ColdScheme (13 page)

Agent Gould looked at her boss before replying. “Yes. The
first venture was halted for lack of expertise when difficulties arose. I
believe that system was being developed for Tavistock by a contractor who
failed to deliver.”

“Who was the contractor?” Ken wanted to know.

Once again she sought direction from her boss. He chose to
answer.

“More than four years ago, the IMF was awarded a contract to
develop an integrated system. It would address a wide array of banking
practices in existence, an all-encompassing application. They had the
expertise. Their staff had the experience with international banking
institutions. That’s what the IMF is renowned for. We’re going to visit their
offices tomorrow to discuss the issue.”

Ken thanked him and sat back in his chair. We could have
mentioned what we’d learned at the IMF offices. I knew Ken didn’t want to since
we would have nothing to compare our information against. We’d carried away an
impression from our visit. The FBI might bring back another.

Brick was a key factor in developing the system for
Tavistock. The IMF would have bid on the contract on the strength of Brick’s
talent alone. We wanted the FBI to confirm this. Then we would share our
observations—and suspicions.

Sven Olsen spoke up. “I went to see Joe at Hopkins.” He
tapped his finger on the table twice and continued, “He’s alienating a lot of
colleagues. He’s campaigning to implement unorthodox procedures. He almost came
to blows with the Chief of Neurosurgery, Dr. Quigley. He asked him to have a
watchdog—a neutral observer—during all surgeries that dealt with implants, not
just cranial but routine hip replacements, wrist shanks and splints. Joe wants
this as an interim measure since we have two victims of explosive pacemakers.
Quigley used street language to tell him that he’s not going to have anyone
peer over his shoulder during an operation, routine or otherwise. He said that
Alfonso and his staff in heart surgery would back him up. Your wife was there
too,” Sven said, looking at Ken. “If not for her, we would have had an
emergency in the emergency room.”

I lowered my head to study my hands. Sven knew damn well Ken
and Brenda’s situation. I wondered whether Brenda had put him up to it.

Sven continued, “Joe believes that we’ll get more of the
walking ghosts—dropping dead with exploding chests. He thinks it’s someone in
the hospital, using the facilities, without anyone’s knowledge. He informed
Quigley in no uncertain terms that the kind of expertise that went into an
explosive pacemaker, could only be found in a research hospital like Hopkins.
He insisted that one of Alfonso’s staff, Dr. Paxton Morris, be put immediately
under observation. Apparently, Morris is a social maverick. He’s already been
suspended once. He’s been warned not to order expensive tests for patients with
no insurance. Quigley was about to explode himself. I stepped in. Joe sneered
at Quigley and told him he should be flattered that such pioneering research
came out of his hospital. I think what Joe suggested might not be a bad idea,”
he finished.

I glanced at Ken. We knew why Joe had
risked alienating his colleagues. He was worried about Dr. Martin working in
Hopkins under a different name. Maybe he suspected Paxton Morris of being Dr.
Martin.

“Joe believes it’s far more important—and urgent—to find who
is producing these explosive chest implants than to follow up on the motive,” I
said. “Perhaps that’s how we should divide the work.” I looked at Bourke.
“Inspector Weston and his staff have already started to trace routes that may
lead to the motive. It would make sense for the rest of us to concentrate on
finding out who is producing these devices and where.”

Bourke passed my suggestion to the FBI with a look. I saw
that Inspector Weston was not happy with it. We wouldn’t be working together.
But he saw the logic and agreed.

“The first victim,” Ken said, “Jonathan Brick, lived for
four years with the device in his chest. We’ve tracked down a car dealership
where he had worked for two months as Jonathan Twain. Guilford Exotic Cars
should have been bankrupt by now. However it’s not just thriving—it’s soaring.
We think that Brick set up the dealership as a money laundering operation. It
might be a good idea to alert the I.R.S. and suggest an audit.”

“No!” I grabbed his arm. “Not yet. Later, when we’re closer.
If we shut down one of their money laundering operations, they’ll retaliate.”

“By exploding another messenger’s chest.” Ken caught on
quickly.

“Or someone more important,” I said.

“How many people could they have tagged with this device?”
he asked, frowning.

“Joe thinks there might be quite a few. We don’t know. And
we don’t want to find out by filling up the morgue.”

The armored car business would have had many customers while
in operation. Not necessarily every customer would have been a target for a
chest implant but quite a few might have fallen into Jeffries’ category.

“Do you think that Joe is right and there are more of these
walking dead-on-demand?” Bourke asked me.

“Yes. I do.”

“Then we should help him implement those unorthodox hospital
procedures he’s fighting for,” Bourke suggested.

“You could talk to the Hopkins administrators,” I told him.

“Money laundering is a high profile issue and a profitable
business,” Weston replied pensively. “But there has to be more at stake than
just intimidation of banking principals. It’s a lot easier to plant an assassin
in the vicinity of the target and then eliminate him as a lesson.”

“Intimidating and eliminating are two different concepts,
Inspector,” I said. “You can eliminate those who stand in your way but it’s a
temporary solution. A replacement will always rise to block your way again.
Elimination is limiting. Intimidation, however, is control. If you turn a
person into a walking corpse, you’re in control, all the time. You dictate your
conditions and if they’re not met you’re—as Captain Bourke aptly put
it—dead-on-demand. If the subject doesn’t obey, you execute him and move on to
the next target.”

“The current target is the banking circles.” He stared at me
with uncomfortable intensity.

“That’s correct.”

“While the next target may be in the political ranks.”

“Ahhh…” I breathed out softly, because I had just figured
out one possible—and very likely—connection between the armored limo service
and the human time bombs.

* * * * *

“Sven was just teasing you,” I told Ken when I drove him
home.

“Suddenly everyone has a vested interest in my private
life,” he murmured.

“You’ve been dating Brenda for fourteen years,” I said,
stifling laughter. “I’m surprised it hasn’t driven her berserk.”

“Even that doctor at Mongrove was smirking.”

“I’m sure that was just your imagination—or guilt. Did you
ever think about it that way?”

“It’s not driving her crazy. We’ve had discussions—often.”

I believed him but I also suspected that those discussions
had been one-sided—Brenda’s. “Everyone is on my case.”

“Not Brenda,” I assured him. I thought it was more Sven’s
sense of humor, rather than Brenda’s urging—though it may have been a small
component.

“What was she doing with Joe again, anyway?” he asked. “She
told me that she thinks he’s charming—and a good listener.”

“He probably is. I’d be more worried if she’d said that he
was a good conversationalist. He doesn’t get much of it from his clients. He
works surrounded by death, gadgets and medical journals all the time. What else
is there to do but to listen to the ticking and humming of his machines? He
likes human company.”

“You’re laughing at me.”

“Not at all. I’m just wondering when Brenda’s going to put a
full announcement in the papers, to end the rumors.”

“There! You are laughing.”

“No I’m not. Sven and Jasper were probably laughing. I’m
trying to help you make up your mind.”

I dropped him off at home and reminded him that tomorrow,
our lab had promised to return his Malibu. I hoped it would cheer him up.

“Yeah, it’ll probably look like it’s been through a
sandstorm,” he murmured, as he got out of the car.

I drove home, by habit glancing often in the mirrors. A dark
red car was definitely following me. I’d seen it earlier, in our headquarters’
parking lot. It was a Chrysler Concorde, an obvious rental. He knew where I
lived. There was no use cruising around the neighborhood.

I parked beside Mrs. Tavalho’s van and went inside.

I entered into a hostage crisis. The housekeeper would not
let Jazz use the phone to call another People Finders’ agency. Jazz had taken
her car keys and locked herself in the bathroom.

“She hasn’t flushed them down the toilet,” she told me with
a heavy sigh. “I would have heard it. She’s pretty upset. You should go have a
talk with her school. Her social studies teacher sounds like a tyrant. Jazz put
down generic names on her tree. The teacher sent her down to the principal’s
office. He gave her a three-day suspension for being rude and impertinent.
There’s a letter on the counter. It sounds as if it was written by a prison
warden, not a teacher. The child didn’t do anything wrong. She put down what
she knew—to show the teacher that she understood a family tree. There’s no need
to be heavy-handed,” she finished with another sigh.

“Perhaps not. But there’s no need for her to behave this
way.” I walked down the corridor and was about to bang on the bathroom door,
when Mrs. Tavalho reached out and stopped me.

“Don’t do it with anger. She has too much of that inside her
already.”

“Jasmine, come on out. Mrs. Tavalho wants to go home. She
needs her keys.”

“Go away! I flushed them down the john.”

“If you did you won’t get your allowance for as long as it
takes to pay for Mrs. Tavalho’s new keys.”

“I don’t care. I don’t give a shit.”

“Jasmine!”

“No. Make me.”

“Come on out before I pick the lock and you lose your
allowance for the rest of your life.”

“Go away!”

“I’m getting a screwdriver. You won’t like it when I come
through that door.”

“Go away! I’ll come out when you go away.”

“Fine.” My negotiating skills were fraying. “I’ll give you
ten seconds and then you better be out here—with the keys.”

I let the housekeeper pull me back into the kitchen but I
was counting at the top of my voice.

One second away from losing it, she came out.

“Don’t even think of throwing those keys. Bring them here
and give them to Mrs. Tavalho,” I said, anticipating her next move.

She walked over to us, eyes puffy, cheeks flushed but she
handed the keys to the housekeeper meekly enough—then bolted for the door.

“Jasmine! Get back in here at once!” I sprinted after her
even as the door smashed into the wall.

I flew out, skidding across the wooden porch, trying to stop
before I broke my neck. The porch was eight feet off the ground with very
narrow steps. I stopped just in time to see her pitch headlong—to land in the
arms of her father who was in position to make the life-saving catch.

“Saved by the bell,” I murmured. “Nice catch,” I continued.
“Jasmine, say thank you and hello to Inspector Weston. I presume he’s come to
discuss work.” I heard Mrs. Tavalho behind me.

“Is she all right? Oh, thank God!” She touched my shoulder
when she saw that Jasmine was uninjured, held in the arms of one very confused
man.

“He’s a colleague,” I told her and wished her good night.

By the time the van pulled out, father and daughter were
studying each other with great interest.

“Hi. Thanks,” Jazz said when she finished her scrutiny. “I’m
Jazz. I live here. You’re from Mom’s work?”

“Hi. I’m…Field. Yes, I’m from work.”

“You’re her new partner?”

“No. An old friend.”

“Really? How old?”

“Jasmine!” I stepped in. “Inside. Now.”

As always, she ignored me.

“What do you mean? You knew Mom before? How long, when?” The
questions poured out of her. He didn’t get a chance to insert an answer between
them.

“Your mother wants you inside. You’d better go.” He must
have sensed that it would be dangerous to prolong the interrogation.

“You’re coming too?” She reached for his hand, not waiting
for a reply.

He raised his head and looked at me. It was our first eye
contact since Jazz flew out the door.

“I normally don’t bring my work home, however…” My voice
trailed off. He had composed himself but I saw the tightness around his eyes.

“Come on, it’s okay. I won’t bother you.” Jazz dragged him
up the steps. “I’ll do my homework in the kitchen. You can talk in Mom’s
office. I don’t go there.”

He shuffled up the steps and sat down at the kitchen table,
while she spilled out the contents of her knapsack. I took a deep breath,
dreading what would start.

“Math,” she said in a lilting voice. It was too cheerful to
be natural. “Word problems are really hard. Our teacher won’t explain. She says
we have to think independently and figure them out. That sucks. I mean how are
you supposed to learn if no one explains things to you?”

I let out my breath. I felt my rib cage creak with gratitude
and went to make coffee for me—and tea for him. He took it with lemon and
honey—or used to. I only stocked lemons and honey because Mrs. Tavalho liked to
flavor her sponge cake with them.

Ten minutes later, Jazz listened while he explained her math
problems. He gave her pointers and clues on how to solve them.

“I think I’ve got it,” she declared with enthusiasm I hadn’t
heard in months. “Are you a policeman too?”

I knew it was too good to last.

“In a way, yes. I work for the FBI,” he told her.

“No shit!”

He laughed.

“Did you always work for the FBI?” she pursued doggedly.