You are, Doctor. Mr. Winston is a top name in ag. His name opens doors. I thought if you and he were friendly, it might be of interest to the review panel.”
Her pointed little nose went up, held, then descended. I had been forgiven. “I have not golfed with Mr. Winston. Yet. But when we do, there will be much conversation.”
I asked her again about Rome and the story changed a bit. Funny how those lies get all tangled together. I asked specifically about Francisco Thelan. “It must have been horrible. Two tragic losses in the same day.”
Quili selected a cracker from the basket and began breaking off tiny pieces. “I had only met him. He and Professor Rubchinsky were great friends. They teased each other. Professor Thelan taunted about the professor’s wife. She is very beautiful and Professor Thelan said the professor would have solved his little dilemma if he was not distracted.”
“Had Professor Thelan met Professor Rubchinsky’s wife?” Because if she, ur, I did, it was news to me.
“He seemed to know about her. The professor said Professor Thelan would have slowed global warming if he wouldn’t be so cheap about paying assistants. It is harsh, but I know was true. I saw Professor Thelan finish a drink the professor had left untouched.”
Thelan had picked up Gavriil’s drink, the poisoned one. The penny-pinching dope punched his own ticket when he snatched the drink. And yet I had to thank him. If he hadn’t, all the evidence would
point to Gavriil’s death being an accident. Now something else bothered me. Liu hadn’t been at the table when Gavriil ran out. How did she see Thelan take his drink?
Something occurred to me then. Something so shockingly obvious I stood up and gasped. There was a second suspect. Because if Hugo was driving the killer bumblebee, who pushed Gavriil into traffic?
I missed something.
“Is something wrong, Jessica?”
I blinked, bringing Quili’s concerned face into focus and, shockingly, had an awareness of me standing in a crowded restaurant, making like the Statue of Liberty. I sat. “Sorry. I just remembered another appointment, but I think I have what I need.” I signaled the waitress and readied my credit card. Places to go, things to do.
“Already? So…so soon?” Quili’s eyes were wide with surprise. “What about my story?”
“I think I have all I need.” The waitress set the bill on the table, I shoved it and my card back at her.
“Maybe you can come to my lab. Plant husbandry is fascinating. Your readers…and the committee…I…” She was grabbing at straws, so obviously hoping to keep me focused on her. “I…I have propagated the last of Professor Rubchinsky’s plants. The ones he grafted last year.”
Sure, it gave me pause, but the only answer was “no.” I needed to be in front of a monitor, finding what I missed. I’d pull Carlo back in. How did we not see it? If Hugo was driving, someone else pushed him and poisoned the cocktail. Someone who was paid the difference between the four thousand euros in Hugo’s book and the two thousand in the trunk.
“Ms. Fielding?” Quili cocked her head as if I was a puzzle she was trying to solve.
“I am sorry, but I really do have to run.” The words came out curtly but not mean. Not mean enough to make Quili look like I just stole her teddy bear. Take two. “Give me a few days to draft the story. If I have any questions or there are any gaps, I’ll give you a call back.”
