The Abbey (20 page)

“You screening your calls or something?” I asked.

“Yeah. Aleksandra’s pissed at me, so she keeps calling to bitch me out. I put her on an allowance ’cause she blew through three grand last month on shoes and hats. Let me ask you, how many pairs of shoes does Hannah have?”

I thought back to the pile on our closet floor and shrugged.

“Maybe ten or twelve pair.”

“Fucking–A. Ten pair. Aleksandra bought more than that last month. You’re a lucky guy.”

“Uh, thanks, Mack. I was calling to see if I could pick your brain for a moment.”

“Yeah, I’ve got a moment. Shoot.”

“I’ve been following up on some stuff we talked about this morning, and I came across some new information. What role would a microbiologist play in a cocaine lab?”

Mack was silent for a moment. I heard what sounded like a low growl in the back of his throat.

“I wouldn’t think any. Coke extraction isn’t microbiology, and the people who do it just have to follow directions. They don’t need to know why anything works. Why do you ask?”

“One of my suspects had microbiology journals in her house. I thought it might mean something.”

“Tell you what. Your question was easy, so I’ll hook you up. If your suspect is a microbiologist, I bet I can pull her CV off one of the hospital’s databases. We recently hired an intern with a PhD in micro. She’s hot; if you want, I can introduce you.”

“I don’t need the introduction, but thank you,” I said, turning my car off so I wouldn’t waste gas. “My suspect is Karen Rea. That’s Rea spelled R–E–A.”

I heard Mack typing a moment later.

“You got anything?” I asked.

“Yeah. Lots of stuff. Hold on, partner. Let me look at this.”

I heard more of Mack’s throaty growl. Evidently he did it when he was thinking.

“You really think this lady’s a drug dealer?” he asked a moment later.

“She’s connected, but I don’t know how yet.”

“Academic job market must suck pretty hard. She has a PhD in molecular genetics from Harvard with a postdoc fellowship at Stanford. If her CV is accurate, she taught at
MIT
for five years after Stanford. I don’t have a calculator on me, but it looks as if she racked up about ten mill in research grants at
MIT
. It’s too bad she’s got kids. Otherwise she sounds like someone I’d like to meet.”

“I really doubt my suspect has kids,” I said, watching as shoppers went to cars around me. “That might not be the right Karen Rea.”

Mack grunted again.

“It’s the only Karen Rea in the database. And I’m only assuming she has kids. Her resume makes it look like she took off in the middle of a pretty big research project a little while back. Usually only see that when a woman gets pregnant.”

I ran my tongue across my teeth and tried to remember if anything at the house indicated kids even tangentially. The only thing I could think of was the picture on her desk, but it was at least twenty–five years old. If she had kids, surely there’d be something else.

“Does it say why she left?”

I heard Mack hum for a second.

“No, but she was gone for five years, and whatever she did, she fucked up. Went from Tenured Research Professor at
MIT
to Lecturer at Podunk University after her break. Her post–break teaching career didn’t last long, either. About a year. After that, she disappeared.”

I nodded, processing the news. Mack might have been right. You don’t go from academic all–star to no–name lecturer to drug dealing vampire without a body or two buried in the backyard.

“Can you send me what you have on her?”

“Yeah. I can e–mail it to you.”

“I appreciate it.”

I gave Mack my e–mail address and hung up. I tapped my phone against the palm of my hand.

Who are you, Dr. Rea?

My front door was still nailed shut when I got home, which meant I wouldn’t be sharing the house with the local wildlife or neighborhood kids. That was nice. It was mid–afternoon, so I figured I was safe for a while. Karen and Azrael wouldn’t try anything during the day. There were too many potential witnesses, and it would be too easy to see them coming. I unlocked the side door to my kitchen and stepped into a mess that even my rumbling, empty stomach couldn’t ignore. I grabbed fist fulls of silverware and utensils from the floor and dumped them into the dishwasher. The place looked a little more serviceable after that. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about stabbing myself with a fork when I walked across the room.

Since I hadn’t eaten lunch, I made myself a turkey sandwich and finished off a carton of potato salad in our fridge before going to my office. My computer was still running, so it only took me a few minutes to check my e–mail and print off the document Mack had sent me. Karen Rea’s curriculum vitae was more impressive than it had sounded on the phone. While Mack had mentioned her research grants, he hadn’t mentioned her publications or professional presentations. That list went on for two pages.

I scanned it as I ate my sandwich. I may not have understood the first thing about Karen’s research, but I did notice a pattern. She had co–written three articles with someone named Dr. Doug Wexler. He had supervised her during a postdoctoral fellowship at Stanford. More telling than that, two of those articles were written before her break from academia while the third was written afterwards. The two of them might have kept in touch, which hopefully meant that he’d know where she had been. That could be helpful.

I wolfed down the remains of my sandwich, wiped my hands on my pants, and Googled Doug Wexler. The first page that popped up was a faculty listing at Stanford University. Wexler’s CV wasn’t as long as Karen’s, but like her, he had a PhD in genetics and several dozen publications. I read until I found his office phone number. I doubted he’d be in, but it was worth a shot.

I called the number on my cell and waited through two rings for someone to answer.

“Microbiology, how may I help you?”

Must have been his secretary.

“Yeah, hello. My name is Mike Bowers, and I’m calling from West Labs in Indianapolis, Indiana. I was wondering if I could talk to Dr. Wexler about a former colleague, Dr. Karen Rea.”

“Oh, Karen. We haven’t heard from her in a while. How is she?”

I leaned forward.

“I presume she’s doing well. She applied for a job in my department and used Dr. Wexler as a reference. Did you know her?”

I opened a word processor on my computer.

“Not well, but she was a very nice woman. Always had a smile and always had nice things to say to people. Dr. Wexler doesn’t usually take calls, but I think he’ll want to speak to you. I’ll patch you through to his lab.”

I was listening to elevator music before I could respond, which gave me a moment to make a few notes. If the secretary was any indication, Karen was well liked by her coworkers. I doubted that’d be the case if they knew she cavorted as a vampire on the weekend. I waited about five minutes for the elevator music to end.

“Hi, this is Doug Wexler. Susan tells me you’re calling about Karen. What can I do for you?”

“Good to meet you, Dr. Wexler. As you were probably told, my name is Mike Bowers, and I’m calling on behalf of West Labs. We’re considering Dr. Karen Rea for employment, and she listed you as a reference. I’m calling you to see if the nice things she wrote about herself are actually true.”

Dr. Wexler chuckled. That was good. Hopefully his guard was down.

“She’s one of the most competent scientists I know, so I’m sure all the wonderful things you’ve heard are correct. You said you were calling from West Labs. I don’t think I’m familiar.”

“We’re an up and coming biotech firm in Plainfield, Indiana,” I said, thinking quickly. “We’re still small, but you never know what’ll happen tomorrow.”

“Isn’t that the truth?” said Wexler. “Start–ups are exciting, and I’m glad to hear you’re considering Karen. Been too long since I’ve read a Rea paper. What sort of biotech are you in?”

I coughed, thinking quickly.

“Our biggest contract is with the Department of Homeland Security, so I can’t talk about our exact work.”

Dr. Wexler paused. I was about to hang up and call it a dead end when he spoke again.

“And you’re able to hire Karen?”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Is there any reason that we shouldn’t?”

“Not at all, but Karen’s work history is unusual. I presumed it would preclude her from attaining the requisite security clearance.”

“I’m not a security officer, so I can’t comment on that. I do have some general questions about her that you might be able to help me with. My notes tell me you supervised her postdoc fellowship at Stanford. Did you ever have issues or problems with her?”

I asked the question not because I was particularly interested, but because I thought it was the sort of question a prospective employer would ask. Dr. Wexler told me that Karen was punctual, polite, and professional; she got along well with faculty and staff and her lectures were well attended by graduate students and faculty across multiple disciplines. I didn’t think much of it, but I got the sense that Karen and Wexler’s relationship extended well beyond the classroom. He said she had a beautiful mind and a gift for analytical thinking. I didn’t ask if he found any other parts of her attractive, but I was tempted. Our conversation finally went back to her work history a few minutes later.

“You mentioned that Dr. Rea has an unusual work history,” I said. “I wondered if you could elaborate on what you meant.”

“Yes, of course,” he said. “I was referring to her time with the South African Medical Services. I seriously hope you don’t judge Karen by the research they conducted. You have to understand; she went as a scientist. She was given the opportunity to conduct pure research, unconstrained by political or commercial considerations. It was irresistible to someone with her acumen and curiosity. I don’t know that she ever forgave herself for what she did.”

“What’d she do?”

Wexler paused for a moment and cleared his throat.

“Forgive me; I assumed you knew. I’d rather not discuss details.”

“Did Karen ask you not to speak about it or…”

I let my voice trail off. Neither of us spoke for a moment. I could hear his breath on the line, so I knew he was still there. After a moment, I heard typing.

“Where did you say you worked? I just looked up West Labs and can’t find anything. I don’t appreciate–.”

I hung up the phone before he could finish, my mind already forming new questions. A South African job that led to academic disfavor, associations with drug dealers, an empty house, and, judging by her lack of personal possessions, an even emptier life. I leaned back in my chair, processing the information. I may not have known where Karen’s organization stored their drugs, but I was starting to get a better picture of her. I didn’t like what I saw.

I flipped through my notebook until I found the address for Sunshine Blood Products. The company was a node in my investigation, a place where suspects and leads converged. It was also one of the few angles I had left to explore; if Karen had drugs somewhere, they were probably there. I packed a couple of days worth of clothes into a suitcase and hopped into my car.

I put the address into my cruiser’s
GPS
and drove for about forty minutes until I hit the Hadley Business Park, an industrial warehouse complex about ten miles outside of Plainfield. It had corrugated steel warehouses lined up like soldiers going to war with thin strips of dead, yellowing grass between. Despite the name, the only park–like amenity was a fountain off the main gate. At least I presumed it was a fountain; the reservoir surrounding it had dried up, and evidently the management decided it wasn’t worth refilling. It smelled like rotting vegetable matter.

I drove past seven rows of warehouses until I found Sunshine’s building. It was number thirteen, which I thought was fitting. I’m not a great judge of distances, but the building looked like it was about a hundred feet on a side. It had no windows, and the only entrance was an industrial–looking, glass–and–steel front door with red, fabric awning over top. It wasn’t inviting, but I doubt that was what Karen and Azrael were going for when they signed the lease.

I parked in front of the building. The only other car in the parking lot was a battered Honda Accord that made my cruiser look luxurious. Unless Azrael drove a Beamer by night and a junker by day, there must have been additional parking somewhere else. The wind tugged on my door as soon as I stepped out. Without trees or a break of some sort, the long rows of buildings funneled the air through the complex like a giant wind tunnel. My guess was that the designers had stolen the layout from Purdue University, my alma mater. It was the only place on Earth I knew of that the wind was in your face no matter where you turned.

I turned around, looking for vantage points and exits. I saw a soybean field to the west and warehouses to the north, south, and east. The highway to Plainfield was about a quarter of a mile to the west, but there was no easy access. The only way in and out of the complex was through the front gate. That’d be a bottleneck if I needed to get out quickly, but if I were fast, it shouldn’t be a problem.

I thought I could do it. The complex was isolated enough that there shouldn’t be too many people driving by in the middle of the night. More important than that, we were outside IMPD’s jurisdiction. The nearest cops would be from the Hendricks County Sheriff’s department. If they came from Plainfield, it’d take them at least ten minutes to get there.

I waited beside my car for about fifteen more minutes, but no employees or rent–a–cops drove past, and no one emerged from any of the nearby buildings for a smoke break. If the complex was that dead in the middle of the afternoon, it’d be even more dead that night.

I drove to a motel by the interstate in Plainfield. It was cheap, but the room was clean. It had a bed, a bathroom, and a TV. As soon as I got in, I sat on the bed and called my wife’s cell phone using the room telephone. She didn’t answer, so I left a message warning her that the house wasn’t safe. I didn’t think she planned to go back anytime soon, but it felt important to tell her anyway. After that, I hung up the phone and put my keys and sidearm on an end table beside the bed. My muscles felt heavy and weak, and a dull weariness that went beyond exhaustion pervaded my body. I washed my face in the bathroom and had afternoon prayers before crashing onto the bed.