Tess Gerritsen - Peggy Sue Got Murdered

"Forget my car. I want to know when we can see some action on this."

"I think I answered that question, Dr. Novak," said Mayor Sampson.

"You're making a mistake."

"Christ," Sampson said with a sigh. "You can't even prove to me these deaths are related. Why go and get the whole town panicked about it?"

Ed added, "They're only junkies."

She shook her head in disbelief. "You know what, Ed?" she said with a laugh. "It's a continuing source of wonder to me."

"What is?"

"What the hell I ever saw in you." She turned and walked out of the room.

Ed followed her, through the receptionist's office and into the hallway. "M. J., wait up."

"I'm going back to work."

"Just love those stiffs, huh?"

"Compared to present company? Don't ask." She got into the elevator, and he slipped in beside her.

"Looks like life's been rough since you left me," he said, glancing at her bruised face with a grin.

"Not nearly as rough as it was with you. And you left me , remember?"

"You know, you really blew it in there with Sampson. Next time you should try a little honey, not so much vinegar. It'd be better for your career."

"I see your career doesn't need any help," she said, glancing at his tailored shirt.

He grinned. "You heard that Sampson endorsed me? The campaign coffers are already loaded."

"Be careful whose coattails you grab onto. Sampson's days are numbered."

They stepped out of the elevator and left the building.

"It's just a stepping stone," he said. "Today, DA. Tomorrow-who knows? Are you coming to the campaign benefit? I could use you there. Show of support from the ME's office."

"I've got better ways to spend my money."

He reached in his pocket and produced an invitation. "Here." He dropped it in her purse. "My compliments. Will you vote for me, at least?"

She laughed. "What do you think?"

"I think you're gonna need a friend in high places. Especially with the rut your career seems to be-" He broke off and stared as M. J. unlocked the door of the Mercedes. "This is your car?" he asked.

"Nice, isn't she?" M. J. slid into the driver's seat and slammed the door. She smiled sweetly out the window. "Those of us in career ruts have to find some way to compensate."

The look on his face was enough to keep her smiling for a block. Then the anger hit, anger at Ed and Sampson and Wheelock. And at herself, for acknowledging defeat. She could go around them all. Ignore the lines of authority, call up the news stations herself, and announce a crisis…

And promptly get herself fired.

She gripped the steering wheel, silently railing at herself, at election-year politics, at a system that made you park your conscience if you wanted to stay employed. She just didn't have the evidence to force the issue-not yet. What she needed was a pair of matching tox screens-just one pair, enough to link two of the deaths. Enough to go to the press and say, "We have a trend here."

The minute she got back to her office, she called the state lab. "This is Dr. Novak, Albion ME. Do you have results yet on Jane Doe number 373-4-3-A?"

"I'll check," said the technician.

A moment later, the tech came back on the line. "I have a blood, urine, and vitreous on Jane Doe number 0372-3-27-B."

"That's a different number."

"It was ordered by a Dr. Ratchet, Albion ME. Is this the one you want?"

"No, that's the wrong Jane Doe. I want 373-4-3-A."

"I have no record of any such request."

"I sent it in April third. Name's Dr. Novak."

"My log for April third doesn't show any Jane Doe specimens from Albion. Or anything from you, Dr. Novak."

M. J. tugged at a loose hair in frustration. "Look, I know I sent it in. It was even marked 'Expedite.'"

"It's not in the log or in my computer."

"I can't believe this! Of all the lab requests, you have to lose this one? I need those results."

"We can't run a test without specimens," said the tech with undeniable logic.

"Okay." M. J. sighed. "Then give me the results from another case. Xenia Vargas. I sent that in April fourth. You do have that one?"

"It was logged in. Let me check…" There was a brief silence, punctuated by the clicking of fingers on a keyboard. Then the tech said, "It was shipped to an outside lab."

"Why?"

"It says here, 'Nonspecific opioids detected. Unable to identify using available techniques. Specimen referred to independent lab for further tests.' That's all."

"So I will get an ID? Eventually?"

"Eventually."

"Thank you." M. J. hung up. Then it was something new. Something even the state lab couldn't identify.

But it was only one case. To prove a trend, she needed a second case, at the very least.

She rose and pulled on her lab coat. Then she walked down the hall to the morgue. One of the day attendants was tidying up the room. He glanced at her.

"Hey, Doc," he said. "What's up?"

"Hal, you remember those specimens I sent off on Monday? For Jane Doe? I put them in the out box. Did you see the courier pick them up?"

"Don't tell me they went and lost somethin' again?"

"They say they never got it."

Hal rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I heard ' em give Doc Ratchet the same story. So what do you want me to do? Run another set over?"

"If you're willing." She glanced at her watch. "It's four. Take an hour of overtime. That'll cover the drive. And make sure they log it in."

"Sure thing."

Now there would be another long wait for results. Luckily, they'd retained several tubes of Jane Doe's blood and urine, for just this situation. While it was rare for specimens to be lost, it did happen.

Her head was starting to ache again, a reminder of last night's scuffle. She should go home early, put up her feet, and OD on the opiate of the masses-TV. But she'd accumulated too much paperwork.

Back at her desk, she shuffled through her in-box. There were dictations to sign, reports from ballistics, lab slips, pathology journals. She had just emptied her box when the mailroom clerk came in, whistling, and dumped another stack onto her desk.

"Forget this," M. J. muttered. "I'm going home."

Then she saw the envelope on the stack. Dr. Novak was scrawled on top. No address, no stamp; someone must have dropped it off at the front desk.

She opened the envelope and read the note.

Nicos Biagi results just back, MIT lab. Identified as new generation long-acting narcotic, levo-N-eyclobutylmethyl-6, 10 beta-dihydroxy class. Not FDA approved for use in humans. MIT says research patent application made six months ago. Trade name: Zestron-L. Applicant: Cygnus Corporation.

Sorry I'm cutting out on you, but I don't need the headache. Good luck, Novak. You'll need it.

– Mike Dietz.

The Cygnus Corporation . She stared at the name, stunned by the revelation. Thanks, Dr. Dietz, you coward . You drop this can of worms on my desk, and then you turn tail and run .

She grabbed the phone and called the state lab once again.

"About that tox screen, on Xenia Vargas," she said to the technician. "There's a specific drug I want you to test for. It's called Zestron-L."

"You'll have to talk directly to the outside lab. They're handling it now."

"Okay, I'll call them. Where did you send it to?"

"Cygnus Laboratories, in Albion. Do you want the number?"

M. J. didn't answer. She kept staring at that note from Dietz, at the name: Cygnus . Pharmaceuticals. Diagnostic labs. How many tentacles did the corporation have?

"Dr. Novak?" asked the tech again. "Do you want the Cygnus phone number?"

"No," said M. J. softly, and hung up.

It took her a few minutes to dredge up the courage to make the next phone call. It had to be done; Adam Quantrell had to be confronted.