“It's done, Dr. Coran, and might I say that I think your decision to forward samples to D.C. appropriate, under the circumstances.”
It sounded pretty lame and perfunctory, and well rehearsed to boot, but Jessica simply said, “Thank you, Dr. Heyward. I only hope it nets us some results. I've asked an associate in D.C. to place it on a front burner as soon as it arrives. We've done the same with the DNA samples taken by Shockley. I hope your department isn't taking this personally.”
“You understand, Doctor, that these things take time. I'm only sorry we could not find any concentrated poison to have been of use.”
“Yes, well, thanks. Did you test the wineglasses?”
“We did, of course, and found nothing other than… wine, a Pinot Noir, actually.”
“Appellation and year?”
“We're not that good.”
“Was it the same at every crime scene?”
“I think our guy brings it with him; certainly it's his preference.”
“Our FBI lab has a high-tech device that separates out every chemical. Those glasses will be tested for everything conceivable. They're bound to hit on something.”
“Yes, I've read about the Super-Separator, as they call it, but sorry to say we could hardly afford it at a two-mil price tag.”
Once again, the economics of death investigation, she thought. She'd heard it in hamlets small and large, and Philly by any standard was a large, complex city, filled with as much crime as any major city in America. “Yeah, I know, Dr. Heyward. People give lip service to fighting crime, but they don't want to spend any money on it.”
“You got that right.”
They said their good nights and Jessica saw that it had grown late, nearing seven p.m., almost four days since the discovery of Maurice Deneau's body. Why had James Parry not involved her more in the day-to-day investigation? What had he gotten from the young man's diary and annotations in his books? The idea the chief special agent on the case was avoiding her grew to enormous proportions in her mind. Troubling, if it were true. She told herself that he must be extremely busy, but that sounded like excuse making for him. Still, if he weren't extremely busy, then what? Busy as hell or else… It was the or else that worried her the most.
She imagined he might be in turmoil over their having to work together, that their being thrown into this situation was more crippling for him than for her. Perhaps Parry felt as much frustration with the case and the failure of the toxicology lab to isolate the poison in the ink as she had felt; in fact, this was likely. Perhaps he had called a luncheon meeting with DeAngelos to take a crack at the self-important ass himself, wanting Sturtevante in his corner instead of Jessica.
Perhaps this was reason enough to telephone Jim, tell him she had gotten DeAngelos's department off their asses-and get Jim's reaction. Reason enough, she told herself. Perhaps if she made the first move, this awkward game of hide-and-seek between them might end; in the long run, their not dealing with each other on a professional level was not good for the case. She guessed that he was thinking the same thing.
Tired and frustrated, she dialed Parry's office, only to leam that he had left for the day, and that she had missed him by some fifteen or twenty minutes, this according to another agent who sounded tired of hearing his ringing phone. “Any messages, Dr. Coran?”
“No, none. I'll try again tomorrow.”
When she looked up, Jim Parry stood in the doorway, leaning against the jamb. “Looking for me?” he asked, his boyish grin reminding her of why she had first gotten involved with him some four years ago.
“Matter of fact, yes. Wanted your take on this cheerful fellow who goes around cutting iambic pentameter into the backs of his victims and leaving them dead by poison. And what's up with DeAngelos?”
“DeAngelos? Had lunch with him today. He's not exactly president of your fan club either.”
“Why do you say that? What'd he have to say?”
“Says you're pushy.”
“Oh, is that how he put it?”
“Close enough.”
“You mean with your sensitivity to offensive language, you can't repeat such words?”
“It wasn't that bad.” Parry managed a smile.
“So have you and Leanne cracked the case yet?” she asked. “It would appear the two of you are working it alone.”
“That's not fair, Jess, but yeah, sure, with zip to go on we've cracked the case wide open.” He let out a long, exasperated sigh and stepped closer to her desk. “This is beginning to remind me of a case we worked in Hawaii in '90, before I met you. Forensics on the case had nothing.”
“Are you telling me that your meeting with DeAngelos today went badly?” She leaned over the desk, a half smile on her face. “Now he's a cheerful fellow.”
“So, you've been tracking my movements?”
“Damn straight I have. It appears the only way I can know what's going on around here. You haven't exactly been forthcoming, Jim.”
“Sturtevante's idea to jump on DeAngelos and shake something loose from him. Identifying the poison is key to the case.”
“I should have been asked to the table, Jim.”
He dropped his steady gaze, nodding. “Yeah, I know, Jess, and I'm sorry. Some mix-up in communications.”
“A big one, I'd say, since Kim wasn't invited either.”
“It was a big waste of time. You two would have heard nothing. Trust me.”
“What precisely did you discuss?”
“Filled his ear with a lot of questions, but got very little out of him. That is, until he started talking about how you're in his face all the time, how he can't make any headway with the FBI looking over his shoulder. Said the two of you mutually agreed to have all the test samples forwarded to my office for routing to Washington.”
“Mutually agreed, huh? He said that?”
“Yeah, is that how it came about?”
“Result's the same; no matter. And according to his assistant, Heyward, the samples're in your hands now.”
He breathed deeply, and pushing to a full standing position, said, “Fact is, they're on their way to D.C. as we speak. Your best toxicology team's making it priority one.”
“Good… good.”
“Happy?” he asked.
“Relatively, yes. Very happy, actually.”
“I mean about the samples getting off in so timely a fashion.”
“Yes, that's what I'm talking about.”
“Oh, yeah, of course…”
“Maybe this idea of us trying to work together, Jim… maybe it's foolhardy to think we can if…”
“Come on, Jess. What're you getting at?”
“… if we don't even hear the simplest of words the same way? If every little thing has to be scrutinized and analyzed for double entendre, innuendo.”
“Hey, I only said what I said. No hidden agenda.”
'Tell that to your subconscious, and I suppose mine. You can't deny, Jim, that a lot of business has gone unfinished between us. And that right now there are at least eight people in the room.”
“Eight in the room? I don't recall that many in bed with us,” he replied, smiling.
“There's the me I think I am, the me I want to be, the me you want to be, the me I really am, as well as the you you think you are, the you you want to be, the you that I want you to be, and the you you really are. He repeated her words. “Eight people between us. How'd it get so complicated? Why?”
She shook her head, still sitting safely behind the desk, glad it stood between them. “I don't know.”
He near whispered, “I'm sorry it ended so badly, Jess. Really I am.”
“So am I.”
“You deserved more than a telephone good-bye.”
Her eyes widened. “Well, thank you, Mr. Parry, for that acknowledgment.”
“But as usual, distance was the demon.”
“Oh, sure, Jim. Place blame on something other than yourself, some intangible, that poor James Parry could do nothing about, like distance.”
“Hey, hold on, Jess.”
“You might've come to London when I asked; we might've ended things better there.”