good imitation of a regular office, complete with couches, a fan of magazines, and a shiny-faced New Agent Trainee behind a bulletproof window.
“Scott here.” She headed to the interior door—reinforced steel disguised as wood—and swiped her ID badge. The door swished open.
“Agent Scott.” Gundersohn’s voice, each word rendered hypnotically pedantic by some internal metronome. “We have found some items at the residence.”
“What, exactly?” Marcella’s kitten heels clicked on the smooth hall tile. She turned into the Spartan little office she shared with Rogers, flung herself into her office chair. She hoisted her feet to the corner of the desk, unbuckled the shoes, wiggled her toes.
“You could always wear sensible shoes,” Rogers said from behind his computer. She held her finger up to her lips.
“The woman’s car is in the university parking. No purse or phone at her home. We have her home computer though. Bringing it in for IT to go over. Encrypted.”
“Good. Want any help down there?”
“We have it under control. Will let you know if we find more contacts.” He cut the connection.
“They don’t want us at Pettigrew’s apartment,” Marcella said, turning on her computer. “That makes me think we should go. Just let me rest my feet a minute—had to walk a couple blocks to a clothing store with the paterfamilias.”
Rogers tossed her a bottle of water from a box beside his desk. A former military man, he was fanatical about health and fitness and believed drinking enough water was the secret to eternal youth. Given his ripped muscles, high energy, and shiny hair, it seemed to be working.
“Waxman stopped in and wants us to drag the canal where she went in for her purse. You’re the only one of us who scubas, so you have fun with that. I’ll supervise from shore.”
“Great,” Marcella muttered, sipping the water as she scrolled through her e-mail. “I get to catch some biological disease in pursuit of a biologist’s murderer. Perfect.”
“Yeah, the bacteria count in the Ala Wai is pretty high.” The broad pathway of water flowing through downtown was used for flood control and sewage disposal, though supposedly the waste was treated. During annual flooding, bacteria multiplied, and there were always surfers who insisted on riding the break near the canal mouth who came down with various infections—some of them lethal.
Marcella checked her messages. “AgroCon got back to me. We have an appointment tomorrow to talk with the vice president. Let’s swing by Pettigrew’s. I’ll see if I can get anyone else to help with the scuba.”
Chapter 7
Marcella ducked under the crime-scene tape crossed over the doorway of Dr. Pettigrew’s corner-unit condo in the prestigious Kahala area. Rogers brought up the rear as she opened the door with gloved hands.
Gundersohn had his head buried in the cushions of the couch. He straightened and frowned as he turned to face Marcella, a high-powered flashlight in his hand. Kamuela and Ching appeared in the doorway of the bedroom.
“What are you guys doing here? We have it handled.” Kamuela’s husky voice had an edge.
“Just wanted to pop in, have a look around. We know you’ve got it handled, and in fact, we’re on our way to drag the canal, look for the murder weapon. We just wanted to get a sense of the victim—I always like to have a look at the residence.” Marcella kept her voice conciliatory but firm—she wasn’t about to be excluded from any part of the investigation, and she was there to prove it.
She turned to look around the sparely furnished apartment. Furniture was typical rattan-and-tropical print on beige shag, a plastic palm and artificial fern decorating the corners—decor of the seldom home. The only real individual touch in the place was a great blazing canvas hung above the couch. Three dark shadowy outlines low to the left huddled in front of what appeared to be a nuclear explosion threaded with
“Scott here.” She headed to the interior door—reinforced steel disguised as wood—and swiped her ID badge. The door swished open.
“Agent Scott.” Gundersohn’s voice, each word rendered hypnotically pedantic by some internal metronome. “We have found some items at the residence.”
“What, exactly?” Marcella’s kitten heels clicked on the smooth hall tile. She turned into the Spartan little office she shared with Rogers, flung herself into her office chair. She hoisted her feet to the corner of the desk, unbuckled the shoes, wiggled her toes.
“You could always wear sensible shoes,” Rogers said from behind his computer. She held her finger up to her lips.
“The woman’s car is in the university parking. No purse or phone at her home. We have her home computer though. Bringing it in for IT to go over. Encrypted.”
“Good. Want any help down there?”
“We have it under control. Will let you know if we find more contacts.” He cut the connection.
“They don’t want us at Pettigrew’s apartment,” Marcella said, turning on her computer. “That makes me think we should go. Just let me rest my feet a minute—had to walk a couple blocks to a clothing store with the paterfamilias.”
Rogers tossed her a bottle of water from a box beside his desk. A former military man, he was fanatical about health and fitness and believed drinking enough water was the secret to eternal youth. Given his ripped muscles, high energy, and shiny hair, it seemed to be working.
“Waxman stopped in and wants us to drag the canal where she went in for her purse. You’re the only one of us who scubas, so you have fun with that. I’ll supervise from shore.”
“Great,” Marcella muttered, sipping the water as she scrolled through her e-mail. “I get to catch some biological disease in pursuit of a biologist’s murderer. Perfect.”
“Yeah, the bacteria count in the Ala Wai is pretty high.” The broad pathway of water flowing through downtown was used for flood control and sewage disposal, though supposedly the waste was treated. During annual flooding, bacteria multiplied, and there were always surfers who insisted on riding the break near the canal mouth who came down with various infections—some of them lethal.
Marcella checked her messages. “AgroCon got back to me. We have an appointment tomorrow to talk with the vice president. Let’s swing by Pettigrew’s. I’ll see if I can get anyone else to help with the scuba.”
Chapter 7
Marcella ducked under the crime-scene tape crossed over the doorway of Dr. Pettigrew’s corner-unit condo in the prestigious Kahala area. Rogers brought up the rear as she opened the door with gloved hands.
Gundersohn had his head buried in the cushions of the couch. He straightened and frowned as he turned to face Marcella, a high-powered flashlight in his hand. Kamuela and Ching appeared in the doorway of the bedroom.
“What are you guys doing here? We have it handled.” Kamuela’s husky voice had an edge.
“Just wanted to pop in, have a look around. We know you’ve got it handled, and in fact, we’re on our way to drag the canal, look for the murder weapon. We just wanted to get a sense of the victim—I always like to have a look at the residence.” Marcella kept her voice conciliatory but firm—she wasn’t about to be excluded from any part of the investigation, and she was there to prove it.
She turned to look around the sparely furnished apartment. Furniture was typical rattan-and-tropical print on beige shag, a plastic palm and artificial fern decorating the corners—decor of the seldom home. The only real individual touch in the place was a great blazing canvas hung above the couch. Three dark shadowy outlines low to the left huddled in front of what appeared to be a nuclear explosion threaded with
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