The Dolomite Solution (15 page)

Martini looked confused. “Murdock wasn't in the military. Was he?” At least that's what Jake Adams had told him.

“I don't believe so. But they did mention Murdock was still in the reserves. Maybe that's why they're sending him here.”

The polizei captain turned sharply. “What do you mean sending him?”

Donicht searched for his words. “I suspect...I would guess they want someone here to make sure everything is handled....”

“I understand. I just don't need someone breathing down my neck.” The captain leaned back. Something made no sense. This entire case was beginning to stink. Someone kills Murdock, an old associate of Jake Adams. And now they were sending someone from the American Air Force to investigate. “Did you get a hold of Jake Adams like I asked?”

“I was hoping you wouldn't ask that,” Donicht said with angst. “I took a couple men to his apartment. He wasn't there. It looks like he picked up and left. His clothes are gone, the whole works. His car is still sitting out front, though. I guess he was afraid to drive it after what happened.” He tried to laugh.

Martini had almost forgotten about the fake bombing to scare Jake Adams. But he didn't believe for a minute it would have shook a man like Adams. It was more likely the man went on the offensive, making him less of a target. “Did you check hotels in town.”

“Yes, sir. In fact, I checked from Axams to Wattens. Nothing. First I asked for him by name, and then I asked for any American fitting his description. Still nothing.”

“Adams is smarter than that,” Martini assured him. “If he wanted to get lost, he could, according to what I've heard about the man. I suspect he's staying in a gasthaus close by, under an assumed name, and he'll pay in cash. Probably Deutsche Marks or Swiss Francs. His German is excellent, so they would never guess he was American. Damn it.”

“Do you think Adams is involved?”

Martini pondered that, and then said, “He's involved whether he likes it or not. Someone's making sure of that. Go home. Get some rest. You'll need it. In the morning I want you to find out everything you can about Leonhard Aldo. At the same time, I want you to send someone to every gasthaus in the area. Show them Adams' picture. The one we took at the funeral home. Find him. When you do reach him, detain him for me. I want another talk with the man.”

Donicht nodded and left. When he was gone, Martini rose and went over to the leather sofa. He sat down and tried to clear his mind of all thought, but it was useless. Too much had happened, and the entire case was his responsibility. Two of his men had been killed in the line of duty, and the faces of their widows following his notification would forever float in his mind, only to be called up in haunting reminder when his own doubt stabbed at his heart. He clicked off the light and lay down. He struggled to gain strength, but all he could hear was the beating of his own heart.

●

Jake lay in darkness, the blonde next to him in bed mumbling something childishly in her dreams. Her arm was over the top of him, her fingernails imbedded in his chest hairs, and her warm breasts pressed firmly against his back.

He thought about what he had found in her purse. Ute was a fairly common German name. Not something to make him suspicious, certainly. Even her last name, Kirsche, was nothing out of the ordinary. And he could have simply left it at that until he noticed the woman's address. She lived at 22 Feldbergstrasse in Frankfurt, the same address his old friend Sergeant Lyons had given him for Allen Murdock. Deshia had also said Murdock's wife's name was Ute. If Jake had been a completely amoral person, this dilemma wouldn't bother him. So what if he had slept with the wife of a former colleague who had been murdered? The problem was, he still had a few morals nagging at him somewhere. And the fact remained that he had also had sex with her just hours after the man had been killed, pulled away from her splendid nakedness to find the man in the alley. That, he realized, had been more than a coincidence. His only problem now was determining how much she knew and when she knew it.

The Boston office of The Journal of Cardiovascular Medicine was far less prestigious than the magazine itself. The building was a two story, with editorial offices on the second floor and the presses and shipping warehouse on the first floor. It was only a short walk to Waterfront Park in one direction, and Paul Revere's House in the other.

Security was not even an issue, as Dominic Varducci's two men found out quickly when they kicked in the outer door to the alley and then made their way through the darkness with red penlights. The larger man, Brachi, stopped alongside pallets stacked with magazines encased in shrink-wrap.

Brachi whispered, “Get set up down here. Place them there, there, there.” He pointed to various pallets and a stack of rags in a 55-gallon drum, that he quietly dumped to the side. “I'll take care of upstairs.”

His partner, Gabbiano, a small man with a scraggly five-day beard, nodded and set his backpack to the cement floor.

Before going upstairs Brachi found a control panel for the fire system and disabled the circuits, and then turned off the water main just in case there was a backup he wasn't aware of. Then he slowly made his way upstairs. When he got there, he stayed close to the walls as he entered the editorial area. There were a few offices with glass walls, but the majority of work stations were simply partitions. He entered the office marked Perry Greenfield and shone his light at the desk, which was covered with papers scattered every which way.

“What a fuckin' pigsty,” Brachi murmured to himself.

From his backpack he removed a bag of flammable fluid with a tiny detonating device, set it gently on the desk, and covered it with crumpled paper. He wasn't overly concerned if someone knew the place was torched, but he also knew that good habits led to positive results. Strong work ethic, that's what Brachi believed in.

He wandered from office to office, as if delivering mail to each desk, whistling a little tune he had learned from his father years ago. When he was done and had planted all his devices, he scanned the area wistfully, knowing that for the first time he would not get a chance to enjoy his work on the television news or read about it in the Globe the next day. He sighed and reluctantly retreated to the first floor.

“You done, bambino?” Brachi whispered rather loudly.

The younger man nearly jumped out of his shoes. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“Take it easy, boy.” Brachi patted his partner on the shoulder. “You get a trip to Italy out a this. You never been to Italy I'll bet.”

Gabbiano laughed. “I never been to Worcester.” He finished setting his last package against a stack of magazines that he had cut open and shredded to make the burn move quicker. “I wasn't sure why uncle Dom had me get the passport two years ago. I guess he had plans for me all along, hey?”

“Now you know, kid. A wise man is prepared. Just like the fuckin' Boy Scouts.” He laughed and checked his watch, and then pulled his young partner toward the door. “Let's go, Bud. We've got ten minutes. Then an hour before our plane.”

Outside they looked up the deserted alley, and then slowly strolled back to the car, Brachi lighting a cigarette, and thinking how in the old days things had been so much easier. Just pour a little gas and drop a match. Now everything was so high tech. Took away the romance of the whole thing.

In forty-five minutes Brachi and Gabbiano sat in the terminal at Logan International Airport waiting for their boarding call for Alitalia Flight 369 to Rome. Gabbiano was reading a People magazine and Brachi was watching a television tuned to local news. A grave looking woman came on with a special report about a fire in progress on Commercial Street, two blocks from Waterfront Park.

Brachi put his hand on his partner's knee, who looked up at the screen and smiled.

On the television a cameraman was trying to work his way through a line of firemen positioning a hose, but was turned back. The building was completely engulfed, the reporter on the scene said. A total loss.

“That's a shame,” Brachi said, feeling an erection rising up in his pants. “I hope that poor bastard had insurance.”

In a moment their flight was called and the two of them lifted their carry-on bags and headed for the line, sifting their way onboard.

●

Sitting in his study in his Cambridge home, Dr. James Winthrop took a sip of Scotch before answering the phone on the third ring.

“Winthrop,” he said.

He listened carefully as his frantic friend, Perry Greenfield, told him to turn on the television. Winthrop found the remote and clicked on the local station, where he watched a building fire in progress.

“What about it?” Winthrop asked.

“That's my building,” Greenfield screeched. “Everything is gone, Jim. My computer. My files. This month's Journal. We had just finished production today, with the newest issue set to be picked up in the morning. Now it's all gone.”

Winthrop tried to calm his friend, yet remembered vividly the conversation he had had with Dominic Varducci at the cafe that morning. “Come by in the morning, Per. We'll talk then. You need to get some rest. I know it's hard. But try. Doctor's orders.”

Greenfield reluctantly agreed and hung up.

Looking down at his hands, Winthrop watched them shake uncontrollably. He poured himself another glass of Scotch and swiftly guzzled the contents. His hands started to calm, so he poured another. Sitting back in his chair, he could feel his heart racing. He took a deep breath and slowly released it. He wasn't sure if he was scared or excited. Maybe both. Slowly he raised his glass and savored the Scotch this time.

Leaning out his window early Friday morning, Jake took in the gloomy Innsbruck scene. The air was cool and damp, the kind that made him want to stay in and drink coffee. Maybe read a good book. But he had things to do and he knew it. His throbbing head had kept him awake most of the night, but was starting to feel better now that he was up and about. He lay awake much of the night thinking about Leonhard Aldo and Tirol Genetics. Had the scientist actually found the secret to heart disease? Jake had also thought about the events of the last few days. What had Allen Murdock been up to? And who wanted him dead?

A few hours ago Ute had woken at his side, unsure where she was, with a headache probably worse than his. As far as he knew she had no idea he had slipped her something. She had said it was the first good night sleep she had had in days, and that was why she felt like shit. Jake had driven her back to her hotel, dropping her off out front. She said she still had a few more days in Innsbruck and would still like to see him. Jake agreed, knowing now he'd like to keep her a little closer.

Jake checked his computer, looking over the information Otto Bergen had sent him the night before. Tirol Genetics was on the cutting edge of technology, that was certain. The DNA link, and the subsequent cure, would propel the company into the next Bayer.

He picked up the phone and punched in his code to check his messages. There was only one, so he hit the star key to listen to it.

“Jake, I'm in Austria.” It was a soft woman's voice and he recognized it immediately. “Why didn't you tell me you were coming to Europe? I'm working an important case, but let's get together when I'm done. I'd really like to see you. Ciao.”

The message was from his old friend, Toni Contardo, he had worked with years ago when they were both with the CIA, him working mostly Germany, and her operating out of Rome. He had almost forgot he left her messages yesterday. Toni had been more than just a friend, and he thought now about a few of the great times they had spent together. The sex and passion had been unrivaled. Yeah, he'd like to see her as well.

Unfortunately, he too was working a case now. He checked his watch. It was seven-thirty. He had the meeting at nine with Otto Bergen at his Tirol Genetics office, and he had a few things he wanted to do before then.

He started for the door and stopped. What the hell. He picked up the phone and punched in Toni's message service, and then left her a quick message saying he'd like to see her too. Then he scanned the room one last time, checked his gun, returned it to the holster under his left arm, slung on his leather jacket, and headed out the door.

After driving to polizei headquarters, entering the front door and being told to go upstairs to see Herr Martini, Jake climbed the stairs and stood outside the man's door thinking for a moment how he wanted to approach him. He slowly opened the door and found the polizei criminal commissioner with his back turned and pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“Have a seat, Mr. Adams,” Martini said. “Would you like some coffee? Maybe a croissant?”

Jake laughed and took a seat. “You have an efficient front desk.”

Martini turned. His eyes looked bloodshot and his hair looked like he had slept on it strangely. “I only wish,” he said. “No. I just happened to look out the window when you got out of the Golf. You didn't like your BMW?”

Jake accepted a cup of coffee from him. “I didn't like the idea of someone strapping a bomb to it. Even if it was a dud.”

The polizei captain took a seat behind his desk. “I've had my men looking for you. You aren't staying at your apartment anymore?”

Jake shrugged. “It was only temporary anyway. Besides, someone shoots at me, tries to set me up for murder, and then straps a bomb to my car. It wouldn't be very intelligent to stay at a place where that person knows I live, would it?”

Martini took a bite from his croissant, chewed and swallowed. “Have one,” he mumbled. “They're very good.”

Jake went and got one, wrapped in a napkin, and started in on it.

“I'm glad you came by, Jake. I need to ask you a few questions.”

“Shoot.” Jake took a sip of coffee.