“I might have believed that if we hadn’t taken them into custody earlier.”
Detective Clemente tossed two photos on the table in front of her, and Max felt her stomach do a back flip — and land badly.
She looked down at the pictures of Joshua and Alec — they were on a floor, their eyes closed, their faces peaceful.
Trying not to betray the emotion she felt, she asked, “Are they dead?”
Shaking his head, the detective said, “No — but they had a hell of a close call.”
“What happened to them?”
“They were attacked by someone who almost electrocuted them.”
“What?”
“With stun rods.”
“Where did this happen? When?”
“An apartment house of squatters in Queen Anne — over on Crockett.”
Max tried to make sense of it, but couldn’t add anything up. “What were they doing there?”
Clemente studied her. “You’re asking me?”
“Yes I’m asking you!”
“You really don’t know?”
“They were gone for hours before I even found out they were on the outside.”
“Are you saying they’d already gone over the fence when you told your people to stay put?”
She drew a deep breath, let it out. “I wish I could tell you that... No. They knew about my order.”
Max stopped short of telling the cop that these were two of her closest comrades.
“Shit,” Clemente was saying. “I was hoping you’d know something.”
She glanced around. “Is this location really secure?”
“Yes. Swept it for bugs this morning. And there’s been no sign of White or his people.”
“Ramon — why were you hoping I would know something? You’re the one on the outside. What’s your problem?”
The detective reached beside him, into a briefcase, and pulled out more pictures, arraying them around the table. Max looked them over as he spoke. “The stun rod you see in these photos...”
“Yeah?”
“It belongs to one of the murdered officers who was skinned.”
Max rocked back in the booth as if she’d been punched.
Clemente bore down on her. “Any idea why they went to the school?”
She shook her head. “None. I’m telling you, I don’t even know why they left Terminal City.” She sat forward, almost pleading. “Could you take me to them? Could I see them?”
“No. Anyway, they’re still unconscious. They’re in a hospital — safe... and they’re going to be all right.”
“You have to let me look into this,” Max pleaded.
“No way. No way! If you can help us from inside, fine. Otherwise this is a police matter and we’ll take care of it.”
“My guys did not kill those officers.”
Clemente put a hand out and touched hers — a shockingly intimate move meant to reassure her. Which it did.
“I know that,” Clemente said. “In fact, my guess is, somehow they either found... or stumbled into the killer. Whoever it is, he’s the dangerous one. I mean, Max — this guy got the drop on... and nearly killed... two transgenics.”
“Which is why you should let me hit the streets and find out what is up with this!”
“No — Max, the bottom line here is, this is a police matter. You have to go back inside and be the leader those people need right now.”
She sighed. “Yeah... Yeah, I know. People I trust keep telling me that.”
“And I’m one of them?”
“You’re one.”
“Then I hope you’ll take this the right when I say... I’ve got more bad news to share with you.”
Max again locked eyes with him, wondering if she could take any more.
“Someone,” Clemente said, “has pulled some strings.”
“What now?”
“A clock has started ticking. We’ve got till Friday. The feds say, if we locals can’t settle this within a week, they’ll come in and take over.”
“Ames White,” Max said.
Nodding, Clemente said, “My best guess, too. But who pulled the strings doesn’t matter — all that matters is, if this standoff isn’t settled by Friday, the Army will move in on Terminal City — tanks’ll come rolling right through those fences.”
Max said nothing.
“So how do we settle this thing, you and I?” Clemente asked.
“We find that killer.”
“I’ll find him — but I see your point. As long as the media is filled with a transgenic Jack the Ripper, negotiating with Terminal City gets lost in the alarmist shuffle.”
“Well put. Where are you with the investigation?”
With a shrug, Clemente said, “We’ve searched the apartment where your friends were found. It’s been cleared out. It’s a squatter’s flat, like I said, so we have no name, and the neighbors didn’t ever remember seeing the guy. We got some skin cells from the shower drain, could be the killer, could be skin from one of the victims. We won’t know for a while.”
“What about the DNA evidence White gave you?”
Clemente started to say something, then seemed to change his mind. “I won’t bullshit you. How did you figure that White shared DNA evidence with us?”
“It wasn’t exactly the Enigma code, Ramon. You guys wouldn’t have put the word out that this was a transgenic killer if you didn’t have something... and White would be eager to provide that, I’m sure.”
Nodding, Clemente said, “White’s team got skin cells off this piece of top secret equipment that the killer took from his first victim.”
“Oh, you mean the shoe salesman?”
Clemente took the bait. “Yeah — the shoe salesman... who really worked for the NSA, only I never told you that.”
So, Logan had been right: the first victim was one of White’s people.
Max asked, “Why didn’t White give you this key piece of evidence immediately?”
Clemente gazed at her with respect. “You’d have made a good cop, Max. That was my first question too.”
“And the answer?”
The cop shrugged. “White said the killer stole the piece of equipment, and it had only been retrieved recently.”
“Retrieved?”
“White was a little vague on that part,” Clemente admitted.
“You believe him?”
“Don’t really have a choice. Anyway, under a press-blackout restriction, he did give me possession of that gizmo for twenty-four hours. It was smashed up, and covered in blood — the victim’s blood — and it matched up perfectly. The lab also found more skin cells from the killer, and we ran our own DNA tests and the killer is definitely transgenic.”
“According to evidence provided by Ames White,” she said.
He shook his head. “If this evidence is faked, it’s head and shoulders above anything I’ve ever come across. I’ve seen the government try to cover shit up before and they suck at it. Your little community across the street comes to mind as an example.”
“Point taken,” she said. “What about fingerprints?”
“None anywhere. Not at the scenes of the crimes, none on that piece of equipment, none on the stun rods, and none in the apartment.”
Frowning, she asked, “How is that even possible?”
Clemente sat back in the booth. “I have no idea.”
Max decided that the best way to show her sincerity would be to level with Clemente. “Suppose I told you I already knew that the first victim worked for White?”
“How?”
“By putting the pieces together from what you told me, and the computer work of a friend. And I also know that our dead NSA ‘shoe salesman’ had a young partner who left the agency at the same time — with full disability.”
Clemente was sitting forward, scribbling this in a small notebook. “What’s the partner’s name?”
“You’re not going to find him. He’s gone to ground.”