Near Death (21 page)

Subject 8. TY: Sixty-four-year-old white male. Methadone addict for over twenty years. Chronic poor health, heart failure. Took drug three times. Sees his
deceased wife. Seems more relaxed and tranquil than VD ever recalls. Missed his last appointment. No response to phone calls. Urgent need to follow up on patient’s status.

Cyrus’s hand cramped from rapid note-taking. Stretching it out, he asked, “Is that it?”

“Essentially. When I read about the woman who jumped out the window after taking Bliss I called the police to tell them what I knew.”

“On the news last night you showed one of the red tubes. Where’d you get it?”

“I had my first patient buy me a couple. On the street they’re called
sticks
.” He fished one out of his desk.

Cyrus inspected it. The stick was identical to those in Sacco’s pocket. “What did you do with the other one?” Cyrus asked.

“I sent it to the hospital toxicology laboratory for analysis. They had to refer it out to some place in Kansas City. I’m waiting for the report. For all I know, it’s in my inbox. As I said, I’ve been swamped.”

“Could you please check?”

The small man sighed and swung his chair around to access his e-mail account. “Christ!” he exclaimed. “They
sent it to me yesterday. That’s what happens when you’re understaffed.” He clicked on the attachment. “I’ll print it out.”

Desjardines inspected the two-page report. “Well, this is interesting! I’ve never seen this compound before and apparently the lab in Missouri hasn’t either. It’s a circular peptide: five amino acids in a ring structure.” He looked up and sniffed, “Where the hell did it come from?”

The doctor made a copy and handed it over. To Cyrus, it was gobbledygook. He folded it and put it away.

“So, give me a bottom line,” Cyrus said. “What are we looking at here?”

“My bottom line?” Desjardines frowned. “My bottom line is that I’ve got a very bad feeling about this drug.”

Twenty-eight

The Chinese grad student in Alex’s lab who picked up the phone finally told an insistent Cyrus she thought her boss might be working out at the Harvard indoor track. He liked the idea of catching Weller off guard so he jumped in his car and headed to Cambridge. Avakian was at a parent-teacher meeting at his daughter’s school so Cyrus went alone, trying hard not to think about all the future parent-teacher meetings he’d be missing.

He parked near the Harvard football stadium and showed his badge to get into the Gordon Indoor Track. This late in the morning there weren’t many runners. He spotted Weller immediately, tall and lanky, ponytail bobbing against the back of his t-shirt as he circled the banked brick-red oval. Cyrus climbed onto the bleachers and watched him for half a circuit. He was fluid, a natural runner, and Cyrus felt a pang of jealousy at Weller’s long, seemingly carefree lopes. He’d been a good runner himself years ago. He tried to imagine the fine feeling of cruise speed but it was difficult to remember. Perhaps one day he’d start again. Maybe in the spring.

Weller came out of the turn and promptly locked onto Cyrus. He didn’t slow down or stop, didn’t register surprise or alarm—only a thin-lipped smile and a jabbing finger to his wristwatch, a sign that Cyrus would just have to cool his jets.

I’ll wait for you
, Cyrus thought.
You’re running in circles
.

Weller eventually stopped in front of the bleachers and stood, hands on hips, while Cyrus climbed down. In between breaths he said, “Sorry to keep you waiting … but you lose the benefit when your heart slows down … at least that’s the theory.”

“Do a lot of running?” Cyrus asked.

“Just enough to counteract the beer.”

Cyrus refused to respond in kind. “Do you know why I’m here?”

“Frank Sacco?” Alex asked. “Is the FBI involved with Frank’s murder?”

“We’re aware of it. I’m interested in what you know.” He studied Weller’s eyes for an evasive glance, a twitch, but there was nothing.

“I know what I’ve seen on the news, read online. It’s horrible. I’ve known the lad for three years. He was a good
worker, a pleasant fellow; never had issues with him. I was shocked he was involved with anything like this.”

“Anything like what?”

“Whatever it was that would have led to someone killing him!” Alex had a water bottle and towel on the lowest bleacher step. He reached for them.

“Do you know where he lived?”

“Of course. Revere.”

“Ever been to his house?”

“We didn’t have that kind of relationship.”

“Did he ever go to your house?”

“Yes, several times.”

“I thought you didn’t have that kind of relationship.”

“He attended my salon.”

“The Uroboros thing.”

“That’s right.”

“Active participant?”

“He wasn’t much of a talker.”

“When was the last time he attended?”

“A couple of weeks ago. Early January sometime.”

“I thought you said you’d invite me to the next one you had.”

A sip from the water bottle. “Must’ve slipped my mind.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“At work the day he died. He seemed perfectly normal.”

“Nothing at all to indicate he was nervous, stressed out, in any kind of trouble?”

“Nothing.”

“Where were you two nights ago? In your lab again?”

“No, actually. I was home with my girlfriend the entire night.”

“I might want to talk to her.”

“She’d be delighted, I’m sure.”

“Any past issues with Sacco’s performance, his behavior, any signs of drug use?”

Alex toweled his arms dry. “He was a bit rough around the edges but he came to work without fail, did his job adequately and that’s that. So, look, I’ve really got to get back to the lab. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

Cyrus watched closely as he told him, “Yeah, there’s one more thing.” He produced Desjardines’ report and showed it to him. “Ever seen this chemical?”

Cyrus almost wished he had the guy hooked up to a polygraph because from the outside he looked cool and nonchalant when he answered, “I certainly have. I discovered it. Where did you get this?”

“You discovered it?”

“That’s what I said. No one else has seen this so I’m surprised, to say the least.”

“You don’t look surprised.”

“I’m British. Maybe you’re not used to our demeanor.”

“Maybe. Are you aware that a new drug called Bliss is on the streets?”

“I’ve read a little about it. I don’t follow the news religiously.”

“Well, it looks like your chemical
is
Bliss. This was analyzed from a sample bought on the street.”

“I see,” Alex said evenly. “Mind if we sit? Bit much to take in.”

They sat on the lowest step. Cyrus let Alex read through the lab report more thoroughly.

“Do you want to know why I may not have seemed as surprised as I might have been?” Alex asked.

“Try me.”

“This compound, this pentapeptide: I had a small supply of it locked away in my desk. It went missing.”

“When?”

“About a month ago.”

“Did you report it to the police?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Alex paused. It occurred to Cyrus he was rehearsing the answer in his mind. “It’s a thorny matter of intellectual property. I haven’t filed patents yet. I’m not ready scientifically. If I filed a complaint with the police, I would have had to prematurely disclose details, such as the structure.”

“Uh huh,” Cyrus said skeptically. “What’s your reaction to it being used as a street drug?”

“I’m horrified by the notion. It’s not intended for human use. There’s been no testing whatsoever.”

Horrified? You don’t look horrified
, Cyrus thought. “What’s the source of the chemical? How’d you discover it?”

“You recall I’m interested in the biology of the dying brain. My compound was isolated from the brains of animals suffering from severe oxygen deprivation, close to time of death.”

“What kind of animals?”

“Mice, rats, dogs.”

“You used the word
isolated
. How do you isolate it?”

“You mean my techniques?”

“Yeah. How do you get the chemical out of the brain?”

“Well, you put a needle into the brain and extract a sample. Why do you need to know that?”

Cyrus didn’t answer. He felt his heart pound and tried to sound as controlled as Weller was. “What about humans?”

“I wouldn’t know that, would I?”

“That’d be a hell of an experiment,” Cyrus said. “What would you have to do, drill a person’s brain?”

“It’s a ridiculous idea! I can’t imagine anyone volunteering for that!” Alex collected his things and stood.

“Yeah, you definitely wouldn’t raise your hand for that kind of maneuver,” Cyrus said. He stood too. “What’s the purpose of the chemical?”

“I’m sorry, its purpose?”

“Yeah. What does it do?”

“It activates a receptor in a part of the brain called the limbic system. Beyond that, I don’t know. It’s early days in the research program.”

Cyrus said suddenly, “Did it occur to you that Frank Sacco might have taken your chemical?”

“Until now, no. Based on what I’ve just learned, I’d have to consider it. He didn’t have a key to my desk but maybe he knew where I kept it. I’m very troubled, to say the least. I’ve got to go. Sorry.”

Cyrus walked with him toward the locker room. “So what do you make of the wild trips people are describing, the ones who’ve taken your drug?”

Alex stopped at the locker room door. “I hadn’t been paying much attention. Obviously, now that I know it’s mine, I plan on paying quite a bit. I’m very troubled, but I’m a scientist so I’ll process whatever data comes my way.” He swung the door open then recollected himself. “I’ve been remiss. I’ve neglected to ask after your daughter.”

Cyrus winced. “She’s fine.”

“Seizure-free?”

Cyrus wouldn’t let him take back control. “I said she’s fine. I’ll be back to you soon with more questions.”

“I’m sure you will.”

Then Cyrus he lowered his voice and said, “I know what you did.”

Alex looked at him quizzically. “What did you say?”

At the question, Cyrus turned his back to him and left.

Twenty-nine

“Don’t take it so hard.”

Stanley Minot was doing his best to be supportive but Cyrus was in a foul mood. The U.S. attorney for the District of Massachusetts had shot down their request for a search warrant on Alex Weller’s workplace, home, and automobile. Despite a loosely cohesive story, there was no credible evidence, in her opinion, to link Weller to the murders of Thomas Quinn, any of the prostitutes, or Frank Sacco. “Keep digging,” she’d said before escorting him and Avakian to the elevators at the Moakley Federal Courthouse.

“Weller’s our man,” Cyrus told Minot glumly. “I know it, you know it.”

Minot dug his hands into his sweater pockets, stretching them out, as he often did when he was about to be philosophical. “Look, I think you’re building a case. The circumstantial evidence is getting compelling but you’ve got to convince the U.S. attorney, not me.”

“I think Weller’s a twisted fuck,” Avakian volunteered.

“Well, that’ll put us over the evidentiary hurdle, Pete.” Minot laughed.

Minot’s mobile rang. He stepped out of Cyrus’s office to answer it.

“What now?” Avakian asked O’Malley.

“We need to interview Weller’s girlfriend again. She vouched for him the night Sacco was killed but she was shaky. Maybe we can get her to slip up. And we need to get the names and addresses of everyone who’s in this Uroboros deal.”

“Bunch of wackos,” Avakian observed.

“Maybe. But we need to talk to them.”

Minot came back with a grave face. “When it rains it pours. We’ve got to drop everything.”

“What is it?” Avakian asked.

“Kidnapping. And I was going to catch up on paperwork today.”

“Why’s it ours?” Cyrus asked sourly.

“It’s probably interstate,” Minot said. “A guy’s wife and baby were taken from Nashua. The kidnapper’s plates were from Mass. Grab your stuff. We’re going to Woburn.”

“Why Woburn?” Avakian groused.

“The husband works there at a biotech company.”

“What’s he do?” Cyrus wondered.

Minot checked his notes. “Says he’s some kind of a chemist. A peptide chemist.”

Paul Martell was in his midthirties, a man with a pasty complexion and a doughy body. Love handles bulged around his polo shirt and spilled over his khakis. His eyes were red; it looked to Cyrus that he’d been bawling his eyes out.

They interviewed him in the company’s boardroom. Chemotherapeutics, Inc. was a start-up operation, only a few years old. Cyrus heard something about cancer and made a mental note to check if they had anything new going for brain tumors. The company’s CEO was pacing the hall outside the boardroom incessantly yapping on his mobile. He was the one who found Martell in the lab burning the midnight oil over the weekend. Martell broke down and told him what was happening. The CEO called the police.

On Friday night, Martell told O’Malley and his team, he and his wife, Marcie, were watching TV. Their six-month-old baby was asleep in her crib. Marcie, as usual, had one ear on the TV, one on the baby monitor. The doorbell rang, probably a neighbor, she thought, but it wasn’t.

Two men barged in. Martell didn’t know them—and still doesn’t. They brandished guns, made no effort to conceal
their faces. They told him they knew he was a peptide chemist. They had a bottle of powder. They wanted him to make them more of it, right away: and to keep him motivated, they were taking his wife. Then they heard the baby crying on the monitor—the kid too. Martell needed to get cranking. They wanted half of the goods Saturday night. They’d check it out. If it was good, they wanted the other half Monday. Then they’d let his family go. If the stuff he made was crap, God help him.

“How’d they know you were a peptide chemist?” Cyrus asked.

“They said they needed one, asked around, knew someone who knew me from somewhere and Googled me. That’s all I know.”

Martell told the kidnappers he had no idea what the crystals were or how long it would take him to do a synthesis. His problem, not theirs, he was told. They made his wife bundle up the baby and get in a waiting car. As it drove off, Martell saw a Mass plate and glimpsed only one number, a three. It was a black Maxima, he thought.