“Whoa, sister, I won’t talk about anyone’s involvement but my own. Nationwide, though? Good people, righteous organizations, are finally standing up, taking an activist approach.” The kid had his martyr’s speech down. He sounded like Mr. Sweet-only this kid actually believed.
“Putting worms in the water that eat through people’s skin-you see that as a good thing.”
“The parasites are a total gross-out, I agree. But they don’t take lives. They don’t cause any more misery than overdevelopment has caused our environment. That’s why I went to Mr. Hartman-I’ve never said he’s not just as guilty as I am, remember. Dig what I’m telling you? I’m the one who insisted on talking to police.”
Dasha said, “More of your sabotage-to give Tropicane a bad name.”
“No. Just like I told the detective: I don’t participate in activities that kill people. Someone murdered Dr. Matthews. Probably Dr. Applebee, too. Someone who works for Tropicane, I think. Secretly, I’d been wondering about it. There are a couple of dudes here on the Chicken Farm who’re wrapped too tight. Wiccans, a Pagan-I have my own ideas, but that’s all I’m going to say.
“Today, though, I saw proof that the woman was murdered. And I saw a very good man-a spiritual man-in terrible pain that I’m partially responsible for.” The kid threw his hands up. “No more. I’m done with it. Inflicting pain is very negative karma.”
He’d said that before, too.
The Russian looked at the desk clock: 6:20 P.M. Time to invite some negative karma of her own.
“A couple times, I’ve asked you to telephone the man you mentioned. Ford? Asked you to tell me details about him. Each time, you refuse to do me this small favor.”
“Dr. Ford is a fairly well-known biologist-although I personally find his papers middle-of-the-road. He refuses to take an advocacy position in his work. You want me to lie to him-that’s why I won’t call. I don’t kill, and I won’t lie!” Reynolds’s superior tone was infuriating.
“Not a lie. Tell the man to drive to the canal where you found the phone. Detective Heller says the police are still searching.”
“No, they’re not, and you know it. I got the phone; gave it to Heller myself. I panicked, thinking I might be implicated in Dr. Matthews’s murder. That’s why I went back and fished the thing out. The cops have no reason to keep searching.”
“Maybe they’re trying to find something else.”
“Bullshit.”
Dasha had the rolled-up newspaper in her hand. She didn’t think she’d have any trouble beating this little idiot into submission, but Aleski was outside the door just in case. Unless he’d snuck off to drink vodka with Mr. Earl. He’d been doing that more and more lately.
She stood; walked around the desk toward Reynolds. “Take your clothes off.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Strip down. Pants first, then your shirt.” She had no interest in Reynolds, but making a prisoner strip was the first procedural step in a hostile interrogation. The beginning of the dehumanization process.
“Screw you, lady! I’m walking out of here. I’m calling an attorney.” Reynolds was standing, chin out-You can’t intimidate me-didn’t flinch when she drew her arm back because he didn’t believe she’d hit him.
She did. Hit him with the newspaper across the face so hard that he dropped to the floor, butt-first.
“You asshole! That hurt!”
On his cheek, a feverish red welt was beginning to swell. His lips were trembling. Jason Reynolds had never been hit in the face before. It was obvious.
“I want you to make a telephone call. I want you to tell Dr. Ford to get in his car and drive to the canal.”
Reynolds was still touching his face. “Don’t hit me again, Okay. Please? I’m not into the violence scene.”
“I am into the violence scene.”
“Please… please don’t.”
Dasha thought, This won’t take long.
It didn’t.
A little more than an hour later, Dasha got her first look at Ford. He’d surprised her, jogging out of the shadows from the front of the Bartram County Hospital, not from the ER entrance, which was closer to the weird-looking Volkswagen camper that Reynolds had pointed out and said belonged to Ford’s friend.
Reynolds-the kid had started bawling, he was so happy, when Dasha told him she didn’t need his help anymore. Time for him to go back to the ranch, gather his belongings, tell his doper pals good-bye. Leave Tropicane property and never come back.
He’d just finished making the phone call to Ford. Was in the back of a company van, Broz at the wheel.
“Go with this man, do what he tells you to do, and we won’t prosecute.”
“I will. I promise I will! I don’t want to cause the company any more problems.”
Dasha had nodded her head at Broz. He’d nodded in return. Broz wasn’t bright, but at least he knew what the woman was telling him to do.
“You’ll never see me, or hear from me, again-I swear.”
Dasha said, “That’s something I would bet on,” and slid the van’s door closed.
A short time later, Aleski was crouched in the back of the Volkswagen, Dasha was in the Pontiac rental only two spaces down from the VW. Jimmy Heller was in his unmarked squad car, assigned to pull in tight behind the van.
Bait, trap, and blocker ready.
“I pull behind the camper, you got sixty seconds, no more, then I’m outta here. It’d better be clean-no noise, no blood-or I’m gone before that.”
A New York hustler with a badge. Dasha was ducked down in the Pontiac, thinking how much fun it would be to work on Heller with a rolled-up newspaper. That’s when Ford suddenly appeared in the rearview mirror. Surprising as hell.
The woman became a statue, waiting. She felt his shadow cross the window.
Had he seen her?
No… the man continued running at an easy pace through the parking lot, then out onto the street again.
He’s scouting the perimeter. Suspicious.
Finally seeing the man in person, arms swinging, calves flexing, Dasha felt an abdominal rush. He was bigger than expected. A nerd with muscles. An operator born with the perfect disguise.
A few minutes later, when Ford appeared again, Dasha was ready. She had her head down, watching him in the mirror, one hand on the door handle, the other on the button that opened the trunk. Watched him slow to a walk, approaching the camper cautiously, head swiveling. Watched the man touch his fingers to the van, testing for movement.
A pro. Competent.
Watched him freeze as he opened the driver’s door, instantly aware something was wrong… then Dasha had her feet on the pavement, running, the sound of the unmarked car’s engine roaring, its headlights panning across the VW, everything happening at once as the trap slammed closed.
In the microsecond before Aleski grabbed the biologist from behind, Dasha saw Ford’s face clearly, his expression fierce. There it was, the intensity she’d hoped would be there.
A carnivore surprised in tall grass. Like that.
The photo hadn’t lied.
With Ford unconscious in the trunk, the pleasure she felt changed incrementally to anxiety as she drove from the parking lot, Aleski beside her, the hairy man breathing heavily, damaged ear bleeding again.
“Big sonuvabitch. First time I saw him run by, I knew. Strong as a horse. Didn’t think he’d ever go out.”
Dasha tensed. “But you only gave him ten ccs of Versed, correct? Like I told you: no more than that.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure. Maybe just a drop or two extra. First time he ran by, I knew he’d be a tough one.”
Shit. Aleski was lying. “You idiot! How much was in the needle?”
The woman accelerated through the shadowed neighborhood, turned right into an alley behind what looked to be a warehouse, green garbage dumpsters in the shadows. She had already switched off the lights and punched the trunk open before she braked to a stop, threw her door open.