me?”
“Just arranging that.” He pointed to the phone.
As Boldt passed the lab, a woman’s voice called out: “Did you get what you need?” It was the young Asian woman, her eyes stretched open by the clear safety goggles, a wire loop held in her hand and sparking in the flames of a Bunsen burner.
“Yes,” he said with a slightly raised voice, loud enough to carry above the whine of a centrifuge.
“Good,” she said brightly.
“Not really,” Boldt replied. He turned and left, negotiating his way through a labyrinth of hospital corridors so similar in appearance that someone had painted color bars on the floor to direct you—only Boldt didn’t know which colors led where. Like this case. He finally reached the main lobby, and then headed off at a run out into the parking lot, out into the unexpected rain, pouring rain, buckets of rain, out without an umbrella or even a newspaper to hold over his head. Sometimes he hated this city.
SEVEN
The meeting with Owen Adler was due to begin promptly at three. For the sake of security and privacy, it was to take place aboard Adler’s yacht. Earlier that Friday morning, Boldt had assigned Detective John LaMoia to obtain a list of Mann’s students and faculty who had regular access to the Infectious Diseases lab. He also asked for employee lists from Foodland, Shop-Alert Security, and Wagner Wholesale, the distributor that supplied Lee Hyundai’s Foodland store. In an attempt to link motive with opportunity, these lists would be cross-checked with that of Adler’s employees.
Shilshole Marina was a clutter of masts alive with the clanging slap of nylon line on hollow-core aluminum. Wind whistled across the steel stays. Stinging rain struck the launch’s Plexiglas shield and drummed on the blue canvas awning as the craft carried Boldt and Daphne through choppy water to the waiting motor cruiser. It was temporarily moored in the lee of the gray stone boulders that created the breakwater protecting the man-made inlet from the sound. The multidecked, fifty-five-foot cruiser could have made a landing at the dock, but Adler was taking no chances that he or any of his passengers might be seen meeting with the police.
“It looked so nice earlier,” she called across the noise of the twin engines. She was not herself. Nervous, perhaps to see Adler professionally and in the company of others.
“Is he crazy?” Boldt shouted.
Her eyebrows danced. She knew whom he meant. She hollered back, “He’s disturbed .” She reached up and took hold of her hair, keeping it from whipping her face. “We want to look for suicides when we get this employee list—a spouse, a relative. And bankruptcy. Those are his immediate demands.”
“It’s personal?” he asked.
“Love, money, and revenge ,” she said, quoting the three most common reasons humans killed each other. “We may have a possible paranoid schizophrenic on our hands,” she warned. “And then again, he may be a cold-blooded psychopath.” The wind suddenly felt colder to Boldt.
“I’d like to bring in Dr. Richard Clements. He’s BSU.” She meant the Behavioral Sciences Unit of the FBI. Boldt knew she had used Clements in past investigations. He had never met the man.
The low charcoal clouds grew oppressively lower. Boldt loosened his collar and chewed down two Maalox.
“You all right?” She crossed unsteadily and flopped down onto the cushion beside him. Her hair whipped in the wind. “Are you okay?” she asked more intimately, pressed up against him.
“The boy is worse, I hear,” he said.
She reached out and laid her hand gently on the lower sleeve of his sport jacket and squeezed his forearm.
The launch engines slowed, and as the launch pulled alongside, a woman crew member tossed a line. Daphne climbed the ladder, followed by Boldt. The launch sped away, cutting into the angry green water, ripping open a crease of white foam.
“Lousy weather,” the woman offered. She was in her twenties
“Just arranging that.” He pointed to the phone.
As Boldt passed the lab, a woman’s voice called out: “Did you get what you need?” It was the young Asian woman, her eyes stretched open by the clear safety goggles, a wire loop held in her hand and sparking in the flames of a Bunsen burner.
“Yes,” he said with a slightly raised voice, loud enough to carry above the whine of a centrifuge.
“Good,” she said brightly.
“Not really,” Boldt replied. He turned and left, negotiating his way through a labyrinth of hospital corridors so similar in appearance that someone had painted color bars on the floor to direct you—only Boldt didn’t know which colors led where. Like this case. He finally reached the main lobby, and then headed off at a run out into the parking lot, out into the unexpected rain, pouring rain, buckets of rain, out without an umbrella or even a newspaper to hold over his head. Sometimes he hated this city.
SEVEN
The meeting with Owen Adler was due to begin promptly at three. For the sake of security and privacy, it was to take place aboard Adler’s yacht. Earlier that Friday morning, Boldt had assigned Detective John LaMoia to obtain a list of Mann’s students and faculty who had regular access to the Infectious Diseases lab. He also asked for employee lists from Foodland, Shop-Alert Security, and Wagner Wholesale, the distributor that supplied Lee Hyundai’s Foodland store. In an attempt to link motive with opportunity, these lists would be cross-checked with that of Adler’s employees.
Shilshole Marina was a clutter of masts alive with the clanging slap of nylon line on hollow-core aluminum. Wind whistled across the steel stays. Stinging rain struck the launch’s Plexiglas shield and drummed on the blue canvas awning as the craft carried Boldt and Daphne through choppy water to the waiting motor cruiser. It was temporarily moored in the lee of the gray stone boulders that created the breakwater protecting the man-made inlet from the sound. The multidecked, fifty-five-foot cruiser could have made a landing at the dock, but Adler was taking no chances that he or any of his passengers might be seen meeting with the police.
“It looked so nice earlier,” she called across the noise of the twin engines. She was not herself. Nervous, perhaps to see Adler professionally and in the company of others.
“Is he crazy?” Boldt shouted.
Her eyebrows danced. She knew whom he meant. She hollered back, “He’s disturbed .” She reached up and took hold of her hair, keeping it from whipping her face. “We want to look for suicides when we get this employee list—a spouse, a relative. And bankruptcy. Those are his immediate demands.”
“It’s personal?” he asked.
“Love, money, and revenge ,” she said, quoting the three most common reasons humans killed each other. “We may have a possible paranoid schizophrenic on our hands,” she warned. “And then again, he may be a cold-blooded psychopath.” The wind suddenly felt colder to Boldt.
“I’d like to bring in Dr. Richard Clements. He’s BSU.” She meant the Behavioral Sciences Unit of the FBI. Boldt knew she had used Clements in past investigations. He had never met the man.
The low charcoal clouds grew oppressively lower. Boldt loosened his collar and chewed down two Maalox.
“You all right?” She crossed unsteadily and flopped down onto the cushion beside him. Her hair whipped in the wind. “Are you okay?” she asked more intimately, pressed up against him.
“The boy is worse, I hear,” he said.
She reached out and laid her hand gently on the lower sleeve of his sport jacket and squeezed his forearm.
The launch engines slowed, and as the launch pulled alongside, a woman crew member tossed a line. Daphne climbed the ladder, followed by Boldt. The launch sped away, cutting into the angry green water, ripping open a crease of white foam.
“Lousy weather,” the woman offered. She was in her twenties
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