ColdScheme (7 page)

Brick’s bio sheet, enclosed in his “cold case” file, didn’t
contain this information. He had never included this experience on his
professional resumes and indeed, why would he? He was applying for jobs as an
economist, not a security guard, or a chauffeur, for an armored limo service.
Patti had provided this information to the officers who filled out the four
missing persons reports.

In the morning, we would go to visit Creeslow. According to
the Yellow Pages, it was located on Drummond Ave, in Brooklyn Park. We would
ignore the Mongrove facility, nearby but hopefully not visible. I checked
Washington for armored car services, even though it wasn’t in the same category
as Guilford exotics.

There were four car dealerships that carried sleek imports
but there were eleven armored car outfits, offering comfortable and secure
travel. I reflected that in Washington, exotics took a backseat to armor. A
senator or a foreign dignitary might cruise through Georgetown in a burnished
orange beast from hell but if he wanted to live long enough to see the next oil
change, he would be smart to travel well armored—often.

I lost track of time. The Washington armored car services
had ambitious and informative websites. I found these far more captivating than
the exotic car dealerships. By the time I finished educating myself on the
intricacies of body armoring, I wanted to own my own vehicle armoring company.
One feature in particular had caught my interest—under-hood and upper hood
protection. I made a mental note to mention this to Ken—when his Malibu
returned. For a mere couple of hundred grand, I too could enjoy multi-layered
glass with polycarbonate inner layer, fully armored pillars, sides, rear floor
and roof, in addition to explosion resistant fuel tank, stainless steel
radiator protection and a score of features that would thwart any mercenary
faction. What surprised me was that cars like these, didn’t just come in a limo
style but preppy RVs and kick-ass jeeps. Washington, obviously, danced to its
own beat—or a bullet tattoo.

My kitchen phone rang. I looked at the tiny computer clock.
It was just after one o’clock in the morning. As I walked to the kitchen,
instinct told me that whatever the news, it wouldn’t be good. I was right.

Chapter Four

“Penthouse, the Prince Excelsior, on Block Street, on the
water,” Ken read his notes, as I weaved through the water’s edge residential
area and headed south.

He continued, “A waiter, or a bellhop, I didn’t get that
clearly. The hotel security had called 9-1-1. The emergency dispatcher had
relayed even while the guy was still reporting.”

“Homicide?” I asked, without turning my head. I had to
concentrate on driving. It was late spring, an ideal time of the year for the
roadwork crews to start ripping apart all the access roads and major arteries,
to make sure that the Baltimore commuters lived through another summer full of
closed exits and detours.

“It sounded like that.”

I had to ask Mrs. Devon, my neighbor, to look after Jazz. I
didn’t like that. She was the type who would ask for many favors afterward.

“If it’s homicide, here and how, why were we invited?”

“The Prince has a doctor on the premises. He was beside the
security guy when he called 9-1-1. The doctor gave instructions to the
dispatcher and the paramedics.”

“What kind?”

“His chest exploded. Bring a tarp.”

I saw the pothole in the road but took my eyes off it
momentarily, to stare at him. The Acura crunched as it landed in the
respectable gouge and moaned when it climbed out of it. When Ken got his car
back, I would have to take mine in for alignment.

“Pay attention,” he admonished. “Clint and Jasper are
coming, so is Joe and his forensic army. But if another foot soldier with a
bomb in his chest was taken out of commission, it’s our case.”

“I don’t want to work this alone. Clint and Jasper are
welcome.”

“We’ll probably need the help,” he agreed.

“If it is another case like Brick, what do you think it’s
about? Why are they suddenly executing their rank-and-file?”

“Dissidents, maybe.”

“Brick may have been a dissident, testing the device’s
limits but a hotel waiter? There’s no connection…unless it was a part-time job.
Was it?”

“I don’t think so. His name was Peter Jeffries, age thirty.
He was single and lived at 34 Lofton Terrace. That’s north of Clifton Park. It
sounded like he was a regular employee, a night shift.”

“What was he doing in the penthouse?”

“Delivering someone’s food order.”

“At one o’clock in the morning?”

“It’s a penthouse in the Prince. The place must cost more
than you and I make in a month, just for one night.”

He was right. The Prince Excelsior was the cream of
Baltimore hospitality residence. Their penthouse was always reserved, never for
salaried people. The kind of guests who stayed at the Prince’s penthouse had
names that appeared in all the national and international news publications.
They were the movers and shakers of the world, business, political, or
entertainment.

“Who is staying in there tonight?”

He sighed. “I don’t know. The security didn’t say.”

“Who found the victim?”

“My impression is that it was the security.”

“Security guards don’t normally accompany a waiter who’s
delivering food to a guest’s room. Whoever would be allowed to the penthouse,
would have been cleared.”

“We’ll find out when we get there.” He motioned to make a
left turn, to avoid the forest of flashing lights, police, fire department and
ambulance.

When we entered the grand lobby, awash in crystal sparkle
and bathed in reflection from polished brass and mirrored opulence, we saw
every homicide cop in there. The hotel staff was plentiful but surprisingly,
there were no guests.

Jasper saw us and came over. He motioned at the cathedral
expanse lined with plants. I caught a glimmer of water. There had to be a
fountain deeper in this grand station.

“Up on the thirty-sixth floor,” he said. “Take the service
elevators. The manager wouldn’t let us use the guest elevators in the middle of
the night. Smeddin’s up there too and the paramedics.”

The hotel staff was assembled off to a side, outside of
their work registration area. I motioned at them. “Did you take down any
information yet?”

He grimaced. “The staff, yes. The rest is padlocked. They
don’t divulge information on guests. We might have to bring down someone from
the attorney’s office, to read the riot act. Clint will look after that. We
don’t know who’s in the penthouse. The manager won’t give it out.”

“It could be a politician,” Ken speculated.

“Is the victim in the penthouse?” I asked.

Jasper nodded. “The security had called 9-1-1 but whoever is
in the penthouse had called the security—and the doctor. Go get him. We’ll be
right behind you.”

We took the service elevator. It had a mirrored ceiling and
woven artwork panels.

“What do they move in here?” Ken murmured, looking around.
The art had brass plaques, detailing the artist’s accomplishments.

“The staff must have a degree from the Mailer Art
Institute,” I snickered.

“They’re missing courses in PR relations and diplomacy,” he
snickered back.

“A hotel that hopes to draw a high-end clientele must
protect its guests’ privacy.”

“There’s been a murder.”

“They’ll want to keep it quiet.”

We exited into a corridor. It was decorated in blues and
greens. Once we rounded a corner, we faced another lobby. It was decorated in
brass, glass and muted colors of the sea and shore. The artwork had coral
strips. It provided a touch of whimsy. The crystal fixtures threw sparkles,
just like in the main lobby. It reinforced the impression of grandeur, money
and tradition.

The Prince was a modern hotel but it liked symbols of
affluence, the pedigreed furnishings and time-honored opulence that the average
citizen associated with the privileged.

We saw a door at the far end of this elegant lobby. The mob
outside was motley of police uniforms and civilian suits. Even from a distance,
I could see they didn’t come from racks.

Ken flipped his badge at one of the executives who had
noticed us and approached. He was in his late forties. His face had been
massaged wrinkle-free. All the imperfections that make people human, had been
removed. I wondered whether he shaved or waxed his face. It looked polished. He
oozed displeasure.

“The police are already inside,” he declared and raised a
hand, like a traffic cop, to halt us.

“Here are more police,” I flipped out my badge.

A look of distaste flashed on his face. It creased his
temples. He didn’t want more police presence. It might skew the ratio of
expensive suits and street work clothes.

“There are already enough police officers inside,” he said
and blocked our way. His voice was polite but impatient. I saw that he wanted
to clap his hands and have everyone who didn’t belong here by virtue of money
or status, disappear.

“It’s a penthouse,” Ken said evenly. “I’m sure it could hold
the entire homicide division without crowding. Please step aside, sir.” His
voice hardened into official tone, his expression likewise.

I decided to sneak in a jab. “Are you the hotel security
officer who called 9-1-1?” I reached for my notebook. His eyes widened and
filled with hostility.

“He’s inside,” he said, nostrils flaring.

I dismissed him and looked at Ken. He nodded. We sidestepped
him and moved for the door.

One of the uniformed police officers came toward us. He had
to be from the South-West district. I didn’t recognize him.

“Sergeant Leahman. This is my partner, Sergeant Stanton,
homicide.” Ken was brief. “Who’s inside?”

The police officer flipped out a notebook. “The medical
examiner and his staff, the security guard who called it in, Sven Olsen—he’s
one of yours—the hotel doctor and the paramedics. They are waiting for the
pathologist to finish. A couple of the blue suits are in there too, assistants.
They looked like bodyguards to me. They’re real pain in the ass. The guest and
his female companion are in. Those blue roadblocks won’t let us talk to him.
Olsen is negotiating but it sounded like threatening and exchanging insults.”

“Thanks,” Ken tapped his shoulder. “Someone from the
District Attorney’s office should be arriving soon.”

We entered through the massive wooden door. It was heavily
carved and reinforced with brass strips. The security panel sat on the right
side, below the plaque engraved with the penthouse number. The light blinked
green.

“Wow!” Ken whistled when we entered.

I’ve seen my share of suites like this one.

It was multi-level, with soaring window panels, overlooking
an expanse of darkness. It flickered with the lights of the craft parked in
their marinas. We had entered on the mid-level. There were others above and
below. Both were accessible by a gracefully curved staircase. It was made of
wood and granite. It floated in the air—majestic like all things money could
buy. The black lacquered railing ran around the floors. It gave an impression
of a luxury cruise ship. The lighting came from many sources, overhead and from
the floor. The mid-level was the dining area and reception. The bedroom suites
would be upstairs. The downstairs was another reception area, for socializing.

There was a Prince Excelsior hotel in Honolulu. It had a
penthouse suite just as magnificent as this one. Fifteen years ago, it had cost
four thousand dollars a night to stay there. I imagine it would be double
today. The penthouse had an exit from the lower level on to a rooftop garden
with a swimming pool. The terrace was not screened but it had a security
railing. It wasn’t high enough to pose a challenge. I took the bet that life
had served me on a golden platter. I had soared into the darkness, heady with
the scent of the native flora. The rulers of uncommon destiny decided not to
play fair. There was another terrace, smaller, not visible from above. It was
filled with potted greenery. It had interrupted my defiant flight and delivered
a harsh message. I had spent two months in a hospital, healing broken bones and
fractures. To this day the smell of hibiscus and ginger came to haunt my
dreams.

I didn’t want the memories but they surged on their own.

“Kenny, Meg, over here,” I heard Sven Olsen’s voice. I shook
off the history.

The victim was lying on his back, parallel with the polished
steel cart. It was laden with silver-dome covered dishes. A bottle of wine
chilled in the bucket drenched with condensation. There was a single yellow
rose in a crystal tube in the center of the cart. Joe knelt beside the body. He
was taking off the latex gloves.

“Don’t bother asking,” he mumbled. “One exploded chest is
interesting, in any given year. Two are…” He trailed off.

“Puzzling,” I offered.

“Alarming.” He lifted his head and stared at me with worry.

“Found any traces of pacemaker?”

“Would I have said alarming, if I did?”

“Same as Brick?” I saw that he didn’t want to go through the
protocol tonight.

“Exactly.”

“This victim is not a missing persons case.” I pointed.

“He is now,” he snapped. “Missing from the human ranks.” He
motioned at the victim’s chest. It was a freshly ploughed field covered with
shredded red poppies. Even the sleeves of his white service jacket were soaked
with blood.

He continued, “His organs were already liquefied when I
started. Brick’s tissue and blood samples didn’t show anything abnormal. He was
an O-negative. That’s all that analysis gave us. I’ll have something to put
down on my report. I was hoping there might be a trace of some synthetic
alkaloid that would account for liquefaction. I’ve been reading research
papers. There’s no mention of anything that would be as toxic as this shit. The
reaction is incredible. I think in this case, the substance worked faster. It
was more potent.”

“Someone wants to make sure that we don’t get even a
fragment of what the victim had carried in his chest,” I said.

“You’ve got it.” He gave me a military nod.

“So if Brick’s pacemaker was an older model and this one is
a newer, improved version…” I stopped. I dared not continue.

Joe was fearless. “They’re still improving on the original
design. That means there will be more walking ghosts. I don’t envy your job. I
have only my colleagues at Hopkins to annoy me. You have an empire builder
here, a dark overlord.”

“Do you think it could have malfunctioned?” I asked.

“Not a chance.”

“Why not?”

“Because that would make your job easier. I could relax,
knowing that whoever is producing this device and the toxin, is just a hack,
experimenting and failing miserably. That’s not the way I see it.”

“Are you saying that this is another execution—a success?”

“If Brick’s device was an older model and he lived with it
for four years, then this one—an improved version—would be twice as reliable.
It didn’t malfunction. It was set off, on purpose.”

“Why execute an economist and a waiter?” Ken murmured.

“That’s not my department,” Joe said gruffly. “I’m still
trying to figure out how they could adapt a micro-shock hammer trigger that’s
meant to regulate electrical signals in the neural synaptic network, to control
levels of serotonin and dopamine, to a triggering device in a pacemaker.”

“This micro-shock hammer exists?” Ken was surprised.

Joe rose and arched his back. He put the folded gloves in
his lab coat pocket. His shoulders settled into a perfect “T”. He thrust his
neck forward. “It’s still in the experimental stages, research, but there’s a
functional version, ready for field trials. I talked to Brian Quigley, the
chief of Hopkins’ neurosurgery.” He nodded at Ken. “Your wife, Brenda, was
there too. She wanted the same type of information. Nice woman, we went for
coffee when she told me that you had asked her to find out about the
micro-shock triggers.”

Ken’s face rippled with disbelief. I waited for him to
correct Joe and say that Brenda wasn’t his wife but he didn’t. I suppressed a
smile and asked, “Where do they plan to use this micro-shock trigger?”