ColdScheme (16 page)

My partner had gone out to dinner too. When he’d called, I
heard Brenda telling the waiter to keep the change. I panicked when I realized
that I needed to make arrangements for Jazz. Getting a hold of Mrs. Tavalho would
take time. We had to stay downtown. Driving Jazz home would take an hour.

Ken offered a solution. Brenda was off work for the next
three days. She’d served four consecutive shifts, two in the emergency room.
Nothing short of a plague that threatened to circle the Earth in twenty-four
hours would see her back on duty. Those were her boss’s orders. She would take
Jazz, while Ken would transfer to ride with us. We arranged to meet in the
little plaza on Marcy.

Jazz was upset but Field promised to take her and her
girlfriends to Laserquest on the weekend.

“Why can’t you bribe me when you want me to do something?”
she asked as we drove to pick up Ken.

“I’m your mother. I’m the authority. Authorities don’t
bribe.”

“I like being bribed. It’s fun,” she mumbled.

We made the switch. Ken swallowed his surprise when he saw
my companion and gave me his report.

“His name was Felix Kim, age twenty-seven, Oriental. He was
an analyst and programmer with Tavistock First National. Now, he’s just someone
with a hole in his chest,” he summed up.

I glanced at the dashboard clock. “It’s ten o’clock. Was it
normal for him to work this late?”

Field answered. “He was one of the five people working on
the system at the Baltimore branch. We went to see the IMF this morning. We
didn’t get anything useful from the records. It’s shocking that an organization
like that doesn’t have better business practices. It’s possible that Brick and
Martin removed files. In the afternoon, we met with the team. They were
apprehensive and frightened. None of them wanted to continue working on the
project. Your…” He caught himself and continued, “The Chairman was told of
this. He came to talk to them. People were scared. The media had used every
gruesome metaphor to describe the explosions. In the end, we settled on an
interim solution. All the team members would undergo detailed medical tests to
assure them that there was nothing wrong. The bank’s staff physician was going
to start tomorrow. The team agreed to return to work. The meeting took all
afternoon. They would have worked late to catch up.”

I turned Ken. “Do you think this is another execution?”

“Joe will never use a photocopier again,” he sighed.

“What?”

“Dispatch said the victim was found sprawled over a
photocopier, in the back section of the office, on the fifth floor.”

“Who found him?”

“A security guard, making rounds.”

“Is he another Amato?”

“No. He’s smart. The 9-1-1 operator patched him through to
the ambulance. The paramedics talked him through CPR.”

“Whoever this is, he really wants to stop the system from
implementation,” Field commented.

That was the obvious conclusion. Jeffries was a deadly
greeting card. The message was clear, “Stop the project.”

The bankers would not back off. They delivered another
warning. Felix Kim was on the project team. He was a direct hit—in their heart.
This message was not just obvious but boastful. It said, “I can take out every
piece on the chessboard, no matter what their rank and position.”

It also brought to surface fearful questions, “How many
people have been turned into walking dead? Who were they—where are they?”

How could it be so frighteningly easy to implant people with
dormant death?

Joe felt we should ignore the “why” and “how” and
concentrate on “who”.

I wasn’t so sure.

I believed Jeffries’ death was a message. Kim’s death was a
harsher statement. However, Brick’s death was neither.

I believed that he was running and executed—but why keep him
alive and a slave for four years?

He had been implanted to ensure compliance. That meant they
needed him. By kidnapping him, just as he had started to work on the IMF
contract project, they had stopped the effort to overhaul the infrastructure of
banking practices. It meant that Brick’s masters must have not only known how
talented he was but knew his work in detail. It would have made sense to keep
him alive. He was a valuable tool—a two-edged sword. If Brick could design a
program that closed money-laundering loopholes, he would know how to remove
it—or destroy whatever blocks existed in the system. He would do it cleverly
and without detection.

It would explain why they’d kept him alive for four years
and busy with other work, while watching to see if the project would be once
again resurrected and by whom.

I could have put this down in a brief and defended it in
court, if necessary.

Brick’s execution, however, made my argument fall apart.

Six months ago, Tavistock started the project again. This is
what the opposition had been waiting for. This is where they needed Brick the
most. If anyone could undo what the Tavistock team would design and implement,
it was him.

Yet, this was when he was executed.

When would I sacrifice my ace, I wondered?

One possible answer was, “If I had another one up my sleeve,
with a stronger potential.”

Was it possible that another expert, just as good as Brick,
had been tagged?

It was possible but it didn’t feel right. If Brick’s
expertise had been readily available, the banks would not have wasted four
years.

Brick’s death didn’t make sense.

When would the death of such a valuable tool make sense?

“When it’s part of the plan. When it’s the next step in a
precisely laid out, long-term scheme.”

I wasn’t aware that I had spoken my thoughts out loud and
only when two voices asked, “What?” did I wake up.

I leaned into the padded cushions and flashed across ten
years, to land on my feet, in front of my Criminal Law professor, as a lawyer.
With eloquence and clarity that immobilized my companions, I stated my case.

“They’re at the stage of the operation where they have to
move the action from Baltimore to somewhere else. They’re winding down their
business. This is their finale,” I finished.

“Where would they be moving?” Ken asked haltingly.

I was about to answer when Field said, “To Washington.
They’ve tagged whoever they had identified as the key targets in economics and
finance—now they’re going into politics. They’re looking for control.”

Chapter Ten

I stood beside the photocopier, looking down on another
field of shredded red poppies. I felt I should kneel. It wasn’t just horror at
seeing literally into the core of a human being. It was more like being struck
with a realization how fragile and helpless human beings were.

The predatory component of these murders weighed me down.
The killer struck silently, long-distance and with no personal involvement.
Even a snake, a cold-blooded creature, would strike with more feeling than
whoever was behind these executions. It was not just contempt for life. It was
the mockery of its vulnerability. To him, death was commonplace. He took a lump
of clay, molded a figurine and stuck a bomb into it. When it served his
purpose, he shattered it.

I imagined him as someone who walked across a sheet of
glass, leaving a trail of dust. He liked his path smooth. He never looked back,
as most of us would, when troubled by conscience.

It couldn’t be a doctor.

I couldn’t see anyone dedicated to preserving human life
leading an existence on such parallel levels. Doctors were “touching” people.
Their hands were bleached clean, their faces marred by memories of complications
and difficulties left elsewhere in the hospital. They brought their patients’
charts with them to lunchrooms. They were driven by compassion inherent in
their vocation. They wore two coats—a lab coat and their duty. Neither was
sufficient to protect them from the pain and suffering they encountered every
minute on the job.

“Joe,” I said quietly. He was finished but still knelt
beside the victim, head bowed. He looked lost in thought. I knew there was more
to it. Joe liked to do his thinking after he walked away. This time he didn’t
move.

“Same as the other two?” I decided to forget protocol.

“Yeah.”

“Maybe it’s time to take it to the next level. Our
administrative officers should go talk to the Hopkins’ directors, convince them
to implement emergency measures and stringent guidelines.”

“Yeah. They’re going to do it, no matter how much Quigley
hates the idea. It’s too late for him.” He slashed a hand across the body.

“Joe, what if it’s not a doctor?”

He gave a blast of hollow laughter. “I’ll take you over to
Hopkins, Meg. I’ll give you one of the implantable defibrillators and watch you
shoot it through the blood vessels, okay? There’s no need for open-chest
surgery. You just install it through a blood vessel, make sure the patches are
on the heart…would you like to try that?” He finished with another grind of
cynical laughter.

“I’m sorry, Joe. It was just an idea.”

“There’s no need for me to be so nasty. I’m tired.” He
lifted his head. “Come on down.” He waved me to his level. “Take a look at
this.”

The victim wore a long-sleeved polo shirt. He had fallen
across the photocopier as if trying to embrace it, arms spread wide. I had
already looked at the batholithic piece of office equipment. It was an IBM. It
bore images on its outer non-skid surface that would have shocked a service
rep. The toxic substance was quick and powerful. The victim didn’t leave an
imprint of his internal organs in the plastic material but a few horizontal
smears were shaped like fragments of bone—a rib cage.

The photographer’s flash sizzled behind me. I moved to the
side. The man took two more shots then began to work with a digital camera so
the crime scene shots could be input into the computer. It was part of the
forensic protocol but in this case I didn’t see what we’d gain by computer-modeling
the crime scene, changing scenarios. The killer was never on the crime scene.
He probably wasn’t even in the building because his killing tool was
remote-activated. I wondered if any of those pictures would find a way into the
medical textbooks—to frighten students.

Joe pulled up the meshed cotton fabric to reveal the
victim’s arm. His gloved fingers traced an irregular checkerboard pattern. It
started at the wrist and ran up the forearm. It probably extended all the way
to the shoulder. I saw alternating patches, of lighter and darker skin,
connected by puckered, brownish seams.

“Are those skin grafts?” I murmured.

“Extensive,” he confirmed. “It was done over a period of
several years.”

“It’s not recent?”

“No. It could have been done when he was a child or a
teenager. The scar tissue’s smoothed out. You don’t get that kind of
regeneration in an adult.”

“Is it good work?”

“I’d say it’s pretty decent, without knowing the extent of
damage and how serious the injuries were.”

“Burns?”

“Fire or acid. It was probably fire if it happened in
childhood—or a car accident when he was a teenager. Was he a Baltimore native?”

I looked up to see where Ken and Field were. I saw them
talking to Sven and a guy in a uniform. He had to be the security guard. I
snapped my fingers to attract their attention.

Field came over. I asked him Joe’s questions.

His notebook was in his head. “He was born in San Francisco
and came to Baltimore with his family at age five. His father is an accountant
with the Solingen Chartered outfit. The victim went to the University of
Maryland. He got a job with the bank right out of school and had just finished
his Master’s degree in computer science last year, as a part-time student.”

I looked at Joe to see what he was thinking. His shoulders
were hunched. His hands rested inert in his lap as he knelt.

“Those grafts had to be done in Baltimore,” he said. “When
we get his medical records, it would be worthwhile to track down whoever did
it—and where.”

“The doctor connection,” I sighed, growing even more
uncomfortable with this premise. No doctor, who had spent hours each day trying
to heal physical tissue and prod a gossamer spirit into continuing its
difficult life’s journey, would do this.

“It’s got to be, Meg,” Joe growled with frustration. “I
can’t think of anyone who’d be this good.”

“Good, Joe?” I echoed, rising. “I would have said deadly.”

* * * * *

Ken and Field had finished talking to Kim’s colleagues and
the security guard. I listened to Ken’s clipped speech while my mind edited
impatiently.

Felix Kim worked all evening in the open concept office down
the hall, diligently and normally, as had everyone else. They were serious
workers, not prone to socializing. He’d needed to make copies of his work, to
distribute among his peers. He left his computer station calmly, unaware that
he was leaving for good. His prolonged absence was not questioned. Taking a
washroom break, or going to get a snack from one of the vending machines in the
cafeteria while on a business errand, was normal. The guard found him as a
result of his punctuality. At nine forty-five, his route took him to the fifth
floor, in the hallway, where the copier stood. He was well trained. The sight
of a body draped over the copy machine activated his first-aid training. The
blood momentarily confused him. Then he blocked it out and administered CPR. He
called 9-1-1 while still trying to resuscitate the victim. The instructions
given over the phone were useless but the guard returned to administer further
aid. There was no one around. The office was way down the hall.

“That device must have a range of several blocks,” Field
said.

I thought it could be city wide. Hell, country wide.

“How would they have set it off?” I wondered. Since the
device came filled with the seeds of its own destruction, we had nothing that
would give a clue about its operation, range or activation.

“It must be a frequency signal,” Field replied.

“So the device would have to be a receiver.” I looked at his
hand. He held a cell phone. He followed my look and his lips curved.

“It could be as simple as calling a number from a phone,” he
nodded.

Joe stopped by on his way out. The paramedics had lifted the
black bag onto the stretcher. Since there was only staff around, no
supervisors, I told the guard that he could notify the cleaning crew.

Joe’s shoulders sagged under the burden of his job. I had
more questions.

He spoke tiredly, eyes downcast. “Technology is rapidly
changing. The Federal Communications Commission is making new frequencies
available all the time. I’ve read that the newer cellular phones using these
frequencies might make pacemakers unreliable. Phone companies are studying
these possibilities but we’re not dealing with a regular pacemaker here. It’s a
device, based on the same premise but it’s far too sophisticated to
malfunction. It’s possible that a certain frequency could activate it. What the
range is, I couldn’t begin to tell you. It could be a block. It could be across
the state.”

I imagined Joe, walking around his automated morgue, holding
a high-tech journal in one hand and a chicken wing in the other, reading out
loud between the bites. He’d probably finish reading the research article even
before he finished sucking all the meat off the chicken wing. His brilliant
mind would always come ahead of his stomach. I smiled, in spite of the crime
scene and made a mental note to urge Joe to publish a few research papers
himself to show his medical colleagues that pathologists weren’t just the
“keepers of the dead”. I promised to get him the victim’s medical records as
soon as we visited his family.

I glanced at Ken, then said to Joe. “We’ll deliver them. And
we’ll bring two buckets of Nando’s chicken.” I meant to cheer him up.

He moved his head uncertainly from side to side. “I’ll be in
but I’m not all that hungry these days.” He left dispirited.

“The Chairman’s coming in,” Ken said, after Joe disappeared
into the hallway shadows. “He wants us to attend a midnight session in the
boardroom on the top floor.”

Field anticipated me well. He grabbed my arm. “My impression
was that he might back off. Let’s see if I’m right.”

“My feelings haven’t changed,” I mumbled.

“He might surprise us,” he said. “This has to make an
impact. He’s not made of steel.”

“Oh yes he is.”

“This is work,” Field said and dragged me along.

“Yes, yours.”

Ken turned and waved to us, heading for the elevators. Field
brought his mouth close to my ear and whispered, “Reunions are always
interesting and emotional. Don’t you think so?”

“So are the funerals,” I growled.

He laughed.

* * * * *

“I would have thought that the Baltimore Police Department
had made some progress by now.” Those were the Chairman’s first words, spoken
in place of a greeting. His tone of voice was well controlled and even. Then
again, his words conveyed his irritation.

The panoramic window wall had built-in filters, not just
shutters. The light oak paneled walls were stained whisper green. The restful
background was not enough to hide the arrogance of the furnishings.

Police officers drank coffee in the middle of the night. I
didn’t expect his three associates to do it too. The tray also contained a
teapot—and a saucer with lemon wedges and honey containers. It made me wonder
just how long he’d kept track of Fielding Weston—and why? He had initiated the
FBI involvement. It was no coincidence as to whom the FBI had dispatched. I
wondered whether Field had read anything into it and what he thought.

Refreshments did not improve the overall mood.

Field tersely sketched the nature of the situation—a
widespread possibility of walking human bombs. He mentioned Hopkins. For a
moment it looked as if the Chairman might give an order to execute all the
doctors at the hospital. Such a sweeping solution would bring a swift closure
to his problems and the banking robots would stop malfunctioning and continue
doing productive work.

“We’re dealing with an organization,” I said. “What’s in
Baltimore may be just a chapter. The technical genius is a key figure but he’s
not working alone.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“He’s a facilitator, not a banker. His role is to make sure
that the money routes in our banking system remain open. He would have one or
two assistants. Whatever implants have been manufactured, have been planted in
targets. Baltimore is set up. He’s ready to move on.”

“That’s the first good thing I’ve heard,” my father
declared. A slight grimace crossed his face. It was like a shadow. He
continued, “The team members are undergoing extensive medical checkups as we
speak. I will reassure them that this was the last such incident.”

“Murder,” I interrupted. “The team members are human beings.
They need more than reassurance. They may be winding down the Baltimore
operations but Tavistock banking interests are all over the country. You can’t
reassure people that this incident will not occur somewhere else, at Tavistock
or some other banking institution.”

“Would you like me to tell them that the Baltimore police
are incapable of doing their job?” he asked. His eyes hardened into polished
crystals.

I smiled. “You probably will, since blaming someone else
makes you feel better. It’s a lot easier than agreeing to cooperate with the
police and suspending work on the project, at least until we’re closer to
discovering the identity of the techno-whiz behind these killings.”

“I will not be blackmailed,” he said with a deepening frown.

“I wouldn’t dream of such a thing,” I assured him, with all
the sincerity of a grinning headhunter.

“I meant whoever is behind this.”

“Of course. They’re not blackmailing you. They’re
threatening you. They’ll simply slash their way through bodies, until there’s
no one left with the kind of expertise that’s needed to finish this system. I
suggest you make a discreet announcement through secure channels, that you’re
halting the project. Don’t say temporarily. Leave it at that.” I looked at Ken
for concurrence.

“I’m not arguing tonight,” he murmured. “You’re doing fine.”