by Chris Orcutt
“Excuse me…what are you doing?!”
It was Jade. She strolled over bouncing a ball between her racquet and the court surface.
“Oh, Dr. Stevens,” she said. “I didn’t recognize you.”
Holding a finger to my lips, I pulled the gift box out of my jacket pocket.
“A gift for Sally,” I said.
“Sally?” Jade gave me a disapproving look. “Dr. Stevens…don’t tell me you’re involved with her.”
“No, she’s just a friend.” I put the gift box in the knapsack, zipped it up and leaned it against the fence again. “How’s life, Jade?”
She shrugged. “I’m studying a subject I hate, but I suppose things could be a lot worse. I could be at one of my safety schools.”
“Thattagirl—look on the bright side,” I said. “Hey, let me ask you…did Binoculars Guy show up again today?”
“No, haven’t seen him,” she said.
“Good. Take care, Jade.”
I was heading for the gate when Peyton and a couple of the other girls ran over.
“Hiya, Dr. Stevens,” Peyton said.
“Hi, girls. How’s ‘The Dirty Dozen’ doing?”
They giggled.
“Whatcha doin’ here?” Peyton said. “Are you gonna coach us again? Please?”
“No, afraid not,” I said. “You’re in better hands with Mr. Cohen.”
I waved to him. Peyton raised an eyebrow and tapped my leg with her tennis racquet.
“Mm,” she said, “but…what if we prefer your hands, Dakota? Huh?”
I wagged a finger at her. “Peyton…you’re lucky I’m not your coach. If I were, I’d give you an epic spanking, young lady. Your ass would be redder than your Harvard T-shirt.”
Peyton’s jaw dropped. “Dr. Stevens!”
While the girls all gasped and snickered at my curtain line, I slipped out the gate. I bumped into Sally just as she came out of the main building.
“You’re leaving?” Sally said. “You said you’d stick around.”
“I can’t. Work.”
“Can I see you later?” she said.
“I’m working, Sally.”
“No, like later. You know…like, at your hotel tonight.”
“Absolutely not. We don’t even know each other yet.” I kissed her forehead. “But if I came over to your lab tomorrow, would you give me a tour?”
“Sure, whatever.” She kicked a bottle cap into the shrubbery. “It’s Volvap Hall. Know where it is?”
“I’ll find it,” I said.
“We get there at noon on Saturdays,” she said.
“Hey, don’t pout,” I said. “Go look inside your knapsack. I left a surprise for you.”
She looked up at me and smiled. “A present?”
“Maybe.”
“Oh, Dakota…you’re the best!” She hugged me and started to run away, but I yanked her into me and kissed her hard on the lips.
“All right,” I said. “See you tomorrow, Sally.”
“I can’t wait to see what you got me,” she said.
“Well…go!”
As she ran away, the skirt of her tennis dress flapped up and down, exposing a pair of canary yellow panties with “JUICY” emblazoned in baby blue across her stellar backside. The girl also had two of the smoothest, trimmest, loveliest legs I’d ever seen on a woman.
I sighed and grit my teeth. In just a few short days, and in more than one way, this case had gotten harder.
Much harder.
19
Nobody Takes a Stinky Guy Seriously
I was in great shape for my age—for someone half my age, actually. From the time I was a teenager, I’d put thousands of hours into developing and maintaining my fitness level and physique. During high school and college, during my tenure with the FBI, and during and between relationships, my daily workouts always came first.
And on the rare occasion when I missed a workout, I made up for it the next day. Having been out of commission with a hangover yesterday, I resolved to make this morning’s workout one of those extra-hard ones.
Beginning with some stretching and light calisthenics in the room, I changed into running clothes and took a long run along and across the Charles to the hatch shell (where the Boston Pops played to fireworks on July 4). Back at the hotel, I jogged straight into the fitness center and did my entire regimen, which included pull-ups, push-ups, incline pushups, handstand pushups, crunches with a medicine ball, and two sets on each of the Nautilus strength training machines. As I cooled down with yoga stretches in the corner, a pair of trophy wives made not-so-subtle eyes at me from their stationary bikes. On my way into the locker room afterwards, I nodded at them and gave their bulletproof backsides an admiring, lingering look.
“Ladies,” I said, “keep up the great work.”
Smiling in reply, they stood up on their bikes and pedaled like they were crossing the Alps in the Tour de France.
In the pool, I swam twenty slow laps, concentrating on lengthening my strokes and stretching out my muscles. Finally, I capped off my workout with half an hour in the sauna. Between the vigorous exercise and the heat, I had succeeded in sweating out the last vestiges of alcohol, so by the time I showered, shaved, dressed, and went downstairs for breakfast, I felt reborn.
On my way into the restaurant, Augusta the desk clerk handed me a large manila envelope, saying that a man in motorcycle garb had delivered it at three o’clock in the morning. I thanked her, and when the hostess seated me, I opened the envelope and pulled out a sheaf of papers.
The cover sheet was on Steve’s MIT letterhead. It was a handwritten note in Steve’s almost illegible scrawl:
Dakota,
Great seeing you yesterday. Gretchen and I are jetting off to London for a few days, but I wanted to give you these results before I left.
I tested all 14 samples. There wasn’t time to do full workups, but I was able to establish two facts:
1. All 14 blood samples are from women.
2. The DNA in each sample is unique. In other words, the samples are from 14 different women.
The enclosed printouts give the other details.
If you’re still in town next week, give me a call. Maybe the four of us could get together for dinner. For now, I’ve got a plane to catch.
Later,
Steve
I put the papers away. Over a healthy breakfast of oatmeal, fruit, and an egg white omelette, I mulled what the test results meant and how they might be connected to the fourteen sets of photos Svetlana had found. More to the point, since Svetlana and I were going to his lab soon, there was this question: Why did Dr. Malone (ostensibly a psychologist who specialized in studying sexual attraction) have the photos and blood samples of fourteen different women? At least I thought the photos and blood samples belonged to the same women. For all I knew, the photos might have nothing to do with the blood samples, in which case I was dealing with twenty-eight different women.
Ordinarily I’d be hopeful about visiting Malone’s lab today, but I sensed it was only going to raise other questions and create new problems. However, such is the plight of the detective: You have to follow the leads the detecting gods give you, even if you think they’re dead-ends, and even if they mean more work.
After breakfast I strolled around Harvard Square—a nostalgic tour down memory lane—and when I returned to the hotel, at eleven thirty, I drove over to Radcliffe Quad.
It was the quintessential New England autumn morning—tangy crisp air and cloudless skies. Svetlana got into the car sipping from a to-go cup. She was noticeably dressed down, as if for fall-weather outdoor work—picking apples or digging potatoes—wearing a floppy wool newsboy cap, a denim shirt beneath a frumpy down vest, and jeans tucked into olive Hunter wellies.
Pulling away from the curb, I told her
about Steve’s findings with the blood samples and asked her if she’d been able to establish the identities of any of the women in the photos.
“No, unfortunately,” she said. “The reverse image-search technology is still in its infancy, and all the photographs were either blurry or taken from awkward angles.”
“Bummer,” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “Bummer.”
As I drove toward Malone’s lab, I shared the questions I’d been mulling during breakfast. And then I remembered something Professor Cantor had mentioned: Malone wasn’t employed by Harvard University; he had an independent research grant.
“Do me a favor today, will you?” I asked.
“What is that?”
“Professor Cantor said Malone’s research is funded by an independent research grant,” I said. “See if you can find out who his benefactor is.”
“Certainly.”
“Hey.” I gestured at her clothes. “Why the Tom Joad–Grapes of Wrath look?”
“Pardon me?” She sipped her coffee.
“Why do you look like a hobo from the Great Depression?”
“Because I do not want to give Dr. Malone any ideas,” she said. “For this reason, I visited a consignment shop yesterday and acquired this unflattering outfit.”
I shook my head. “Sorry, but it won’t work.”
“What do you mean?”
“Svetlana,” I said, “you could be wearing sackcloth and you’d still turn men’s heads. Women’s, too.”
She looked at me askance and smiled.
When we arrived at Volvap Hall, there were no open parking spots near the building, so we had to park in a garage a few blocks away and hike back. As we started up the walkway, we were halted by a commotion at the entrance.
A stocky, barrel-chested man, maybe 5´7˝ tall, with greasy, matted black hair and a shaggy beard that could have given Moses’ a run for his money, stood defiantly in front of Dr. Malone and Sally. He was blocking them from entering the building. The man wasn’t wearing a belt, so every few seconds he had to hitch up his pants. I moseyed toward the entrance, paying close attention to their conversation.
“I wanna know where my daughter is, you sonovabitch!” the man said.
“I haven’t the slightest idea who you’re talking about,” Dr. Malone said, “nor do I know who you are. Now, let me pass, sir. Can’t you see you’re scaring this young lady?”
He gestured at Sally. Cowering beside him, wearing a short red-and-black plaid skirt, white blouse, and saddle shoes, Sally looked about sixteen years old. The man held out a photo of a young blonde woman.
“She was a student at the University of Chicago,” he said. “She participated in your study back in January and disappeared in May.”
Dr. Malone tried to force his way past the man, but got shoved back.
“You’re going to hear this, both of you.” He hitched up his pants again and turned to Sally. “So in May, when she disappears, I find out a professor came on to her over the winter. My daughter told him she wasn’t interested. Guess who I’m talking about, young lady?” He gestured at Sally, then pointed at Malone. “This guy.”
“This is preposterous.” Dr. Malone pulled out a cell phone. “I’m calling the police.”
“Go ahead,” the man said. “Fine by me.”
The man sat on the steps, took out a cigarette, and lighted it. Suddenly he grabbed Sally’s arm.
“Honey, I don’t know what your name is or what you’re doing with this guy, but I’m telling you—run. Right now. Run! Get away from him, or you’ll end up like my little girl! God only knows what’s become of her!” He held Sally by the elbow and shook her.
“Let go of me!” Sally said.
I stepped forward. As I came into the man’s proximity, I was overcome by his body odor. He smelled like he hadn’t showered in weeks, and that he didn’t know deodorant had been invented.
“All right,” I said, “that’s enough. Let go of her.”
“Who are you?” The man took a puff off his cigarette and flicked it into the shrubbery along the building. “Hey, buddy, here’s a tip—keep your nose out of stuff that’s not your business.”
Smiling like Mother Theresa, I took hold of his fingers on Sally’s arm and pried them off. “And I have three tips for you.” Torqueing his thumb, I twisted his arm until he yelped and lay flat on his back on the cement. “First, don’t throw burning cigarettes into shrubbery. That’s how fires get started. Second”—I tweaked his thumb; he yelped again—“don’t grab women. And third…if what you’re saying is true, go to the police. Don’t harass—”
“I am the police, you jerk! Des Moines P.D.”
“I hate to break it to you,” I said, “but you’re a bit out of your jurisdiction. If I let go, will you be nice?”
“Screw you.”
A siren blared in the distance. Malone pocketed his cell phone and walked over to us.
“That’s the police now,” he said with a smirk.
“All right, I’ll leave,” the man said. “Let me go.”
“I’ll walk you out,” I said.
When he got to his feet, I stepped behind him, bent his arm up at the elbow, and steered him down the walkway. At the gate, I released him.
“Seriously,” I said, “if what you’re saying is true, go to the police.”
“You haven’t seen the last of me, buddy.” He hitched up his pants and marched down the sidewalk.
“Tough talk for a guy with no belt,” I said. “Here’s a final tip—take a shower. And put on some deodorant. Nobody takes a stinky guy seriously.”
He gave me the finger over his shoulder, hitched up his pants, and tramped down the sidewalk. I returned to Svetlana, Sally and Dr. Malone, who were waiting at the entrance with the door open.
Sally smiled at me and mouthed, “Thank you, Dakota.”
“Dr. Stevens,” Malone said, “where did you learn how to”—he made a twisting motion with his hand—“disable him like that?”
“Self-defense class,” I said with a shrug. “The Learning Annex in Manhattan. They’ve got classes in everything.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” he said. “May I talk to you…in private?”
Hands in his blazer pockets, he walked over to the corner of the building and stood beside a rhododendron.
“I want to apologize,” he said.
“For what?”
“Our quarrel. At the tennis courts the other day.”
“There was no quarrel,” I said. “Your presence was making the girls uncomfortable. I asked you to leave, and you left. There’s no need to apologize.”
“Well, irregardless—”
“You mean ‘regardless,’ Dr. Malone,” I said. “The ‘I-R’ prefix is a superfluous hypercorrection that actually negates the meaning of ‘regardless.’ ”
“Yes, yes, I knew that. I meant to say…regardless, I appreciate your discretion in the matter.” He walked back to the entrance. “I’m glad you and Miss Krüsh could make it today. Sally will escort you inside. I’ll join you as soon as I talk to the police.”
“Fine,” I said.
Inside, Svetlana and I followed Sally down a hallway to a windowless steel door. She swiped a card key, the door lock buzzed, and she opened the door and went in.
“Here we go,” I whispered to Svetlana, “down the rabbit hole.”
20
Babe in the Woods Routine
The first thing I noticed was a large observation window that looked into a white room in which test subjects sat. The white room was divided in half widthwise by a sheet of plexiglass. There were male and female subjects in the room, with all the female ones sitting on one side of the plexiglass barrier, and all of male subjects on the other side.
Ceiling-mounted cameras peered down at the test subjects, all of w
hom wore baggy white nightshirts and white socks. Electronic leads were attached to their heads and arms. Finally, at the back of the white room, on either side of the plexiglass barrier, were two doors: one on the female side, one on the male side.
Here in the observation booth, technicians sat at a long workbench, taking notes and watching computer screens and TV monitors. On each computer screen were several program windows displaying a headshot of a test subject and that subject’s vitals—including pulse, blood pressure, respiration, and other data. In addition to video images of the test subjects, the TV monitors displayed close-ups of the subjects’ pupils.
On the far wall inside the observation booth, a massive HDTV showed a young woman and man (who were not in the white room) facing each other through another sheet of plexiglass. Unlike the solid plexiglass barrier separating the test subjects in the white room, the plexiglass on the monitor had large holes in it above the subjects’ waists.
I glanced at Svetlana. She was studying the data on the computer screens. Sally, on the other hand, was transfixed by the scene on the HDTV. She stood with her hands balled into tiny fists, pressing them against her lower lip. She wriggled almost imperceptibly—as though nervous the couple would do something inappropriate, yet fervently hoping they would.
I nudged her. “I bet I know what those holes are for.”
The young man and woman simultaneously shucked off their nightshirts. They were now completely nude. Stepping toward the plexiglass, they slipped their arms through the holes and caressed each other.
“Told ’ya,” I whispered in Sally’s ear. “Wanna join me in there later, when everyone’s gone?”
She flashed me her big teeth and playfully shoved me. Inwardly, I groaned.
Well, Dakota…you’re becoming a first-class cad. Seducing a vulnerable and psychologically troubled girl? Nice job. Your grandparents would be very proud.
The door opened and Dr. Malone came in. “Sally, did you explain to Dr. Stevens and Miss Krüsh how the study works?”
“There’s no need, Doctor,” I said. “It looks pretty self-explanatory. But the couple on the HDTV”—I pointed at the back of the white room—“I take it they’re in a room behind those two doors?”
