Random in Death, page 28
“Where is that?”
“His laboratory, study, and recreational space is on the lower level.”
“The basement. Show me.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not programmed to enter that area.”
“Show me how to get to it. With me,” she told Roarke. “There’s going to be science and IT stuff you’ll recognize that I won’t.”
“That area can be accessed by steps in the utility area or by the elevator. However, both are secured and only Master Francis has access.”
“Show me,” Eve repeated. “I’ve got my own master with me.”
It led them to the staircase—classic, straight lines. Under it the wood-paneled door of an elevator nestled.
The droid spoke again when Eve pressed the elevator button.
“It will go up to the second and third floor, but not down without Master Francis’s authorization. I can attempt to notify him.”
“No.” Stepping aside, Eve let Roarke go to work on the block. “Why attempt?”
“Master Francis values his privacy. He often uses the privacy setting on his ’link.”
“Clear to go,” Roarke told her.
Peabody brought Eve her field kit. “I’m on the roof.”
“Great.” Eve sealed up. “Roarke.” She tossed him the Seal-It. “Take the droid back to wherever the door going down is. Come down that way after you shut it down. I don’t want it rebooting and notifying Master fucking Francis or the father.”
“You don’t want to contact the father?”
“Whatever he thinks or feels about the son, he’s still the father. Basic instinct when he finds out cops are looking for his son would most likely push him to contact the son.”
“True enough. I’ll meet you down there.”
As the doors closed, her communicator signaled. “What did you find?”
“A really excellent greenhouse. Compact but really mag. And it’s locked up tight. I really, seriously, totally don’t want to break the glass. I can’t see clearly through it. It’s vented, but the vents are too high for me to reach.”
“Come back in, find his bedroom, and start there. I’ll send Roarke up to deal with the greenhouse locks.”
“On my way. No luck on a cab or car service, Dallas.”
“He’s careful. Get on the bedroom.”
The elevator opened to pitch-dark.
“Lights on,” Eve ordered, but the dark remained. “Shit!”
Blocking the elevator door with her body, she used the light inside. Contacted Roarke.
“He’s got the lights blocked down here. Paranoid fucker. I’ve got a flashlight, but it won’t be enough.”
“Give me a minute.”
It didn’t take much longer for the lights—a lot of light—to snap on.
It looked like a fancy studio apartment with its creamy white walls and dark wood floors. An entertainment screen dominated the wall across from a gel couch in navy, a couple of oversized chairs in navy-and-white stripes.
A mini-kitchen area held a full-sized AutoChef and friggie, a sink. The droid might not work down here, Eve thought, but good old Francis kept it spotless.
Though she didn’t hear Roarke come down, she sensed him, and turned.
“Hangout area, rich boy’s hangout. Looks innocent. I doubt he makes much use of it. He’s too busy to flop down and play games or watch a vid.”
“The door to the steps? Very serious locks. Hardly needed for innocence.”
She walked to a door, opened it. “John. Let’s try that one.”
Through an alcove, another door, another lock.
“I should mention,” Roarke began as he dealt with the lock, “he or his father installed alarms on the elevator block and the door to the steps. I deactivated them.”
“I vote for Master Francis.”
“As do I. They’d signal his ’link. Won’t now, of course.” He opened the door for her.
“I didn’t see any cams in the hang space. Or in here,” she said. “Study area. More like an office. Good desk, state-of-the-art comp system, leather chairs, beverage station.”
She gave one of the desk drawers a tug. “Locked. He takes no chances. I bet the comp’s triggered, too.”
“I can deal with that.”
“It really was good timing. But hold off.” She pointed to another locked door. “Hang space, study space. This? It’s just a pass-through. In there’s going to be the real work area.”
“I wonder how an adult could allow a boy— Sixteen, isn’t he?”
“Seventeen in September.”
“How he could allow all of this. The locks and blocks. I don’t know much about parenting, but I know bloody red flags when I see them.”
“With you there.”
He eased the door open. “Hold,” he told her. “Cams in here, and I’ll wager a sensor that will, again, send an alert to his ’link. This may take more than a minute.”
With no choice, she shut down impatience. “Do what you gotta.”
She stepped back to give him room, did another pass through the study area.
All drawers locked. No photos, no memorabilia, no fiddle toys. He used the comp, she thought. But she’d bet Roarke’s excellent ass he used that exclusively for schoolwork.
The money shot was the lab.
She heard Peabody coming.
“Wow, hell of a space for a teenager. He’s got his own apartment down here, basically. Which explains the bedroom.”
“What about it?”
“Bed, a pair of nightstands, matching lamps, reading chair, dresser, big closet, en suite. He’s got a shit-ton of clothes, all along the lines of the Stubens. Make that a rich old clueless accountant. And there’s nothing, Dallas.
“No mess, no personal things, no sign of a teenager. No tablet, no doodles, no posters on the walls. Neatly hung or folded clothes, neatly lined-up shoes. And none of them were baggies, cheap or otherwise, or Kick Its. No trench, no wig.”
“He’s wearing them. He’s hunting.”
“We’re in,” Roarke told her. “And yes, this is his real work.”
And that real work held a space larger than the hangout area. It had two command centers on either side, each with an electronic board very like what Central had in their conference rooms.
The lab itself made her think Dickhead would rub his hands together in envious delight.
The two long counters formed an aisle. She could visualize Francis sliding along in his wheeled work chair, making murderous use of the vials, the beakers, the petri dishes, the scopes and screens.
A glass-walled cabinet, locked, of course, held more, a glass-door cold box yet more.
“He has to be pilfering some of this from the pharmaceutical company. His father’s lab. It’s all labeled,” Eve pointed out. “And I may not be up on all the scientific terms for this crap, but I got enough to know he has controlled substances in here.”
“He’s making more. Over here, Dallas. It’s like a personal refinery.”
Eve walked to another workstation, frowned at the machines, the burners.
“See, he’s got pods here, he’s milking them. And then he’s got these wrapped balls.”
“Opium cakes,” Roarke confirmed. “I’ve seen these. And no,” he said at the unspoken question. “Absolutely never.”
“I read up more on it,” Peabody said. “You make the morphine from the cakes, boil them with lime, and you get the morphine on the surface, then you heat it up again—I think with ammonia, and he’s got that right under the counter. And the molds. See the molds? That brown pasty stuff in them’s morphine, and you make heroin from that.”
“A great many steps, I think. But he appears to have all the necessary. And skill,” Roarke added. “Foundational issues or not, he’s wasted his brain, that skill, his obvious privilege to make the very thing that killed his mother. To use that to kill the innocent.
“No pity. None.”
“We know what he does, and we know he’s out preparing to do it again. Get me into the comps. He’s meticulous. He’ll have a timetable, an agenda. Put out a BOLO, Peabody. Maybe we’ll get lucky and a sharp-eyed cop will spot him.”
She checked her wrist unit.
“It’ll be dark in a couple hours. He needs the dark. Peabody, get McNab or Feeney or Callendar up here. A lot of comps to sift through, asap.”
“On it.”
“Roarke, once you get me in, could you go up to the roof, deal with the locked greenhouse? We’ve got enough here, but let’s do the full sweep. Damn it, Peabody, see who’s in the bullpen, or off and not on a hot. We need more bodies to go through this house. Not enough time with just us to fully search it.”
While Roarke and her partner worked, she pulled out her ’link.
“Commander Whitney, I need to update you. We’ve identified the subject, Francis Bryce, age sixteen, and are currently in his home lab. Among other things, we’ve found what appear to be opium cakes and the equipment needed to make heroin. The suspect isn’t on the premises, and I believe he’s on his way to another location and another target.”
“What do you need?”
“I’m calling in assistance from EDD for his comp systems, and detectives to assist with the search of the residence. We’ve issued a BOLO.”
“If you need more hands and eyes, you’ve got them.”
“I’ll let you know, sir.” When Roarke signaled, gestured to the first comp, she nodded. “That’s all the relevant information at this time.”
“When you have more, give me more.”
“Yes, sir. Dallas out. Peabody?”
“We’ve got McNab and Feeney, and a full complement of detectives. Jenkinson’s rounding them up.”
“Good. Damn it, he’s even locked the drawers and cabinets in here. Roarke, before you check the greenhouse?” She sat at a command center. “Peabody, once they’re open, check the drawers.”
She searched documents. It didn’t take her long to skip over some of them, as they contained formulas and equations she couldn’t possibly decipher.
The lab could and would.
Moving on, she answered her ’link.
“Poppies,” Roarke said. “Poppies will put them to sleep.”
“What?”
“It’s from The Wizard of Oz,” Peabody said helpfully. “The Wicked Witch.”
“He’s no witch, but right now he has the edge on wicked. Come down, will you? I think this comp is straight science. I need to find the personal.”
“He’s got mini cans of Seal-It. Pressure syringes, scope slides. And mother lode. Needle syringes.” With her own sealed hands, Peabody held one up. “A couple dozen, individually packaged. Manufactured by Grant-Frisker Pharm.”
“Find the recycler, see if you can open it. Bag the contents. He may have used it to dispose of the weapons. Fucking science.”
Sitting back, she rubbed her temples. “He’s got some notes in here, and it’s enough to get him for manufacturing controlled substances. And if I’m reading it right, the formula for the cocktail he used on the two victims. But there’s nothing on where he plans to hit next, or notes on where he killed before.”
“The gang’s pulling up.” Peabody slipped her comm back in her pocket. “I’ll go let them in.”
“No, I will. Keep going, and ask Roarke to get us into another comp station.”
To save time, she took the elevator up. Gang had been the appropriate word, she thought when she opened the door.
“Got a bunch of cops for you, Loo.” Jenkinson grinned with it.
“I can use them. Feeney and McNab, take the elevator—under the steps—down a level. He’s got a bunch of comps, a couple tablets so far. He’s wearing his kill clothes, so he’s hunting, and he has a plan. We need to find it.
“The rest of you, spread out. Peabody’s been through his room, but it’s a big house. There’s a greenhouse on the roof. Poppies. Seal up, get samples. If you can’t get into any of the house e’s, they can wait. He wouldn’t put anything on them anyway.
“Droid in the back, deactivated. Leave it that way. We’ll have the e-team see if it’s got anything in its banks to pile on later.”
“You heard her. Trueheart, go up for those samples,” Jenkinson ordered. “Baxter, start on three, and Trueheart’ll join you. Santiago, Carmichael, take the second floor, Reineke and me, we’ve got this one.”
“I’m below,” Eve told them. “He’ll wait until dark. His last hit was before eleven, but we can’t count on that. Let’s find the fucker.”
She went down, found McNab at the comp in the study area.
“Kid’s got it made, and he kills girls? I’d’ve been doing something much else with girls at that age if I had free run down here.”
“Bet you were always pretty.”
He grinned, tried for a modest shrug as he worked. “Well, pretty enough to get Peabody.”
“It wasn’t the pretty. That may start the ball rolling, it doesn’t keep it in play. Find something.”
“What I’m finding is school stuff. Assignments, tests, papers, essays, and all that. And it looks like he’s kept everything, going back to freaking kindergarten.”
“Yeah, he would.”
See how smart I am, how smart I’ve always been.
“Just make sure there’s nothing buried under that. I’m thinking no. Just make sure, then switch over to the lab.”
Feeney stood at one of the counters, digging into one comp. Roarke had the second command center.
“We’re going to need bigger evidence boxes,” Peabody told her. “He’s got morphine, fentanyl, Rohypnol, ketamine, and lots more. And it looks like he’s been making his own street drugs. Zeus, Whore, Erotica. He’s labeled them all. Has a good supply of house-made Stay Up. I guess he’s too embarrassed to buy that over the counter. Must use it when he…” She jerked her hand.
“Whacks off.”
“Yeah, that. I bagged up the recycler. And he’s got a medical waste container.”
“Leave that one for the sweepers.”
“Gladly. Dallas, I don’t know anything about it, really, but he’s got these hermetically sealed containers, and I think they might hold viruses or bacteria.”
“We don’t touch those. We call in a hazmat team, scientific lead on it.”
“Even more gladly.”
She checked her wrist unit again. Outside, she thought, dusk would be settling in.
“Just school stuff, Dallas. Where do you want me?”
Feeney answered McNab. “We found another tablet, take that. This unit here, it’s science stuff. I got some of it, and he’d have a lot of explaining to do with just this.”
Science, she thought. Berenski would be off duty, but …
She contacted Whitney.
“Sir, we’ve found numerous chemicals and controlled substances at this location. Illegal substances. We’re calling in a specialty team to handle what may be samples of viruses and/or bacteria. We’ve also found various formulas on his electronics we’re not equipped to decipher. I realize Chief Berenski is off duty at this time, but we’ll need the lab to prepare for what we’ll send them.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Passcoded,” McNab said of the tablet. “Fail-safe. Take a couple minutes.”
“Roarke?”
“Working on it,” he told Eve. Since he’d taken off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and tied back his hair, she knew he was deep in work mode. “He knew enough to cover his tracks, but not very bloody well. I’m getting there.”
She had to force herself not to tell him to get there faster.
Maybe he had a hidey-hole after all. It didn’t make sense considering the security he’d put on his work area, but maybe.
She started hunting for it. A panel, a secret door, anything.
“Lieutenant.”
She spun around toward Roarke.
“On-screen,” he said, and Jenna Harbough’s ID shot filled it.
“He uploaded this the day after he killed her. Along with media reports. And her social media accounts, as much about her as he could find. Including her obituary.
“There are notes, again logged the day after her death.”
He brought them up.
The first project successfully completed. The formula worked perfectly, allowing me time to leave by the preplanned exit. The subject, now identified as Jenna Harbough, reacted swiftly upon injection. She looked at me, and yes! She saw me. I had expected her to collapse inside the club, but, in what I consider a bonus, she managed to stumble out to the alley and die, the media reports, in Jake Kincade’s arms.
Girls, born whores, love to spread their legs for his type. Tall, a lot of hair, guitar-playing, brainless hulk. But she saw me first.
After another successful project or two, at least two, I have a way to make certain the one I pick sees me last.
“Evil son of a fuck,” Feeney muttered.
“There’s another document, on Arlie Dillon. It’s much the same,” Roarke said, and brought it up.
“Kiki Rosenburg?”
“Yes, but there’s a change there. No photo, no name. Just Third Project/Fail. And his notes.”
Every project, no matter how meticulously planned, how carefully each step is built, will have a failure. Circumstances, timing, an unanticipated event. Science learns from failures as much as from successes.
Perhaps more.
I believe the location chosen contributed to the failure. A crowded interior space. Although the first project achieved the desired results in such a space, this, due to the theater aisle, proved too constricted. And the cool temperature contributed, rather than the overwarm club, as the subject wore a jacket. This may have hindered the injection.
Yet this doesn’t explain the subject’s extreme reaction. Her screams nearly split my skull! She swung around so quickly, screaming that scream. I think she intended to strike me, and I was forced to run to my planned exit.
Accuracy, and one must be accurate, forces me to admit I was very shocked and frightened, and had to force myself not to run or look as panicked as I was when I gained the outside.
She, too, looked at me. She saw me. In this case, this is worrisome. Or was. The facts:
The theater was dark—more accurately dim, but enough. The cut of my wig obscures much of my face, and is much darker than my own hair. The trench coat obscures my build. And the subject was far too hysterical—as females tend to be—to have gotten a clear look.
