Tess Gerritsen - Last to Die

Carole gave him a puzzled look. “Why do you ask?”

“I just wondered if Olivia had a particularly close friendship with any of her colleagues.”

“Our five reps travel alone. And no, there were no inappropriate friendships in this office. For heaven’s sakes, this is Olivia we’re talking about. A happily married woman with a son. I babysat Will a few times, and you learn a lot about people just by seeing the sort of children they raise. Will’s a wonderful boy, very polite and well behaved. Obsessed with astronomy, like his father was. I just thank God he wasn’t aboard their plane that day. To think of the whole family being wiped out …”

“What about Will’s aunt and uncle, the Temples? Did you know them as well?”

“No, I’m afraid I didn’t. I heard they took Will and moved away, probably to escape all these sad memories. Give the boy a fresh start.”

“You do know that Lynn and Brian Temple are dead?”

Carole stared at her. “Oh my God. How did it happen?”

“Their farmhouse burned down in New Hampshire. Will wasn’t in the house at the time, so he escaped.”

“Is he all right? Is he staying with other relatives?”

“He’s in a safe place” was all Jane would say.

Clearly shocked by the news, Carole sank back in her chair and murmured: “Poor Olivia. She’ll never see him grow up. You know, she was eight years younger than I am, and I never imagined I’d outlive her.” Carole looked around the office as if truly seeing it for the first time. “Two years later, and what have I done with my extra time? Here I am, in exactly the same place, and I haven’t changed a thing. Not even those stupid fake palms.”

The phone rang on the desk. Carole took a deep breath and forced a smile to her lips as she answered it brightly: “Oh hello, Mr. Damrosch, so nice to hear from you again! Yes, of course we can update that order for you. Is this for multiple items, or just that one in particular?” She reached for a pen and began jotting down notes.

Jane had no interest in hearing a conversation about canes and walkers, and she rose from the chair.

“Excuse me, Mr. Damrosch, you can you hold on a minute?” Carole cupped a hand over the receiver and looked at Jane. “I’m sorry. Did you want to ask me anything else?”

Jane looked at the glossy catalog on the desk. Thought of Olivia Yablonski, hauling that heavy catalog from city to city, appointment to appointment, selling wheelchairs and bedpans. “We have no more questions,” she said. “Thank you.”

DETECTIVE PARRIS LOOKED LIKE a man who loved his beef and booze. They found him already seated at the LongHorn Steakhouse, sipping a martini as he studied the menu. His burly frame was so tightly wedged into the booth that Jane waved him back into his seat as she and Frost settled into the seat across from him. He set down his martini and gave them a typical cop’s once-over, the same cool survey that Jane was simultaneously conducting of him. In his early sixties, probably on the cusp of retirement, he’d long ago lost his boyish figure as well as most of his hair. But judging by that penetrating stare, there was still a cop’s brain behind those eyes, and he was sizing up Jane and Frost before he committed to the conversation.

“I’ve been wondering when someone would finally come asking about that case,” he said.

“And here we are,” said Jane.

“Hmph. Boston PD. You just never know which direction this thing is gonna twist next. You folks hungry?”

“Yeah, we could eat,” said Frost.

“I just spent a very long week with my vegan daughter in Tallahassee. So you can bet I’m not here for any frigging salad.” He picked up his menu again. “I’m going for the porterhouse. Twenty ounces with a loaded potato and stuffed mushrooms. That should make up for suffering through a week of broccoli.”

He ordered his steak rare, and another martini. His week in Tallahassee, thought Jane, must have been quite the ordeal. Only after he took a sip of his second drink did he seem ready to get down to business.

“You read the whole file?” he asked.

“Everything you emailed us,” said Jane.

“Then you know what I know. At first glance, it looked like just another small aircraft accident. Single-engine Cessna Skyhawk goes down shortly after takeoff. Debris scattered across a wooded area. Pilot was described as a real nitpicker about safety, but you know how it is. It’s almost always human error, either the pilot’s or the mechanic’s. I didn’t get involved in the case until I got the call from NTSB. In the recovered debris, they’d found signs of penetration by high-velocity fragments. That led them to test for explosive residue. Don’t quote me on the chemistry details, but they used liquid chromatography and mass spectrometry. Found something called hexa-hydro blah blah blah. Otherwise known as RDX.”

“Research Department Explosive,” said Frost.

“So you did read the report.”

“That part interested me. It’s used by the military and it’s more powerful than TNT. Mix it with wax, and you can shape it. It’s part of what makes up Semtex.”

Jane looked at her partner. “Now I know why you wanted to be a rocket scientist. So you can blow stuff up.”

“And that’s exactly what happened to the Yablonskis’ little Skyhawk,” said Parris. “It got blown up. The RDX was lit up via radio control. Not a timer, not altitude-triggered. Someone was on site, saw the plane take off, and pressed a button.”

“So this was not a mistake,” said Jane. “Not the wrong plane.”

“I’m almost certain the Yablonskis were the intended target. That’s probably not what you heard from Neil’s NASA colleagues. They refuse to believe anyone would want to kill him. I never bothered to enlighten them.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what we heard from Dr. Bartusek,” said Jane. “That it had to be a mistake. That Neil had no enemies.”

“Everyone has enemies. But the kind who play around with RDX?” He shook his head. “We’re talking scary shit, military-grade explosives. Scary enough to make me wonder if …” He suddenly stopped as the waitress brought their meals. Compared with the huge slab of meat on Parris’s platter, Jane’s seven-ounce filet and Frost’s chicken breast looked like appetizers. Only after the waitress had left did Jane prompt Parris to finish his sentence.

“It made you wonder what?” she asked.

“If I was the next one who’d turn up dead,” he muttered, and shoved a dripping chunk of meat into his mouth. Bloody juices pooled on his plate as he cut another chunk, took another gulp of his martini. Jane remembered what he’d said on the phone earlier that afternoon: I’d rather not meet at my residence . She’d thought it was merely to keep his job separate from his personal life. Now his statement had an ominous new meaning.

“This scared you that much?” she said.

“Damn right.” He looked at her. “You’ll start to understand if you keep chasing this.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“That’s just it, I don’t know. I’ll never know if I was being paranoid and imagining things. Or if there really was someone tapping my phone. Tailing my car.”

“Whoa.” Jane laughed. “You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack.” He set down his knife and fork and stared at her. “That’s why I’m glad you came with your partner here. Someone to watch your back. I’m old school enough to think ladies need to be looked after, even if they’re cops.”

“Looked after?” Jane said to Frost. “You’ve been falling down on the job.”

“Detective Parris,” said Frost, “where do you think this, uh, threat is coming from?”