“Histamine diphosphate,” Louis Herrera said. “I was just telling the officers that it’s classified as a chemical, rather than a drug. We keep it in the compounding room, normally. Don’t take a taste.”
“Sir,” Estelle said, “Tony Abeyta is over at the university, and he called not long ago. They found substantial amounts of this chemical in the wine that was spilled on the floor, and in the portion remaining in the glass. Nothing in the bottle.”
I looked at her for a long moment, completely lost. She took that opportunity to pull out a small notebook and thumb through the pages until she found what she wanted. “Here’s the problem,” she said. “They wanted to establish a histamine level in the body fluids. They’re thinking to trace whether or not there was an allergic reaction of some sort.”
“That’s going to take days,” Herrera said, shaking his head. “Forty-eight hours at least for blood histamines, anyway.”
“And that’s the trouble,” Estelle said quickly. “The lab here? They have never actually done a quantitative histamine test, sir. It’s not something that’s routinely done when a battery of blood tests or urine tests is called for. They don’t even have a protocol established for how to go about it.”
“That’s about right,” Herrera agreed.
“Histamines,” I said, sounding like a damn parrot. “We are talking about an allergic reaction here, then. Just what I’ve been saying.”
“Not in the food, though,” Torrez muttered, and his quiet voice startled me. He hadn’t been snoozing.
I handed the bottle to Louis Herrera before I dropped it, and the resulting sneezing attack killed off half of Posadas County. “I don’t follow any of this.”
“Sir, the lab in Albuquerque found significant amounts of histamine diphosphate in the wine. Not in the burrito, not in the chile, not in the bottle of wine…but in the spilled wine, and in the glass,” Estelle said patiently.
I looked at Herrera for confirmation. “That could do it?”
“Oh, by all means, sir.” He leaned forward, staring at the little jar. “When we get stung by a wasp or have a reaction to gluten, for example…almost anything that we happen to be allergic to? The body produces a flood of histamines.” He shook the bottle. “This stuff occurs naturally in the system. Not in this crystalline form, of course, but histamines are a big part of our protein chemistry. They flood the system and trigger metabolic reactions to foreign proteins. In the worst case scenario, what they trigger is anaphylactic shock.”
“What if I took a spoonful of that stuff?” I asked.
“A spoonful? My God. You know, if they’re lucky, the lab can test for this, but the results would be read in something like nanamoles per liter. That’s not much. I mean, a nana-anything is one billionth. A bee sting is enough to kill a person who’s deeply allergic to that particular protein. We’re talking tiny amounts here, not spoonfuls.”
“Nobody is going to spike food with nanamoles,” I said. “What would a spoonful do?”
Herrera shrugged. “Ever been stung repeatedly by a 1,000-pound wasp?”
“Come on.”
“I’m serious, sir.”
“How fast does that stuff act?”
“About instantly.”
I looked over at the undersheriff. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking that someone put this chemical, or one like it, in the wine, sir. We’ll know for certain when the blood and fluid tests are completed. Maybe sometime late tomorrow, if we’re very, very lucky. There’s a lot of midnight oil being burned, but it’s a whole new set of problems for the lab.”
“A bunch of this stuff dumped into the wine wouldn’t be noticed?” I frowned. “Hell, I’d notice it. Well, I think I would. Maybe not.”
“Unlikely,” the pharmacist said. “For one thing, histamine diphosphate is incredibly soluble.” He held up the bottle again. “This is five grams, more or less, but I gotta tell ya…I could dump the whole thing in a few CC’s of water, and it would dissolve immediately. No problem. One of your tablespoons in an eight-ounce glass…” He waved his hand like vapors in the air. “Dissolve right away. No taste.” Then he grimaced. “Not that you’d have time to notice.”
“Just dump it in, maybe swirl with a spoon.”
“That would do it. Don’t lick the spoon, though.”
“Seriously?”
“Dead serious. The mucus membranes are the easiest route into the body’s systems. Look, somebody messing with this stuff…that’s scary business. For one thing, I can’t imagine how anyone would be able to procure this,” and he held up the bottle of chemical. “It isn’t for sale. It’s not on the street. At least, it better not be. It’s not the sort of thing where a little bit would give a buzz.” A fleeting grin touched his face. “Well, it’d be a buzz, all right. Once.”
“What’s the diphosphate part do?” I asked.
“That’s just a chemical binder,” the pharmacist said. “Something to carry the histamine radical.”
“Makes it packageable?”
“Exactly so.”
“So you can dump it into food, cook the stuff, and no one is the wiser.”
“No…you can’t do that, sir,” Louis said quickly. “Histamine is an amino acid. Remember your biology? The old ‘building blocks’ of the cell?” He leaned forward, enjoying the lecture. He waggled the bottle at me. “Like all amino acids, this is extremely heat sensitive. Heat’s the enemy. You go cooking this, it would be destroyed.”
“Alcohol wouldn’t destroy it?”
Herrera shrugged dubiously. “Probably not. Not the amount that’s in wine, anyway. Even if some of it lost its kick, there would be plenty left over to do the job.”
I looked at Estelle, but not a flicker touched her poker face. I could make a million with her as my partner in Las Vegas. I knew that she could see the little door opening, and so could Bobby Torrez. He hadn’t shifted position, but now watched us like an interested cat. He moved his feet and pushed one of the chairs toward me.
Crossing my arms over my belly, I tried to make myself comfortable in the awful little chair with its hard arm rests and slippery plastic cover. “Let me give you a scenario, Louis.” He looked puzzled. “What happens? Suppose I dump a tablespoon or two of this into a glass of wine. The victim drinks it. What happens?”
Louis’ face screwed up in imagined pain. “Wow. This isn’t a little reaction to cat hair we’ve got here, sir. And see, the trouble with a histaminic reaction is that so much of the body is affected.” Still holding the nasty little jar a bit too casually for my liking, he jabbed the first two fingers of both hands into his neck, under his jawbone. “Like I said, the soft tissues of the mouth make a great pathway. The salivary glands kick in, the throat constricts, the pulse races, the blood vessels dilate. That’s all serious stuff. But what you’re suggesting with this?” He shook his head. “Spoonfuls? Kapowee.”
“Kapowee,” I repeated, knowing exactly what the young man meant.
“Yep,” he said. “That would be one nasty ride. For a few seconds, anyway.”
I glanced at Estelle, and I’m sure that she could see the anger in my eyes. She knew as well as I did that George Payton’s final moments hadn’t been a peaceful “passing away.”
Chapter Twenty
“So,” Estelle mused, “if tests confirm the presence of excessive histamines in Mr. Payton’s body that match the source in the wine, we’re left with some interesting questions.”
“You think there’s any doubt?” I paused. “Okay, after listening to Louis, I’m convinced. Either there was chemical added to the wine, or there wasn’t. It’s that simple, it seems to me. The questions are who…and when.” I took a deep breath. “And why.”