Jack O'Connell - Box Nine

The Oriental guy, Woo, takes this as a signal to speak, though it’s clear to everyone else that it’s not.

“The Swanns were working on advanced drug therapy for treatment of what is termed ‘language delayed’ children.”

Lehmann rolls his eyes.

“Sounds a little off your beat,” Lenore says.

Lehmann shrugs, still looking at Woo, trying to make it clear that he screwed up, that he’ll let him know when it’s his turn to speak. “Like everything else it was strictly accidental. The FBI was doing some standard mob-sitting down San Remo Ave. Had a wire on a midlevel errand boy of Gennaro Pecci. Gennaro and his men go to dinner one night down Fiorello’s Restaurant.”

Lenore can’t help but look over at Zarelli, who’s staring, unblinking, at Lehmann.

“And who are the Don’s dinner guests but the Drs. Swann.”

Richmond states the obvious for everyone. “Unusual pairing.”

Lehmann gives an indulgent smile back at him and goes on. “The wire gave us nothing. They didn’t discuss a damn thing of interest. The weather. Recent vacations. Local politics.”

Mayor Welby snaps into a practiced smile and says, “Should I call a lawyer, Al?”

“Everyone agrees it was a size-’em-up meet. Both parties get a chance to feel each other out. Make an introduction. Establish contacts. Once the bureau got confirmation on the identity of the Swanns, they called us.”

“You think the Swanns were considering a mid-life career change,” Peirce says.

“Or at least a new sideline. There’s definitely a precedent for chemical whiz kids like Leo and Inez turning a good dollar by leasing themselves out.”

“Mob chemists,” the lieutenant says.

Lehmann nods. “Big demand for synthetic kicks lately. Big upswing. I’ve got the numbers. More controllable than run-of-the-mill organic crap. No importation problems. Chemical coke. Supertranqs, designer things.”

“I’m just saying,” Miskewitz says, “two Ivy League yuppies from Windsor Hills seem like a little stretch.”

Lehmann gets annoyed. “Today’s labs, Lieutenant, are a hell of a lot more complicated than they were just three years back. But more importantly, it’s unlikely the Swanns were dining at Fiorello’s for the lasagna.”

It’s a line that would only come out of the TV and Lenore hates Lehmann for saying it. But Miskewitz shuts up and Lehmann goes on.

“A month after the dinner meeting with Pecci, the Swanns resign their positions at the Institute. There were a lot of bad feelings. A lot of interoffice politics. A lot of fighting over grant money and allocations. The Swanns broke off and rented office space at the new industrial park up near the airport.”

“Place is a ghost town,” Richmond says. “Developer’s supposed to go Chapter Eleven any day now.”

“I don’t think Leo and Inez were too interested in neighbors. They set up shop as consultants. They tried to make contacts with the bigger pharmaceutical boys. They called themselves Synaboost Inc.”

“You’re saying,” Zarelli tries, “that they were going through the motions. That the real contact was down San Remo with Pecci and family.”

Lehmann ignores him for some reason. “Anything bother you about those photos?” he asks the table in general.

Lenore tosses her photo back onto the original pile and says, in a bland, bored voice, “Nobody’s throat is cut.”

Richmond sits up in his chair and looks toward Miskewitz. “I swear homicide said a cut throat. I had lunch with Berkman. ‘Cut throat,’ he says.”

“Some facts about the Swann case,” Mayor Welby says, “have been altered.”

“Within the department?” Richmond says, showing too much concern. Lenore feels like sliding a note to him that reads, Shut up now.

“Both bodies,” Lehmann says, “were found hanging. The housecleaner called police when she couldn’t get in on the second day in a row. Both bodies were tortured extensively, in very particular ways, before they were hung. The FBI was notified and the domestic dispute story was cooked up immediately.”

He pauses, reaches down, and shuffles the photos back into an ordered pile. “We’ve seen the method of execution before. Definitely gangland. Definitely immigrant. There’s some dispute as to whether we’re talking Hong Kong or Panama.”

He pauses again, like he’s learned an important lesson from Welby, then says, “The tongues were cut out of both their heads. My people came in on the heels of the bureau. We sent a team in, sealed off the house, and spent two days combing it over. We found two of these”—he reaches into his windbreaker pocket—“hidden inside a spice jar labeled ‘garlic salt.’”

He pulls from his pocket a small plastic ball, like a bubble, like one of those clear round containers found in the candy-dispenser machines at discount stores. Sealed inside it and held solidly in place by some kind of clear gel, is a small, scarlet-colored pill, cut in the shape of the letter Q. Lehmann places the bubble on the table and gives it a roll. All their eyes follow it as it spins down an awkward, wobbly path and finally drops off the table’s edge and into Lenore’s lap.

She looks around the table at everyone, then picks it up, weighs it in her hand, holds it up close to her eyeball like it was a jeweler’s loupe. Whatever the gel is inside the bubble, it makes everything she sees seem hyper-clear, more colorful, solid, more real than her normal vision. She turns her head till she’s looking at Zarelli’s pleading, anxious face popping from the knifelike collar of his shirt. She pulls the bubble away, places it back on the table, and gives it a small push. It rolls across to Dr. Woo, who lets it drop over the edge into his waiting palm.

As if taking this as a cue, Lehmann says, “The doctor can give you some idea of what’s inside the container,” and starts wiping the lenses of his sunglasses on the fleecy inside of his jacket.

Dr. Woo nods and puts the bubble back on the table in front of him and stabilizes it with his hand. It sits like some weird egg, some freak produced by a marriage of nature and technology. He lifts his satchel onto the table and takes out a stack of papers that he hands to Miskewitz, indicating that they should be passed around. Each handout has a couple dozen pages. The lieutenant takes one for himself and hands them down the table.

Lenore takes her copy and thumbs through it. The printing is too small, she thinks, it’d give anyone a headache by page two. There are also graphs, charts, columns of numbers, and illustrations. The last page is filled with a large and very intricate picture of a brain. The page is crammed with writing and dozens of black lines that stretch between areas of the brain and definitions of what the areas are called. Lenore thinks the odds are pretty good that she won’t read a single word. If the doc can’t give her the basics in conversation, he’s in trouble. She’s got a backlog of reading of her own at home, stuff that could refine the direction of her life, give her even more of an edge than she’s already got.

Dr. Woo prepares to speak by making his hand into a fist, bringing it up in front of his mouth, and forcing himself to cough a few times. Lenore interprets this to mean that he’ll speak too softly and be a boring pain in the ass. But as soon as the first words flow from his mouth, she knows she’s completely wrong. He’s got a beautiful speaking voice, low, distinct, strong but rich with hints of emotion and emphasis.

“As Mayor Welby said, my name is Frederick Woo, and I’ve been asked to come here today for two reasons. First, to try to give you a brief and intelligible explanation of what the small red pill that you see inside this capsule can do to the human brain. And second, because I consulted briefly with Leo and Inez Swann during their tenure with the Institute.”