Mercer finally saw the pattern that Harry must have picked up on. “The first letter isn’t n. Remember how the bottom of the S got cut off in ‘Sample.’ Same thing here. The top of the first letter is missing. I think it’s an H.” Mercer’s eyes suddenly widened as everything came home in a clarifying rush. He knew the name written on the paper, and it made perfect sense even if he didn’t yet know why it was there. “Cross the l so it’s a t and then tell me what you get.
She typed “Hebt oover” into a search engine, and the tablet kicked back the answer that had eluded her best nerds for most of the afternoon — Herbert Hoover.
11
“Herbert Hoover, the president?” she asked, confused by the result.
Mercer nodded. “Before going into public service during World War One by running a charity that basically saved every man, woman, and child in Belgium from starvation, Bert Hoover made millions as a mining consultant and entrepreneur. He had businesses in China, Russia, and Australia. A few other places, too, I think.”
Harry said, “He was Mercer before Mercer was Mercer. Of course, Hoover was a Quaker, which means no booze, so I guess he was a more sober version of Mercer before Mercer was Mercer.”
“Thank you from the peanut gallery,” Mercer said and refocused on Kelly. “Sample 681 could be something geological he collected during his career. This could be the break this case needed.”
“How?”
“The Hoover Presidential Library,” he explained. “I have no idea where it is, but it should have archived everything there is to know about Hoover before, during, and after his presidency. If he collected this Sample 681 or had anything to do with it, the researchers there should be able to find it.”
She worked at the tablet for a moment. “It’s in West Branch, Iowa. That’s closer to Iowa City than Davenport, if that helps.”
“My knowledge of Iowa geography is limited, so I’ll take your word for it. Any contact information?”
“I have a phone number and e-mail address. How do you want to handle this?”
Mercer had suspected all along that this case would hinge on the science behind whatever Tunis and Jacobs were doing, so he wasn’t surprised that she was asking his advice on how to proceed. “We’ll call in the morning and simply ask if they know anything about a geologic sample labeled 681 that Hoover either collected or owned at one point in his life.”
“Simple as that?”
“Sometimes it can be,” he replied. “Have your people been able to get anything from the university servers about what kind of experiment they were working on in Minnesota?”
She shook her head in disgust. “Even if I had more people on this, both schools are in a panic, which means they’ve swung their legal departments into full battle mode. Neither administration will let us on their campus without warrants, or even talk to us without their lawyers present. We need subpoenas to get a look at any computer archives or research material, and right now we are having a hard time finding cooperative judges.”
“That pesky Constitution,” Mercer teased.
Hepburn threw up her hands in a gesture of surrender. “Hey, I get it and am all for it. I even swore an oath to defend it. But it pisses me off when people use it to cover their ass rather than defend someone’s rights, you know. These college lawyers are more afraid of being sued by a relative than finding out the killers’ identity.”
Mercer couldn’t argue the point. “In that vein, it makes sense I call the library rather than you. Pardon the expression but we don’t want them thinking we’re making a federal case out of this. Better it comes from a civilian doing some innocuous research.”
It was clear Kelly didn’t like it, but she saw the wisdom behind his idea and nodded. She continued, “We did get a few people to talk off the record. Dr. Tunis was a climatologist, and apparently the experiment she and Abe Jacobs were working on was to be some sort of paradigm-shifting event in the field. One guy said if they were right about something, Al Gore was going to have to give back his Nobel Prize. Not sure what that means or if that’s good or bad given how serious climate change is.”
Mercer did his best not to roll his eyes. As a trained geologist he tended to think someone claiming to have found a trend in an earth system, especially something as chaotic as climate, with just a century or two, and sometimes much less, of actual data was at best fooling themselves — and at worst intentionally fooling others. He said mildly, “It’s an emotionally charged subject for a lot of people, and there are billions upon billions of dollars riding on research, so schools tend to be circumspect. You should keep on it, but I think our best bet is going to come from the Hoover Library.”
Agent Hepburn finished her smoked turkey sandwich and the last of her Scotch. “What time are you going to call them?”
“They’re an hour behind us, so ten thirty our time.”
“I’ll be here to listen in. You want anything in the morning? Doughnuts? Bagels?”
“Chocolate doughnuts,” Harry said excitedly.
“Nothing”—Mercer overrode him—“but thanks.”
“I’ll walk her out,” Harry volunteered, fumbling for his coat and Drag’s leash as a pretext. Mercer knew he was going for the hard sell on morning doughnuts. Mercer had done his part to limit Harry’s smoking, but he guessed there wasn’t much he could do if the octogenarian wanted to put himself into a sugar-induced coma. “Hello,” Jordan Weismann said seconds after Hepburn left. She padded into the library wearing one of Mercer’s old Penn State T-shirts. It came to just above midthigh. She had to have been awake for a few minutes because her hair had been tamed into a ponytail, and she’d managed to wash the puffiness from her sloe eyes. Her arm sling flattened one of her breasts while nearly forcing the other from the top of the shirt, and Mercer tried not to stare.
“Hi,” he said thickly, dragging his eyes up to hers. “How are you feeling?”
“Better, thanks. I’m still tired, but I feel a lot more human.”
“You certainly look less zombie-esque,” Mercer joked. “Can I get you something?”
“I’m thirsty. Do you have any ginger ale?”
“I’ve got plenty, just don’t tell Harry I’m breaking into his private stash.” Mercer moved behind the bar while Jordan laid herself on the couch and pulled up the antique steamer robe.
“Whenever I was sick as a little girl, my mother always gave me matzo ball soup and ginger ale. To this day I equate the soup with not feeling well and only drink ginger ale when I’m under the weather.”
“It’s the same for me and bouillon cubes,” Mercer said, bringing over an iced glass and a mini bottle of Schweppes. “Just the smell reminds me of having the flu when I was a kid and makes me nauseous.”
“Thank you,” Jordan said, snaking an arm out from the blanket to accept the glass he’d poured. A long sip cleared a little of the raspiness from her voice. “Where’s Harry?”
“He and Drag just walked Agent Hepburn out.” Mercer pointed to all the shopping bags. “Which reminds me, she bought out CVS and Nordstrom’s for you.”
“I needed some essentials,” Jordan said quickly. “But it was awfully nice for her to do this for me.” She pushed off the blankets and scissor kicked herself off the couch, giving Mercer another glance at her shapeliness.
It was a guileless maneuver that still managed to catch Mercer’s breath in his throat.
Jordan grabbed up all the bags and didn’t return for nearly thirty minutes. Harry didn’t return either, which told Mercer he and Drag had stopped by Tiny’s for a nightcap or two. When Jordan finally stepped out from the bedroom she wore a man’s white cotton oxford and some makeup, and her hair was brushed out past her shoulders. She looked at once sexy and vulnerable.