Not only could the killer escape if she was wrong. But Interpol’s faith in her, faith in the collaboration between the DGSI, the BKA and the FBI, would be proven fruitless. Perhaps it would even cause difficulty arranging this sort of agency cooperation a second time.
After a few minutes, Director Mueller heaved an enormous sigh, his smooth forehead inching ever so slightly up, and he said, “Yes, two companies?” He lowered the phone. “Two companies were responsible for disposing of our chemicals these last two months.”
Adele felt her heart quicken. “Who was responsible for disposing of Project 132z?”
“One moment.” Director Mueller had the air of a man resigned to his fate. He lifted the phone again and parroted the question.
Another minute of pause, in which John tried to chat up Agent Marshall, but then Mueller returned with, “A local outfit,” he said. “Medical Waste and Sanitation. Now, if you don’t mind leaving my office… I don’t have employee records for their company, and I really do have to take another call. Audrey, my assistant, will give you the number and address for the disposal team on the way out, all right? All right.”
Then, ignoring them, he turned promptly, displaying his right shoulder toward Adele, and picked his phone up again, pressing it to his ear and ducking his head to make it abundantly clear that the conversation was over.
Adele turned toward John, her eyes glinting. “I was right; it’s a company called Medical Waste and Sanitation. They’re locals. They disposed of Lehman’s project.”
John stared at her. “You think a bunch of garbage men would’ve known what to do with those tubes?”
Adele shook her head. “I don’t think they’re regular sanitation crews. They work for a place like this, so I’m not sure they’re city-owned. I bet you one of them at the company was smart enough to know what they were looking at when they saw the disposed samples.”
“You think it’s a red-haired fellow?”
Adele shrugged. “We’ll have to find out. They don’t have employee records for the other company.”
John nodded, turning away from Adele and starting to move back toward the exit to the office.
“Marshall,” he said, “does the BKA have the ability to check records for us?”
Agent Marshall paused, chewed on her lip, then nodded. “Yes, just give me a moment.”
Both John and Marshall took their phones out, and Adele hurried after them, leaving Director Mueller to his peace.
It felt like their last shot. Adele couldn’t say why, but she knew that if this lead turned out to be a dead end, the killer would win. No other paths remained.
After this, Adele wouldn’t have any other place to go. She had to be right. Someone on that sanitation team was a killer, and she was determined to find out who.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
Sergeant Joseph Sharp reclined in his armchair, his eyes flicking from the outdated TV to the clock on the wall. Three hours had passed since Sharp’s visit.
Joseph watched a high-speed chase on the television with bland indifference, the red and blue lights on the screen pulsing and filling the room. A replay; he’d seen this one before—the no-good lawbreaker got his comeuppance. The Sergeant smiled at the thought, then, sighing to himself, he pulled the lever for the footrest and got to his feet.
“…for her own good…” he murmured quietly, continuing, out loud, a train of thought that had cycled through his mind the last three hours.
He glanced at the wall where his diploma from the police academy hung above newspaper clippings of the cases he’d been involved in. A hot flash of shame scoured his chest and he looked away in disgust, stomping into the kitchen.
Glowering, he turned on the hot water and began washing out his soup pot. On the counter, he spotted the canned soup Sharp had brought him. For a moment, as he eyed the can of soup, his movements became less agitated, and his internal monologue quieted.
“What?” he demanded of the soup can. He wagged a thick finger at the offending tin of creamed broccoli. He looked away and began washing the pot with large, agitated gestures, causing soapy water to splash against the inside of the metal sink.
Perhaps he was too hard on his daughter… But if he wasn’t hard, she’d end up like everyone else in her generation: lazy good-for-nothings, mooching off the government and their parents.
Joseph hesitated… Still, it had been nice she’d visited. Maybe he should give her a call…
He glanced toward the old-fashioned phone dangling from its cradle on the wall, but then he shook his head and redoubled his cleaning efforts. No. Compassion was all well and good, but emotions got in the way of a good investigator. He wouldn’t curse his daughter like that.
Once upon a time, he’d let his emotions get the best of him. He’d married a French girl—turned down a promotion to do it. Thirty years on the force and stuck as desk sergeant.
He rinsed off the pot and meticulously balanced it on the empty dry rack.
No; he wouldn’t condemn his daughter to his same fate. She never admitted it, but he knew she was ambitious. He would push her, because she needed it. Because comfort bred complacency.
He nodded to himself, pursing his lips as he turned back toward the TV. Enough screen for the day; where had he placed that book? He glanced around the kitchen and patted at his back pocket.
Just then, the doorbell rang.
Joseph frowned and turned. Had his daughter returned?
“Sharp?” he called out through the house, the glow of the internal lights offset, now, by the darkness creeping in through the shuttered windows.
No answer.
The doorbell rang a second time.
“Darn it,” he muttered with the same fervor a sailor might use to spew language that would have turned a priest’s cheeks rosy. Joseph Sharp didn’t believe in swearing, but the emotions behind the words? Outside his control.
And anything Sergeant Sharp couldn’t control was best ignored or destroyed.
The doorbell rang a third time and he picked up his pace, hurrying to the front door, shouting through the house. “Keep your shirt on! I’m coming. Darn it, Sharp—you know how I hate it when—”
He pulled open the door.
No one was there.
“Sharp?” he murmured, frowning and peering out into the night. His only greeting was the flicker of streetlights in the night and the ashy smell of a neighbor’s grill. He leaned forward, glancing to the side of the porch and down the patio steps. “Sharp—is that you?”
But he spotted no one. He glanced up the street, but the only car parked was the old green Nissan owned by the lady in 22C with that annoying, yip-yap mongrel.
The cool evening air gusted through the open door, sweeping toward Joseph Sharp and sending the hairs standing on the backs of his arms. Muttering darkly to himself, he began to close the door.
But just then, he heard a noise behind him. A creak of a floorboard. Sharp would have known not to ring the bell. She always knocked.
The Sergeant whirled around.
A man in a dark hood stood in his hallway, staring at him.
“Hello,” the man said in German with a polite smile.
“Who in the double hells are—”
“Good evening,” the man said.
Then his arm swung, there was a flash of metal, and something sharp jammed into Joseph’s neck with an ominous shnick. He cried out in pain and tried to defend himself, reaching up with surprising speed and ripping the needle from his neck. Already, the plunger had been half pressed, though. Joseph cried out, smashing the needle against the wall, feeling glass bite into his hand.
The hooded man snarled. “That was my last one!”
Darkness pressed in. He felt light-headed, his movements sluggish. Joseph tried to reach up, grabbing at the hooded man, but his arm moved far, far too slowly.