ColdScheme (28 page)

“You’re a monster,” was all I could whisper.

“Not at all,” he said, staring at me with slitted eyes. I
felt as if a snake, poised for a strike, was watching me. He continued, “I’ll
be particularly careful when I’m planting my explosive pacemaker in your
brother Tim’s chest. Our Congressman Tavistock deserves the best of my
professional care.”

All my worries suddenly focused on my family.

He chuckled again. “Aw, Meg, come on—what happened to that
analytical talent of yours? Did you really think that it’s just coincidence
that we’ve been such good friends these past eight years? You were the reason
why we settled on Baltimore as our first center for field trials of my device.
Blank loved the irony of the situation as much as I did. Details and foresight
that go into long-term planning are the hallmarks of success, Meg. Of course
some amount of luck always helps. Then again, I knew that if my first
persuasive example were Brick, you would become involved. We’ve been very
successful, don’t you think so?”

“I never discussed my cases with you, Joe,” I said
haltingly. It was possible that when I came to seek information on post-mortem
injuries I might have mentioned one or two names figuring in our historical
cold cases but only as a passing mention. Was that enough for him to fashion
his plan, center it on me, or more precisely to foresee my involvement in a fresh
homicide?

“Give me some credit for analytical skill, Meg. Brick was a
missing person, therefore he would be part of your historical cold case files.
I know Bourke. I can read people as well as you can. He’d give Brick’s case to
you and Ken. That’s all I needed to carry out my next step.”

“The waiter in my father’s penthouse,” I said, understanding
how meticulously he planned this, how he manipulated us like pawns.

“I need the access to those accounts, Meg,” he said when
after a few moments I still stared at him, unable to say anything.

I swallowed then moistened my lips with my tongue. “What if
my father refuses?”

“That would be most unfortunate,” he said and started
backing away from the gurney. I too shuffled backward toward a wall to at least
protect my back. Joe bent his knees without taking his eyes off me and brought
out a briefcase from underneath the gurney. He flicked the locks and raised the
lid. It was a laptop.

“Two billion dollars is a great deal of money, Meg,” he
said. I heard his fingers clicking on the keyboard. I wondered when he would
draw his gun. He was fast. Two years ago when he pressed it into my neck as I
leaned over his shoulder to see an incision in a cadaver, I never saw his hand
flash to take it out. I was sure he still had the skill and speed.

He stared at me, his expression hardening and said, “Call
the banker, Meg. I need access to those accounts.”

I watched him, seeing what I suppose I knew has always been
there—greed, cruelty, cynicism and utter contempt for life other than his
own—but like others I mistook it for human faults and frailties.

“Still reluctant to call Daddy, Meg?” he asked in a wintry
voice. “Well, you were right. Limos have always been an integral part of our
operations. Church groups rent them a lot these days. Before my Creeslow outfit
closed down, they did a brisk business with St. Leopold’s. I believe the good
parishioners have rented my limo on quite a few occasions.”

I shivered. A moan escaped me. St. Leopold’s was Mrs.
Tavalho’s church group. She said they found a new limo supplier, Arrowmain but
that’s only after they already rented from someone else.

If he didn’t hear my moan, he read my look.

“I talked to Brenda, you know. Your housekeeper has your
daughter tonight. They’re at a charity Bingo casino. I’ve improved my last
generation of implants, Meg. The radius of destruction is not just a few feet.
Look around you. This is a very large morgue. I assure you that the pieces of
the homeless citizen are as far as you can see, even on the ceiling.” Just then,
as if to underscore his threat, a clump of blackened human flesh dropped down
and landed at my feet with a sickening splat.

“Your daughter would be close by. Perhaps she’s holding the
housekeeper’s hand right now.” He raised a hand holding a chunky black cell
phone. “All it takes is a call, Meg. I won’t tell you the range but it’s
impressive. Use your imagination. Brick kept testing it and he ended up on the
hood of Ken’s car—in Woodbrook. Call the banker.”

Even though I knew I had to comply, I feared calling my
father. What if he was still in a meeting? That would mean Field was still
there and didn’t pick up my message—and no one was coming. When I ran out of my
house facts, feelings and instinct sat bundled in my mind like a ball of twine.
As I told Joe, I only found the beginning of the string and started unraveling
it when I arrived here. I didn’t lie either.

“So it’s been money all along?” I asked, clearing my
tightening throat. Joe was talkative tonight. He needed an audience even if it
was as slim as one listener.

“That and idiots like Quigley who won’t take a chance, no
matter how promising the new discovery.”

“Is that why you adapted Quigley’s implant research into
bombs?”

“I didn’t adapt his anything!” he shouted. “Everything you
see in here is my invention. That toxin could have been applied to beneficial
use, dissolving tumors. He wouldn’t even consider a field trial with tissues.
He said he didn’t need help from a mortician. That’s what gave me the idea. The
prick was useful. Get out your cell phone, Meg.” His voice vibrated
threateningly. Once again he shook the black cell phone at me to underscore his
meaning.

I had no choice but to comply.

“It’s me,” I said when my father answered. “I need you to
unfreeze those accounts.”

“Where are you? What are you doing?” he asked anxiously.

Joe pointed the black box at me and said, “Make sure he
understands what’s at stake here.”

“What the hell is— Where are you, dammit!” my father
shouted.

“Just do as I asked, sir and please do it quickly,” I said
and put the phone in my pocket without shutting its flap.

My father would make a phone call and that took time. I
hoped Joe would grow impatient because impatient people were prone to mistakes.
I needed Joe to look down at the laptop, not just keep glancing at it.

“Nothing’s happening,” he growled after glancing at it.

“Give it a minute,” I said, watching him. Suddenly, the
laptop bleeped. Joe dipped his head down. My father’s muffled voice issued out
of my cell phone in my pocket but it wasn’t enough to distract me.

I drew my gun even as I moved. My target was the chunky
black cell phone Joe held in his bandaged hand. I was six feet away from him,
my outstretched hand reaching when a crisp salvo of shots rang out.

The black box flew out of Joe’s hand. He cried out. I threw
myself after it and caught it before it hit the ground. My gun clattered down
as I rolled on the floor, protecting the device. I hit the wall with my
shoulder. The impact bounced me back and helped me to sit up. I struggled to
get up on my knees.

When I lifted my head I saw Joe was kneeling too. We were on
the same level. He held a gun in his hand. I saw it waver. His green tunic
started to bloom with a crimson rose. He glared at me. I felt nothing. He
sneered and I saw his finger on the trigger twitch. I snatched away my hand
with the black cell phone and hid it behind my back where he couldn’t shoot it.

He grunted and his face twisted in a distorted smile. “You
should have—” was all he managed to say.

I blinked when the shots rang out again. One shattered Joe’s
gun. The others, the rest of Joe’s lofty ambitions.

Field lifted me up, saying, “I got your message. Are you all
right?” He ran his hands over my face and shoulders. “You came here and didn’t
bother with a Kevlar vest?”

My vest was in my car trunk. I was coming to pick my friend
Joe’s brain, show him the formulae. It didn’t occur to me to dress up in armor.

“Jazz, Mrs. Tavalho?” I pushed away his hands.

“They’re all right. The moment I listened to your message I
thought of my family. Mattis and Ken took your housekeeper to Hopkins. I’ve
been here long enough to hear that Joe was grandstanding. He was bluffing. I
don’t think Mrs. Tavalho’s been implanted with a chest-bomb but they’ll check
her out at the hospital. Jazz is with Courtney—at home.”

He must have seen on my face what flashed through my head
because he chuckled and said, “It was either to leave her with Agent Gould or
bring her along.”

“Well, in that case it’s all right,” I murmured. “Let’s call
it in.”

“What for? We’re already in the morgue.”

* * * * *

“Joe has set up a funeral home in Washington that also has
as part of its business function an escort service?” Bourke asked, incredulous.
“Now I’ve heard everything.”

He hadn’t but I wasn’t going to stress him out even more
today.

Agents Gould and Mattis returned to Washington to deal with
the Randolph Funeral Emporium. It was an upscale, bold new venture that sprang
up in our capital city just about two months ago. The escort part of the
business was bizarre—but also enterprising and clever. Prominent people were
more inclined to plan their funerals. What could be more natural than visiting
a funeral home with those intentions? The newspapers would never suspect that a
Senator visited a funeral home to contract an escort service and sought sex in
the back of a limo with black-tinted windows. A hearse-limo was shrouded in the
same respect and sanctity that applied to death. Even a tabloid photographer
might balk at “desecrating” a carriage intended for the deceased with his
obscene curiosity. I’m sure that’s how Joe would have reasoned. After all, he
was the keeper of the dead.

And if the Senator made frequent visits to Randolph’s
Funeral Emporium, these would be explained as planning follow-ups, making
changes to his initial funeral arrangements.

Bourke kept shaking his head, murmuring, “Not Joe. I can’t
believe it. Not Joe. Why?”

“Money,” I said. Quigley played a role in Joe’s walk over to
the dark side but I didn’t want to go into details. If Quigley had
enthusiastically endorsed Joe’s futuristic toxin and his state-of-the-art
implants, the medical examiner still might have gone ahead with his explosive,
cold scheme. He would have shaken Quigley’s hand with a deadpan expression and
accepted awards for his marvelous invention—then done an about-face and
continued serving Blank. He was a doctor to the dead. One title made him a
healer, the other—a killer.

“How long did you say Joe’s been implicated in this scheme?”
I heard Bourke ask and unfocused from my reflections.

“Ever since I’ve known him, sir,” I said. “He was that good
at his jobs—both of them.”

“So are you,” Bourke said. “When did you figure it out?”

I didn’t want to lie but I also didn’t want Bourke to
backpedal on his compliment.

“When I ran out of suspects, Joe ran out of scapegoats.
That’s when he called me,” I said.

“Weston said something odd to me the other day,” Bourke
said, changing the subject. “He said I should have a chat with you about your
career. He thinks you’d make a damn good lawyer and that the Bureau could use a
good legal counsel. Can you afford to go back to school?”

I smiled in an answer. I really didn’t want to stress him
out more today.

“I’ll think about it, sir,” I promised. “Now, I just want to
go home, sit down with my daughter and draw a family tree that’s filled with
living people—not ghosts.”

My first novel, written when I was a teenager, is still
stored in a carton box—all 1,200 pages of it. Back in those days, my interest
in science fiction and fantasy produced several novels that served me as
training ground for what I subsequently came to write—mystery, romance,
suspense and thrillers. And I’m just venturing into writing erotic romance, and
am finding it very difficult indeed.

I like strong female characters with an irreverent sense of
humor, challenged by hardships and adversity that attack not just on the
emotional but also on the professional level. My characters are driven to the
proverbial brink where there’s nothing left but to give up—or laugh at the
adversity, then start to fight back for their lives. I also like to construct
clever plots with scientific or supernatural twists. It’s a legacy of my love
of science fiction and fantasy.

I live north of Toronto, with my young adults and our two
Wheaten terriers. I am an engineer working in the stormwater management and
technology sector.

Edita welcomes comments from readers. You can find her
website and email address on her
author bio page
at
www.ellorascave.com
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