Under the Microscope (16 page)

Only it wasn’t. He’d already admitted he didn’t see her as an equal.

He was still looking to save her.

Raine pulled away, blood humming, and saw the knowledge already written in his eyes.

“Not yet,” he said as though they’d already discussed it. “Not tonight.”

Maybe not ever. Probably not ever.

“Thanks for the meal.” Raine stood and gathered her change of clothes. “See you tomorrow.”

She surprised herself by sleeping through the afternoon and night, and she woke with the taste of him on her lips.

THE ADDRESS IKE HAD GIVEN THEM in Richmond, Virginia, belonged not to a family member of the second victim, Minifred Tyrrel, but to her former roommate, Jenni, a late twenty-something who died her hair platinum blond and wore her pants two sizes too small.

She had agreed to meet with them at noon. When
she opened the door, she took one look at Max and couldn’t have been more helpful.

“Minni was on the pill,” she said, inching a little closer to Max on the love seat she’d insisted they both use, leaving Raine on the big couch by herself.

Max forced himself to hold his ground and continue with the questions as though her stocking-clad foot wasn’t taking a leisurely tour of his inseam. “Any other meds? What about recreational drugs?”

“A little X. Maybe some pot now and then. Nothing hard-core.” She glanced at the kitchen, overtly ignoring Raine. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, I’m fine,” Max answered, leery of what she might offer. “Did Minni smoke or drink?”

“She drank some. Nothing heavy-duty. And she used to smoke, but she quit right before she got her nose done. The doctors said it would screw up the healing.”

“True enough.” As he kept going with the questions—mostly gleaned from basic medical history reports, with a few oddball-risk factors Ike and Raine had come up with—Max took a look around the third-floor apartment. It was cramped and vaguely seedy, though one of the girls had made an effort to pretty the place up by draping brightly colored scarves over the lamps and tacking travel posters across the more obvious cracks in the drywall.

By the time they’d gotten to Minni’s eating habits—and Jenni’s foot had cruised past Max’s knee—Raine interrupted, “No offense, Jenni, but you don’t seem too broken up by your roommate’s death.”

“We weren’t tight.” As though realizing that sounded bitchy, she quickly said, “And I’m on antidepressants.”

Which made it all better, apparently.

Max ran her through the rest of the questions at lightning speed, and he and Raine escaped into the early afternoon air of Virginia.

They made it to the car before they looked at each other and burst out laughing.

“Her foot was…it was…” Raine pointed and dissolved into giggles.

“I know exactly where it was, thank you,” Max said, still chuckling. “And where it was going.”

Their laughter drained quickly, but it had boiled off some of the tension between them as they pulled back onto the road, headed for New York City and the parents of the third victim, Denise Allen.

The disposable cell phone rang just before they reached the Virginia border. He answered. “What have you got for me?”

“I think I’ve got a few things you’ll be interested in hearing,” Ike’s voice said, sounding far away.

“Tell me.” The cheap plastic creaked when his fingers tightened on the casing, but the disposable phones were the only safe method of communication. There was too good a chance that their regular numbers were being monitored.

Raine mouthed,
Is that Ike?
When Max nodded, she gestured for him to hold the phone away from his ear and leaned close so she could listen in.

Ike said, “First off, I’ve tracked down the sample batch information for the four dead women, to see when the pills that—allegedly—killed them were manufactured. Two came from the same batch, but the other two don’t come close to matching, which seems to rule out the possibility that one or two batches were somehow contaminated during the production process.”

“That’s good news for Rainey Days, but doesn’t help the investigation a whole lot,” Max said.

“There’s more. Agent Bryce actually made pretty good progress before the explosion. Although the dead women don’t appear to overlap in terms of their doctors, hospitals or medical conditions, the FDA records show that all four sample batches were distributed at a trade show attached to a big medical conference last month.”

“We had reps there,” Raine confirmed. “It was one of our promotional pushes.”

There was a pause, and Max expected Ike to say
something about Raine being on the line. Instead, she continued with her report, voice more subdued than it had been. “Granted, Rainey Days’ records show that the samples were only distributed in a limited number of venues, but it does seem suspicious. It’s possible some of the samples were subjected to adverse conditions during the trade show—heat or contact with another chemical or something.”

“Or maybe that was where The Nine met to engineer their plan,” Max said grimly.

“Make a theory to fit the evidence, Vasek,” Ike cautioned. “Don’t twist the evidence to fit your theory. But yeah, it plays both ways.”

Raine spoke up. “Was there anything else in the FDA files? Anything on the data ghosts?”

“Nothing,” Ike said flatly. “It looks like the investigation had been more or less shut down, though they’re waiting on the DNA information of the bombing victim. They have their suspect, and Detective Marcus had a judge issue a warrant for your arrest.”

Raine recoiled from the phone, face going sickly pale.

Max reached over and squeezed her knee. “That doesn’t change anything important.” Except that now they were trying to avoid both the cops and The Nine. He returned his attention to the phone.
“What else do you have for us? Anything on that disk Charlie gave me?”

Max felt a dig of remorse that he’d fled the murder scene, but reminded himself that they’d go to the authorities as soon as they had the evidence to back up their admittedly wild theory.

Nobody would buy into it otherwise.

“I was able to confirm that he lost his wife to cancer last year. I couldn’t find the wonder drug that was supposedly suppressed, but get this—the disk he gave you was a conference room surveillance video from his own law firm. Seems like they tape their meetings—wonder if the clients know? Anyway, there are two men on the clip—one is the managing partner, Niles Brant. The other fits the description you gave me last night of the man you saw get out of the limo the other night. The audio’s corrupted, so I don’t have anything of the conversation yet. I know a guy who knows a guy who might be able to help us, though.”

Max cursed the delay. “Any idea who the second man is?”

“Working on it. He doesn’t seem to belong to any of the big drug companies. I’m thinking I’ll show the picture around Boston General today. If he’s a local and he’s in the medical or biotech fields, someone should know him.”

“Be careful,” Max warned.

“Yes, Dad.” But Ike’s tone was serious when she said, “I’m headed to the Cape for the weekend with a friend, but I’ll bring the laptop and keep this phone. Call if you really need me.”

“Hot date?”

“Hot enough,” she answered with a thread of amusement in her voice. “But I’m here if you need me.”

“Thanks Ike, I owe you one.”

“Just take care of yourself and we’ll call it even,” she said, and he knew she wasn’t just talking about the possibility of an attack.

She hung up before he could respond.

Max folded the phone shut and tucked it into his pocket before glancing at Raine. She was too pale, too quiet.

“Hey,” he said softly. “I mean it. The warrant doesn’t change anything substantial. We’re working the case. We’ll figure it out and pull together enough evidence that they can’t possibly charge you.” He wanted to touch her again, but kept both hands on the steering wheel. “I won’t let them put you in jail. If they do, I’ll bust you out, okay?”

She stirred, forcing a weak smile at the joke. “That’s one rescue I’ll hold you to, Vasek.” She looked down at her hands. “It’s not the warrant. Or not just the warrant. It’s everything.” Her gesture encompassed the vehicle, the passing scenery and the
two of them. “On Monday I was sitting in my office with two of my most trusted employees watching the first of the Thriller ads debut on national TV. Now it’s Friday and I’m a fugitive, thanks to one of those trusted employees. I’ve got no home, no office, and quite possibly no way to fix either of those things.” She shrugged. “I’ve got nothing.”

“You’ve got me,” he said without thinking.

The words hung motionless for a few heartbeats, then sank with a sigh.

Chapter Eleven

Raine was exhausted by the time they pulled off at a hotel outside New York City rather than fight the weekend traffic. She’d done little more than sit in rental cars—they’d switched from the sedan to a pickup truck near D.C.—for the past few days, but her bones ached and her joints pinged a protest when she dropped down from the vehicle.

She must have groaned, because Max chuckled softly. “Come on. You hit the shower and I’ll order food.”

Max rented two rooms and they met in his for dinner without even discussing it. Still bone-tired, though less achy after her shower, Raine headed back to her room after nearly falling asleep in her rubbery room service pasta.

This time, though, there was no good-night kiss.

As Raine lay in bed, rapidly fading toward sleep, she realized it was because they had reached
a plateau of sorts, or maybe a pinnacle. One more kiss, one more touch might unbalance their equilibrium and send them hurtling down one side of the mountain or the other.

She snorted into the darkness, which smelled of cheap hotel. “And the award for the worst metaphor of the night goes to…Raine Montgomery!”

But thinking of her and Max was better than thinking of a warrant with her name on it. Easier than thinking of Baby Summerton, or a girl named Minni whose “kin” hadn’t mourned her death.

Simpler than thinking about what came next.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, they set off just after eight. Max had pushed the schedule back because he was familiar with the city, and figured traffic shouldn’t be too awful on a Saturday morning.

A rolled cement truck on the bridge meant they didn’t get to the stately old brick home until near 10:00 a.m. There, they found a computer-generated flier pinned to the door.

“Memorial services start at ten,” Raine read, then frowned. “The examiners released Denise Allen’s body awfully quick, didn’t they?” Then she winced. “I’m sorry. That came out harsher than I meant it to.”

“Valid point, though.” Max frowned at the flier,
which offered directions to a nearby church. “Either they’re holding a memorial now and planning the burial for later, or someone leaned on the morgue to expedite processing.” He glanced over at her. “I’m betting on the latter.”

Her eyes had gone hollow in her face. “We should go to the service.”

Though he’d been thinking the same thing, Max wished there were another way. Raine was doing her best, but the interviews were taking a toll. She’d become more and more withdrawn as the days had passed.

Regardless of whether it was toxicity or murder, four innocent women had died because of her drug.

Before he could say anything, she shot him a look. “Don’t coddle me, Vasek. I’m fine.”

He nodded shortly. “Let’s head over to the memorial, then.”

Despite what most television cop dramas suggested, Max had no hope that the killer would be sitting in a back pew. But the gathering might give them access to friends and family members who might have additional information on Denise’s lifestyle.

There had to be a pattern somewhere. A risk factor. A reason the women had died.

Or been killed.

The church was a few blocks from the Allens’
stately home. It, too, spoke with the quiet under-tones of old money, which was evident in the profusions of fresh off-season flowers and the plush cloth of the bolsters and curtains. Vivid stained glass windows showed scenes of sin and redemption and God’s forgiveness, and the air carried the scents of incense and lilies.

Max drew a deep breath and felt something loosen in his chest. Though he had attended church less and less frequently over the past few years, the sounds and sights and smells reminded him of childhood services. Most of the neighborhood congregation had been related to him in one way or another, and the services had been simple and easy for his younger self to understand.

Honor thy family and neighbors. Protect those weaker than yourself. Do no harm.

It was the last two he kept getting stuck on when it came to Raine, he thought as they took a pew six rows from the back so as not to disturb the seated mourners or the memorial, which was already in progress.

A closed casket of polished wood sat at the front of the room, draped with flowers. An enlarged photograph of a woman in her mid-thirties sat atop the flowers, propped up so the mourners could see Denise Allen as she’d been in life.

A podium stood to the left of the casket; a man
in cleric’s robes stepped away from the microphone and gestured a tall, gray-suited man forward.

Gray Suit leaned too close to the microphone, eliciting a hum of feedback when he started to speak. He eased away and tried again. “I know it might seem strange for me to eulogize my ex-wife, but just because we were divorced doesn’t mean we didn’t love each other anymore. Let me give you an example.” He launched into a rambling story about the gym workouts he and Denise had apparently shared until her death. The longer he spoke, the more he used the word
I
and the less he actually said about his ex-wife.

“Nice guy,” Max muttered. He glanced over at Raine, saw her fidget uncomfortably in her seat. Leaning close, he asked, “Are you okay?”

“Sorry. Churches give me the creeps.”

Before Max could ask why, a tall, willowy woman with ash-blond hair and a feminine black suit leaned into their pew. “Is there room for one more?”