Robin Cook - Vector

“I’ll come by in the next day or so to choose a container for her ashes and settle the account,” Yuri said.

“That will be most appreciated,” Gordon said.

“Meanwhile, make sure she’s cremated before her body is violated again.”

“We’ll see to it forthwith,” Gordon promised.

Yuri hung up the phone and then stared across the room with unseeing eyes. Could it be that the authorities suspected the botulinum toxin? Yuri could not see how. But Flash Thomas posed a more immediate threat, Yuri tried to imagine what he’d do if his brother-in-law suddenly appeared at the door. It was a terrifying thought. There was no way Yuri could defend himself, if Flash got to him. Yuri knew he had to do something to protect himself, because he couldn’t abandon his lab, at least not until he’d done the final harvest.

Glancing at the clock above the refrigerator gave Yuri an idea. It was nearly five, which meant that Curt would soon be getting off work. Yuri picked up the phone. He got the number for the fire station on Duane Street and immediately put through a call. When the phone was answered by one of the firemen, Yuri asked for Lieutenant Curt Rogers.

“Hold on,” the firefighter said.

Yuri glanced over at the kitchen door, which he’d used when he’d come home that morning. He wanted to see if it was properly locked. It wasn’t. Yuri could see that he’d failed to secure the deadbolt. Standing up and stretching the phone cord to its absolute limit, Yuri pushed the bolt home with a reassuring thunk.

“Lieutenant Rogers,” Curt said in a tone befitting his rank.

“Curt, this is Yuri. I need your help.”

There was an extended pause.

“Curt, are you there?”

“What in God’s name are you calling me for here at the station?” Curt growled in a hushed voice. “I thought I made it clear that this was off limits.”

“You said not to come,” Yuri said. “But you didn’t say not to call.”

“What do I have to do, spell everything out for you?” Curt hissed. “Use your goddamn brain! You’ve got a Russian accent, and it’s just as apparent on the phone as it is when you’re in person. I don’t want anybody here knowing I’m dealing with a Russian.”

“But I had to call,” Yuri explained. “Like I said, I’ve got a problem.”

“What kind of a problem?” Curt demanded irritably.

“I need a gun,” Yuri said. “You told me how many guns you and the PAA have. I just need one.”

“What the hell for?”

“Because of Connie’s brother,” Yuri said. “I’ve just heard he’d been to see her body at the funeral home.”

“So what!”

“So plenty,” Yuri said. “You saw her last night, I’d swatted her, and her brother told me once that if I ever hit her, he’d kill me.”

“Jesus Christ!” Curt snarled.

“I’m serious,” Yuri said. “He’s a big black guy, and I’m not going to stay here and work in the lab without some protection.”

“All right, we’ll get you a freaking gun.”

“I need it right away,” Yuri said.

“We’re getting off work at five,” Curt said. “We’ll bring it around.”

“Thanks,” Yuri said.

“Yeah, sure,” Curt said and hung up.

Yuri shook his head dejectedly as he hung up the phone. He’d planned on telling Curt about Jack Stapleton after he’d mentioned Connie’s brother but had changed his mind when he’d heard Curt’s tone of voice. Again there’d been surprising anger and hostility like there’d been the night before. To Yuri, such an attitude was entirely inappropriate for people who were supposed to be working together. He was forced to consider again that Curt was no friend.

In one gulp, Yuri finished off the rest of the vodka and put the glass in the sink. Then he wondered if he’d have enough time to suit up and go into the lab to check the second fermenter before Curt got there. In the end, he decided that he’d feel safer around his anthrax powder.

Tuesday, October 19

5:00 p.m.

Jack had Warren drop him off on the Thirtieth Street side of the ME’s office so he could duck into the building via the loading dock. He wanted to avoid running into the chief or Calvin in case his Brooklyn exploits had already caused a stir. What he hoped to have prior to any confrontation were the results of the samples he’d taken from Connie Davydov. They were to serve as a justification for his actions.

Jack’s intuition told him that Flash was probably right about his sister having been the victim of foul play. With a heart attack, a stroke, and generalized infectious disease ruled out, poisoning was quite probable considering the history of domestic strife. Lending considerable credence to the theory was the black eye. Even though Jack had been reluctant to admit it to Flash, Jack’s professional judgment told him the black eye had come from trauma and not infection, and that the trauma was the result of a fist rather than an inanimate object in the woman’s bathroom.

In hopes of generating his alibi sooner rather than later as well as providing evidence to prompt a homicide investigation, Jack went directly to the toxicology lab on the fourth floor. He purposefully avoided the supervisor, John DeVries, who’d most likely keep him waiting for a week or more. Instead, Jack sought out Peter Letterman, the thin, blond, androgynous technician who acted as if he were married to the lab. Jack had seen him there as late as ten P.M.

“I need your help desperately,” Jack said even before saying hello when he found the tech at the gas chromatography unit.

Peter raised his eyebrows. He was accustomed to all sorts of creative pleas to cut through the typical toxicology log jam. There was no doubt the department was underfunded. But then, every department in the ME’s office was underfunded.

“I might be out selling pencils if we don’t get a positive out of this one,” Jack said. He put his satchel down and began removing the sample bottles while giving Peter a thumbnail sketch of what he’d been up to that afternoon. The story about the funeral home brought a smile to Peter’s usually serious, boyish face.

“You think I’m making this up, don’t you?” Jack asked, noting Peter’s expression.

“No, I don’t,” Peter said. “What you’re telling me is too far out to be fiction.”

“Good,” Jack said. “Then you can appreciate that I might be in hot water about this?”

“Oh, yeah!” Peter said without hesitation.

“So you’ll help?” Jack asked.

“What is it that you’re looking for?”

“Something that has suppressed respiration. You know, the usual prescription drugs plus cyanide, carbon monoxide, ethylene glycol, and hell, anything else you can think of. It doesn’t have to be quantitative on this go-round. Just find something.”

“All right,” Peter said. “I’ll give it a whirl.”

“How soon can you do it?” Jack asked.

“Why not right now?” Peter said agreeably. “I can assay the samples pretty quickly for what you have in mind.”

Unable to contain himself, Jack threw his arms around Peter and gave him a hug.

Peter seemed embarrassed when Jack let him go. He blushed and avoided looking Jack in the eye.

“I’ll be upstairs in my office,” Jack said. “I’ve got plenty to keep me busy. Just give a shout when you’re done.”

Peter nodded.

“Dinner’s on me in the near future,” Jack said. He gave Peter a light pat on the back.

“Sure,” Peter said. He began to pick up the bottles.

“Let me fill out some property receipts first,” Jack said. “We’ve got to establish a chain of custody here if this turns out to be a homicide case.”