Jessica Andersen - Under the Microscope

“A data disk. He said I should use it to take down The Nine, that they suppressed a drug that could have saved his wife. I’ve got Ike looking at it now. She’ll call me on the disposable cell when she has something.”

“What do you think could be on the disk?”

He shrugged. “Not sure.” Then he glanced at her. “But Charlie’s day job was acting as an attorney for Pentium Pharmaceuticals.”

“Which has a Thriller competitor in the pipeline,” Raine said, voice growing grimmer as too many seemingly unrelated pieces of information started to fall into place. Anger surged alongside confusion and she turned to Max. “Why aren’t we taking this to Detective Marcus?”

“Because while I think we can trust Marcus, I’m not sure about his superiors, and I have my doubts about Agent Bryce. Besides, all we’ve got are conjectures based on an urban legend. You think that’s going to stand up if someone higher in the system is working to block us? I don’t. Worse, the cops still have the data ghosts, which go a long way toward suggesting that you’re in on it.” He shook his head. “I’m not willing to take the risk.”

“In other words, we need to find enough evidence to prove this urban legend regardless of who is applying pressure, then take it to the authorities.”

“While also staying ahead of the guys who tried to gun us down earlier,” Max added.

Raine thought of the silver-haired guy. “Did you recognize the man who got out of the limo?”

“No, but I’ll call Ike with a description. She can do her thing while we’re working this end.”

“Trying to figure out how and why the dead women were killed.” Raine hugged herself. “God, somehow it all seems much more real now that we’re talking about the who and why of it.” And now that she’d been shot at. The fire and the explosion had been awful, but they had been destructive forces aimed at buildings, not direct attacks.

The early morning chase left no room for debate. Someone wanted her and Max dead.

“Hey,” he said, his voice softening a shade. “You’re not a victim or a rescue, but I’ll protect you anyway. You know that, right?”

A lump pressed unexpectedly in her throat when she nodded. “I know.” She would have to make that be enough, for both their sakes. She sniffed back a surge of wistfulness. “And since I’m not a victim or a rescue, I’ll expect you to keep me informed and let me be involved in talking to the families.”

When he hesitated, she said, “This is my career we’re talking about, Max. My life.”

Finally, he nodded. “Okay.”

She held a hand across the small space. “Partners?”

He snorted. “William wouldn’t think much of me replacing him.” But he took her hand. Instead of shaking it, he held it for a long moment while his skin warmed hers. Then he squeezed her fingers, sending a fine hint of warmth across her nerve endings, one that intensified when he said, “You got it.”

But he didn’t say the word, emphasizing what Raine already knew. He would always see her as fragile and in need of protection. Never as his partner.

Never as his equal.

THEY BYPASSED NEW YORK CITY, to avoid both the traffic and the possibility of picking up a tail, on the off chance that the offices of Vasek and Caine were under surveillance. Still, they ran into traffic and it was nearly 10 a.m. before they reached the suburban Philadelphia address Ike had found for James Summerton, the husband of the first reported victim.

When Max had parked in the driveway and shut off the rental car, Raine sat for a moment, gathering her courage.

“You okay?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yes. We need to do this. And it helps knowing that if we find a real explanation for what happened, it might give the victims’ families some added peace. Maybe not now, but later.”

But still, sick knots coiled in her stomach as they walked past a boxy sedan and followed the neat brick pathway up to a single-level house. The walls were white vinyl, and the shrubs flanking the side door were wrapped in burlap and coated with a layer of ice and snow. The house looked tucked in for the winter, with only the half-mast flag in the front yard and the strip of black bunting across the kitchen window attesting to the recent tragedy.

When Max moved to the door, she waved him back. “I’ll do it.” She mounted the short flight of stairs and rang the doorbell, hearing it chime inside the house.

There was no response.

She pressed the bell again, then opened the aluminum storm door and knocked on the inner wooden panel. “Mr. Summerton? Anyone home?” Maybe he’d gone to work, she thought, though that seemed odd so soon after his wife’s death.

Then she heard a baby’s fitful cry. The sound brought back that first phone call and the sound of a man’s voice saying, My wife Cari is dead…she took Thriller…we have a baby.

God.

Suddenly panicked, Raine turned and stumbled down the steps. Max caught her upper arm in a firm grip. “Running away?”

“No.” She stopped as the door opened behind her. “Of course not.”

Only she had been about to run, and they both knew it.

“Can I help you?” A man stood on the other side of the door with a cloth slung over his shoulder and a puzzled expression on his face. He was in his late twenties or so, average looking, dark haired and green eyed, wearing decent catalog clothes. He focused on Raine, scanning her from her sensible boots to her jeans and sweater. “Are you from the nanny agency?”

Behind him, the baby’s wails escalated rapidly.

Raine stepped forward and raised her voice to be heard over the cries. “Mr. Summerton, I’m Corraine and this is Max.” She used her full first name in the hopes that he wouldn’t immediately connect her with Rainey Days. “We’re with a group that’s investigating pharmaceutical-related deaths. I hate to bother you right now, but could we have five minutes of your time?”

While she spoke, his face transformed successively from hopeful to shattered, then wary. “Are you reporters?”

“No,” Max said from the bottom step, where he seemed smaller and less imposing than he did on level ground. “We’re with Vasek and Caine Investigations.” He opened his wallet and pulled out a business card. “Can we come in and ask you a few questions?”

Summerton looked ready to refuse, but just then the baby’s cries went silent. He cast a panicked look over his shoulder. “Fine. Shut the door behind you.”

Raine entered the house with Max at her heels, and followed James Summerton through the kitchen and into a small sitting room. She got a sense of a tidy, ordered home overlaid with a layer of clutter. Dirty dishes were stacked in the sink and things looked vaguely out of place, as though they’d been put down and forgotten by a man used to his wife picking up after him.

“There she is!” Summerton made a valiant effort to interject joy into his voice, but Raine could see the toll of grief in the slump of his shoulders when he leaned down and plucked a small, pink-clad child from a folding crib. “There’s my girl!”

The baby-little more than a year old-looked over his shoulder at the strangers and opened her mouth to howl.

Then she stopped. Smiled. Cooed.

And reached for Raine.

“No, baby. She’s here to talk to Daddy.” Summerton shifted his grip on the little girl and gestured Raine and Max over to a pretty chintz-covered couch. “Go ahead. Sit.” He looked around blankly. “Can I get you anything? I have…” He trailed off. “Hell, I don’t know what I have. Cari takes-took care of the entertaining. And the grocery shopping.” He looked around again as though expecting her to be there.

“We’re fine,” Max said quickly. “And we don’t want to take up too much of your time. We’re just looking to get a sense of your wife’s medical history, and maybe some of the events surrounding her passing.”