Stolen in Paradise (A Lei Crime Companion Novel) (2 page)

That was where the resemblance to anything familiar ended—boxy contraptions sprouting wires, racks of tubes, jumbled logbooks, pipettes, and glassware crowded the counters. Round, humming white freezers squatted in a row. A venting system dangled elephantine flexible piping over each workstation.

A woman and two men communed with microscopes as harp music massaged the atmosphere. Marcella was about to shatter the focused, peaceful work environment, and she felt a twinge of regret. Breaking bad news was one of her least-favorite parts of the job.

“I’m Jarod Fernandez,” the young man said. He flapped a white-gloved hand at them. “Sterile. Can’t shake.”

He made a sound with his throat, almost a cough. His white lab coat confirmed his identity with a small block-printed patch that proclaimed
FERNANDEZ
. Marcella no longer found men in lab coats attractive and almost forcibly suppressed a memory of a time when that had been far from the case.

“That’s fine. Can you gather your colleagues? We’re hoping to get some information regarding an investigation involving Dr. Pettigrew,” Rogers said.

Fernandez went to the sound system and punched the Off button on an iPod.

“These FBI agents have some questions,” he announced to the room at large.

Three heads swiveled their way, eyes blinking in what was clearly an adjustment to intrusion from the outside world. The woman, a rounded brunette, turned off her mysterious equipment and rolled her stool over in front of the agents.

“Cindy Moku,” she said. “What’s this about?” She had thick, lustrous long hair in a braid and a classically beautiful Hawaiian face with dark, long-lashed eyes and a mouth with a curl to it, even though she wasn’t smiling.

The other two men had joined them.

“I’m wondering, too,” the short, dark one said, almost vibrating with energy. “I’m Zosar Abed. Something up with Dr. Pettigrew? She didn’t come in yesterday—is something wrong?”

“Let them ask the questions,” the square-built Korean one said, adjusting black-framed glasses over his nose. “My name’s Peter Kim.”

“Well, we’re here with some bad news,” Marcella said, her eyes taking in reactions on each of their faces. “Dr. Pettigrew is dead.”

Gasps all round. Moku clapped her hand to her mouth, eyes spontaneously filling. “Oh no.”

The men had gone wooden-faced, and it was Fernandez, the young man who’d let them in, who finally spoke.

“How?”

“She was murdered.” Marcella kept her eyes moving. The Korean guy had his hands in his lab coat pockets, was jiggling something in there. “What were you working on? Anything that might get her killed?”

“No. No.” The Indian guy now looked on the verge of a meltdown, chocolate eyes overflowing as he patted around for a tissue and ended up wiping his eyes with a square of wax paper. “This is terrible. We all loved her. We need her for our program, our research. She was a great woman. Murdered?”

He burst into the harsh kind of sobbing that made male grief painful to watch.

Moku put her arms around him and the Korean guy patted his back. Only Fernandez kept his arms at his sides, but his Adam’s apple fluctuated like a bobber on a fishing line, as he uttered a series of froglike grunts. Marcella punched their names into her multipurpose phone to run background, wondering if he had Tourette’s.

“What were you working on?” Rogers had located a box of tissues and presented them to the distraught intern, who tore out handfuls and covered his face with them.

“We’re doing an important project,” Moku said. “Biotech chemistry involving the formulation of an enzyme that binds protein in photosynthesis.”

“Doesn’t sound very controversial.” Marcella typed “biotech enzyme” into her notes on her phone, but didn’t catch the rest.

“It’s important research. It would revolutionize the time it takes for algae to grow. We have our first cell stock of what we’ve nicknamed BioGreen. It’s got the potential to be the answer to world hunger and the key to biofuels becoming a viable oil alternative.” Peter Kim fussed with his glasses again.

“Now we’re talking,” Marcella said with a hint of her dimple as a reward. “Can you explain it in layman’s terms?”

The Indian guy seemed to be pulling himself together. “There’s an enzyme involved in photosynthesis called RuBisCO. People have been trying for years to get it to bind faster in the photosynthesis process so that growth in plants can be accelerated. BioGreen takes just days to grow to harvestable volume.”

“Shee-it!” Rogers said. “I grew up on a farm, so I’m trying to picture that.”

“Here.” Cindy Moku, not to be outdone, turned to a nearby monitor and woke it up. “Check this out.”

She activated a video icon, and Marcella watched a time-lapse video of a small patch of algae seemingly exploding in size to fill the pond area. “This is time lapse of two days.” Cindy pointed to the counter in the corner of the video. “We just developed this video before we harvested a batch of cell stock.”

“Where is that?” Marcella asked.

“We keep the data, the lab books, and the cell stock formula locked up, and only Ron Truman, our lead researcher, has the key besides Dr. Pettigrew.”

“Where’s Mr. Truman?”

“Dr. Truman. Don’t know. He was supposed to be in,” Abed said. They all glanced at one another.

“Let’s take a look at the back room,” Marcella said.

Kim led the way to a door in the corner of the lab, and his abrupt stop caused them to pile up.

The door had been jimmied. Splintered wood and pry marks gave testament to an illegal entrance. Inside, papers were scattered everywhere in the small windowless space, boxes of materials upended.

“Oh my God,” Moku breathed. “We had the results on a laptop on the desk and our lab books piled next to it with the cell stock in a sealed canister. It’s all gone!”

Rogers took a camera out of his bag and photographed the scene as Marcella oversaw Kim making calls to all the numbers they had for Ron Truman, and he eventually answered his cell phone.

“Come down to the lab,” Kim barked. “Dr. Pettigrew’s dead and the formula and cell stock are gone.” He closed his phone on the head researcher’s hysterical squawks. “Do you think Dr. Truman did it?”

“We’ll proceed with our investigation and pursue every lead,” Marcella said evenly. She herded the interns out of the back room and turned to Rogers. “Impressions?”

“Moku told me nothing else seems to be missing. This mess could be a red herring, trying to make it look like some outsider broke in,” Rogers said. “Let’s keep them here, get initial statements before they have time to figure out their stories.”

“I’ll get some background checks in on these lab rats.” Marcella stepped outside into the hallway and called the central Bureau office for a full workup on each of the interns, starting with Dr. Ron Truman. She was still on the phone when a man approached her at a run, white coat flapping.

The ID badge bouncing just above his crotch declared him the missing Dr. Truman. He pulled up in front of her, fisting bulky arms on his hips. Bold green eyes lit a face better suited to magazine covers than a laboratory as he flexed square jaws in a good imitation of outrage. He was definitely hot, and she felt a tingle.

“What the hell’s going on in my lab?”

“Dr. Pettigrew’s been murdered and your research is missing.”

“Holy shit,” Truman replied, and punched a code into the pad by the steel door, pushing it open with Marcella close behind. “What happened?” he bellowed to the interns clustered around Rogers.

“Someone stole the cell stock, our lab books, and the formula laptop!” Moku said.

“And Dr. Pettigrew’s dead!” Abed wailed.

To Marcella’s surprise, Truman opened his arms as he walked toward them, and each of the PhD candidates dropped what they were doing and crowded in for a group hug, Abed and Moku giving in to renewed tears and Fernandez croaking like a jungle’s worth of tree frogs.

“It’s probably one of them, given the restricted access to the main door,” Marcella whispered to Rogers, unimpressed by the emotional display. “Let’s isolate them, take fingerprints and DNA, do alibi statements, and seal the lab.”

“Copy that.” Rogers picked up the portable crime case he’d brought in and moved in on Peter Kim while Marcella pulled Ron Truman aside.

“Come with me, please.” She led him into the back room, took up a power position behind a counter. The handsome Dr. Truman propped one ass cheek on a stool and folded his arms.

“I heard you tell the other agent you were going to seal the lab. That’s out of the question. There are a plethora of time-sensitive projects in the works.”

“This lab is part of a crime scene. Who knows; Dr. Pettigrew may have been killed here. In any case, this lab is now officially closed.”

“Can we at least put some of our work on thumb drives?”

“Out of the question. Until cleared, these computers are a key element in the investigation.”

Truman pushed away from the tall steel stool, paced. His eyes fell on the pry marks around the open door, and he spun to pace the other direction, pushing a hand though blond Ken-doll locks. “This is bad,” he muttered.

“I need you to give a brief statement, which I will record. We’ll follow up with longer interviews later.” Marcella set her phone on the counter, turning the video feature on, and Truman sat, frowning into the blinking red light. “Where were you yesterday evening?”

“With someone.”

“Name and address?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Murder is complicated. This is your alibi; I suggest you provide the information.” Marcella softened her voice and gave a dimpled smile.

“Well. It’s like this. I’m married. But…I met someone. We were together.”

Marcella felt the tingle he’d aroused drown in a wash of contempt. “Name. Address.”

“I told my wife I was working late at the lab. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t bother her about this.”

“I can’t promise that she won’t find something out, but I don’t see at this time that your alibi need concern her.”

“Well, then, I’m not going to say—and anyway, it’s nothing to do with Dr. Pettigrew.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

“I’m sorry. Right now I’m not going to tell you.”

Brown eyes clashed with green. Marcella shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll find out where you were. It’s just going to take longer and be more embarrassing—your choice. DNA sample now, to rule you out, and fingerprints.” He submitted to the fingerprinting and DNA swab with ill grace. “Send in Moku. We’ll talk more.”

He straightened up, jaw squared, and strode out.

Marcella’s phone rang, a blare of “We Are the Champions,” the ringtone she used for the Honolulu Police Department. She sat on the metal stool and picked up.

“Special Agent Scott here.”

“This is Detective Kamuela. We wanted to check in with you before we went and did death notification—next of kin is one Natalie Pettigrew, niece. Dr. Pettigrew wasn’t married and had no other relatives in the area.” Kamuela had a voice like dark chocolate—husky, with the underlying rhythmic cadence of the islands.

“We’ll do the notification,” Marcella said, thinking fast. “Dr. Pettigrew’s research project is gone—stolen—and we’ve got some interesting possible suspects in the lab crew. Looks like it could be an inside job dressed up to look like a burglary.”

“Want me to send in a sweeper crew?”

“We’ve got our own lab, but thanks.”

“So much for interagency cooperation.” The chocolate had some bite to it.

“This
is
us cooperating. Trust me. You want our people working the lab stuff. We’re much less backed up.”

“So why do you want to do the death notification?” He still sounded pissy.

“Next of kin is always an important interview. We need to get eyes on this girl.” Marcella was already pulling Natalie Pettigrew up on her phone’s connection to the local law enforcement database. “Looks like Miss Pettigrew has some priors—marijuana possession and two assaults that look like bar fights.”

“Yeah. Girl’s got some psychiatric history, too,” Kamuela said. “Rumor has it she’s bipolar, no meds.”

“Who’s your source on that?”

“I’ve got a confidential informant—no need for more detail at this time.”

Marcella winced. He was paying her back for taking over so much of the investigation. Well, screw him and his tender male ego, she thought irritably. “We’re sealing the place and doing initial statements with the microscope jockeys in here. We’ll do follow-up interviews with them back at HQ. You can be present for those.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“We need your assistance. I didn’t mean to sound…” She tapped her toe against the metal rung of the stool, annoyed with the standoff. “Dammit. Don’t be like that. We need to work together.”

A long pause. He seemed to relent, because he said, “Well, we didn’t turn anything up in the canvassing of the beach.”

“Not surprised. I’m guessing she went into the Ala Wai Canal and washed up on Waikiki later. I’ll check in with you guys after the death notification. Thanks for calling.” Marcella punched off, hoping her next contact would go better. Keeping things moving with local PD always had its challenges.

Truman had closed the door behind him, and Cindy Moku looked through the little glass pane in the door. Marcella got up to let her in, gesturing to the steel stool.

She activated the phone’s record feature. “Please state your name, address, and where you were last night.”

Moku’s shiny brown complexion had gone gray around the lips and nostrils. Her eyes were puffy from crying.

“Dr. Cindy Moku. Or almost. I’m finishing my doctorate on this project. I live in Honolulu.” She gave an address. “I was home. Studying.”

“Anyone able to verify your whereabouts?”

“You don’t think one of us did it? We all loved Dr. Pettigrew. Or at least, we respected her. We needed her. She was our PI.”

This was the first glimmer of a side to Pettigrew that was less than ideal. “You didn’t love her? And what’s a PI?”

“I…I respected her. She wasn’t the warm, fuzzy type. And she was our PI, which is a primary investigator, the head of a project. Without her and the research…I don’t know. The last two years of our work could be gone. The last two years of our lives. My doctorate.” Moku’s voice wobbled.