A Knife Edge

ELEVEN

At the MG security gate, I gave Jacki and Jill a parting wave and earned scowls and folded arms in return. The drive back to town was slow going. Twenty minutes out on the 101, the traffic ground to a halt in a snarl that trapped me between two exits. Also, either the fuel gauge was broken or the engine was running on fumes. It didn't look like I was going anywhere for a while, so I killed the ignition. The motor kept going, though, rumbling and coughing until it finally made up its mind to stop with a knocking sound that also violently shook the vehicle.

There was nothing to do but sit and think. I had a dead Dr. Tanaka, murdered, according to an unreliable witness, by a now-dead Professor Boyle, who was himself killed by an apparent attack of either karma or bad luck — I could take my pick. I had the company they were working for, Moreton Genetics, saying nothing, as mute as the people back in Washington who were paying all the bills. I also had ice-rain slanting in through the broken window like a shower of little razor blades. I needed something to stuff in the gap. There was plenty of rubbish on the floor of the passenger side — disposable cups and burger wrappers — but nothing that wouldn't get turned to instant mush by the deluge, so I shook the pages out of the manila folder Arlen had given me and used the folder. Then, with nothing better to do than watch the steady stream of emergency vehicles making their way up and down the lanes closed to all other traffic, I flipped through the material itself. I'd already skimmed most of it, except for an addendum about the latest in NLWs — nonlethal weapons.

That was intriguing in itself. Arlen had included it for a reason. Did it confirm, in an oblique way, that what Tanaka, Boyle, and Moreton Genetics were developing was some sort of biological nonlethal weapon? Or was it included because MG had developed NLWs for the military in the past? As for NLWs, generally speaking, the “nonlethal” part was a misnomer. It implied some caring for the target on the part of the targeter. From my knowledge, however, no one had ever been disabled by a nonlethal weapon that carefully placed them in a comfy chair with a hot dog. More often than not, NLWs were used to set up the target for a sucker punch, which was, in most instances, lethal in the extreme.

Arlen's notes confirmed this. There was a description of the Taser, which I already knew about. There was also a page about the missile that fried all electronic circuitry within a three-hundred-yard range so that an air base could be approached and stealthily overwhelmed by an attacking force and, theoretically, wiped out without one of our people breaking so much as a fingernail. I had no ethical problem with this — if someone was going to get killed in a battle, I was all for it being the other guy. But, being in the language police, the term “nonlethal” made me want to reach for my handcuffs and call for backup.

I checked the traffic situation. No one in front or behind was moving. It occurred to me that it was the night before Christmas and nothing was stirring except for San Francisco's entire fleet of emergency services vehicles. I went back to reading.

Here was something I didn't know: stuff called “Liquid Ball-Bearings” containing hollow smart particles that released an ultraslippery agent in response to heat. The idea was that you could spray it on a doorknob, making it impossible to twist open by anyone not wearing special gloves. It could also be sprayed on floors, saving a fortune on banana skins. It was totally non-toxic and water-soluble. I could see it being placed in kids' Christmas stockings sooner or later, along with the next item, called “Spray ‘n' Stay.” Cute. Again nontoxic and biodegradable, this was a substance created by the genetic modification of a protein used by the orb-weaving spider in the production of its web. The spray, which came out of the nozzle as a kind of string, quick-dried as strong and fine as fishing line. Who came up with this shit? Silly question. I knew that already and two of them were dead.

The car behind me honked. I hadn't noticed that the traffic had started to move. I turned the key. The starter motor ground out a dirge. I gave it another try. Same result. First it didn't want to stop and now it didn't want to start. I tried again and it rumbled into reluctant life.

I turned on the headlights. The tourist blurb I'd found in my hotel room said night didn't fall around here till five o'clock at this time of year, but it was only four-thirty and it was already dark.

As the section of traffic jam I was in nudged toward the city, I could see the smoking Transamerica building, helicopters circling it, spotlights on full flood. I rang the cell number Eugene Metzler had given me. After half a dozen rings, he answered it with a snarled, “Yeah?”

“Eugene, Vin Cooper.”

“Yeah, Cooper, what can I do for you? Haven't seen you around here.”

“Wanted to keep out of your hair.”

“Please, no hair jokes. What can I do you for?”

“Just checking in. You still thinking it was a hit on a wise guy made to look like something else?”

“Yeah. Be honest with you, Cooper. Some things don't fit but it's still the only theory that makes any sense to my people. We got no one sticking their hand up to take credit, except for the usual bunch of crackpots. But no one did for 9/11, right? Also, we've got a preliminary report in from the FBI forensics teams. The gas leak at the Four Winds was intentional. The gas main was tampered with and they've found the ignition system — an electric spark unit straight off a barbecue, wired to a pager.”

“Would you know if my guy has turned up yet?” I asked.

“Remind me. Who's your guy again?”

“One of the residents at the Four Winds. Sean Boyle.”

“No, he hasn't turned up. What floor was he on?”

“The third.” I gave him the apartment number.

“OK, well, I'm just gonna tell you again what I might have told you already. Where the gas explosion originated meant those bottom floors were the worst hit. Unless your professor happened to be out splitting the atom someplace else, you can cross him off your Christmas list, because only Jesus and the angels are gonna be on his.”

Or maybe the other guy would be on his list, I thought, the one downstairs with horns and a pitchfork.

“Take down this number,” Metzler said. “It's for one of my people, Detective Sergeant Ed Rudenko. Tell Ed I told you to call. He's coordinating the missing-persons angle. It might take a bit of persistence to get through as he's kinda busy right at the moment.”

I jammed my knees under the steering wheel while I dug a pen out of my jacket and wrote the number down on the back of Arlen's notes. “Listen, Captain,” I said, feeling a little guilty about the prospect of having a lazy tumbler of Glen Keith by the fire back at the hotel bar, “you need a hand with anything? Happy to help—”

“I appreciate the offer, Cooper, but we got enough cooks spoiling the broth down here already. Hey, maybe there is something you could do,” he said. “You being a fed an' all… could you come up with a strategy to get this CIA guy off my back?”

“Is this CIA guy like a dose of stomach flu dressed up as a Brooks Brothers model?”

“I get the clothing reference, but stomach flu?”

“He gets up your nose and then gives you the shits,” I replied.

“Yeah. That about nails him.”

“So, Bradley Chalmers … what's he up to?” I asked.

“Making life difficult. He's looking for someone or something, but won't tell us who or what. We got a crime scene down here and the guy's jumping all over it like it's a trampoline while he orders people around in the name of national security.”

I had no jurisdiction over Chalmers. If anything, the jerk outranked me, the CIA being a lead agency at the scene.

“Sorry, can't help you, Captain. All I can tell you is that the guy's a known asshole wanted in Japan for crimes against his spouse.”

“Hey, stop right there. You're speaking to a happily divorced man — three times. I'm liable to break out in sympathy for the guy. Look, gotta go, Cooper. Good luck.”

I thanked him and let him get on with his day, which would probably keep stretching through the evening and into the following weeks. I wondered why I was so down on Chalmers. The man was a philanderer, but then, as a famous guy once said, go ahead and throw a stone if you reckon you're any better. Maybe I was still hurting over the way my own marriage ended.

I steered with my knees again while I thumbed the number for Detective Rudenko into the cell's keypad. I got through to his answering service. I did what the recorded message said and left a name and number.

Finally off the freeway and into town, I went against the signs and took the long way round to the San Francisco Hilton, figuring that with the traffic situation in the crapper, it'd probably end up being the short way. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn't. All I knew was that a drive I thought would take ten minutes soaked up two full hours. I reminded myself that it was only an inconvenience. There were plenty of people who were far more in convenienced than I was, folks who'd be spending their Christmas Eve at various city morgues identifying loved ones who wouldn't be coming home to hang up their stockings.

My cell rang. I recognized the number. Rudenko. The man had a big, slow voice. I pictured Johnny Appleseed. I told him what I wanted and he said he'd have to call me back. I was OK with that. I was pulling into the Hilton parking lot and the drink I'd been thinking about was only two floors away, calling.

The bar wasn't full by any stretch but the people there, including the barkeep, all had their eyeballs glued to wall-mounted television sets where the events downtown were playing out. Having seen enough devastation firsthand, I decided to pass on the bar and headed for my room.

Fifteen minutes later I was showered and feeling human again. My cell rang. “Special Agent Cooper? Rudenko. Good news. I could have your guy down here, but it could also be a very large sausage someone left on the grill about a month too long.”

There were several makeshift morgues. The one I wanted was in the foyer of a building owned by a large insurance company, taking over the space usually occupied by an expensive restaurant, which possibly accounted for the slant of Detective Rudenko's humor. Rudenko, the man, was about five suit sizes smaller than his voice. His Adam's apple bulged like he'd swallowed one whole. “So, you want fries with that?” he said when he pulled back the plastic sheeting.

I had to admit, the body — if it could be called that — appeared less than human. The heat generated by the explosion and subsequent fire had been so intense that this person, whoever it was, had had their arms and lower legs scorched clean away. The detective handed me a plastic bag. Inside was what appeared to be a toasted sandwich. Only it wasn't.

“It's your guy's wallet,” he said. “It was found under the body.”

The documents inside the wallet appeared to be remarkably well preserved, singed a little at the corners but otherwise unscathed. I peered at the photo ID. I'd recognize that haircut anywhere. Boyle's photo was only slightly fire damaged.

“We got eight others like this guy so far, and we're gonna find more. When they're toasted like this, you can forget about dental records. According to the coroner, we'll be lucky if there's any DNA material worth harvesting for matching purposes, either. The wallet… finding some identification… that was a break and a half.” He shook his head, considering the stark reality. “If it wasn't for this wallet, we wouldn't even know if this was a John or a Jane Doe. Human is about as close as we could get. So, what do you wanna do, Special Agent?” Rudenko stood with his hands on his hips on the other side of the gurney, impatient. I handed the evidence bag back to him.

Something didn't add up here.

“Well, hello,” said a familiar voice behind me.

I glanced over my shoulder. It was that walking stomach flu — Chalmers.

“As you know, I'm the SAC on this case,” said Chalmers.

“So?” I said.

“So, back off.”

I shrugged and did as he asked. Chalmers leaned over the charred remains on the gurney. He looked like a Hamptons country club member, a sweater around his neck, the cuffs on the sleeves rolled into a little ball. It reminded me of a superhero's cape that had shrunk badly. “Did I hear someone say this was Sean Boyle?” He nodded at the lump of charcoal between us. “Thank you, Officer.” He relieved Rudenko of the plastic bag containing Boyle's wallet. “National security.”

“Hey,” the detective said, ramping up to a protest.

Chalmers slapped a folded sheaf of forms against Rudenko's chest, hard enough to swat a fly, and said, “The paperwork, Officer. Makes it official.”

“Where are you going with that? Why are you interested in Boyle? And who dressed you this morning?” I said, annoyed.

“To answer your questions: none of your goddamn business, none of your goddamn business, and fuck you, Cooper,” Chalmers replied. As he sauntered past, he gave me the kind of smile he might have given someone he didn't like very much who was having his fingernails pulled out with pliers. The prick was obviously enjoying himself, mostly because he was denying me what was potentially valuable evidence. There was nothing I could do to prevent his claim on the wallet, and he knew it. “You should get your wife to do something about your fashion sense, Chalmers,” I said. “What would work with that thing tied around your neck? I know… try wearing your underpants on the outside.” This succeeded in wiping the smile off his face, though only because he had not the slightest idea what I was talking about. But I did, and that was all that mattered.

As Chalmers stalked out, I asked Rudenko, “Did you call the CIA?”

“Yeah. Metzler told me to give you both a call.”

I got on the phone immediately to Metzler. Busy. I kept hitting the redial button until I got through.

“Metzler,” said the harried voice down the line.

“Cooper,” I said.

“Oh, yeah, thought I'd get a call from you.”

“So you know why I'm calling?”

“Finally discovered what your flu virus wanted. Let me guess: He was in the vicinity when you found it?”

“ Uh-huh. What gives?” I asked.

“Can't give you details, Cooper. But only ‘cause I don't have any. Orders came down the pipe. I was told if your guy turned up to let the CIA — and only the CIA — in on it. Rudenko called me when the wallet belonging to this Boyle fellow was found. I told him to call Chalmers and you.”

“Even though you were ordered not to.”

“You got it.”

“Thanks,” I said, digging deep to swallow my frustration.

“So now I've done you a favor, you can pay it back. Tell me why everyone's so interested in this professor?”

“I can't tell you that.”

“You gonna claim national security on me, too?”

“Depends on what your next question is.” I heard a sound on the phone like the detective was sucking air through his front teeth. He was thinking about it.

“Has Boyle got anything to do with the hit on these buildings?”

“That I don't know, Detective. He lived in the Four Winds. He was a scientist, doing some work for the government. That's all I can tell you.”

He gave me that sound again, the air-whistling-between-his-teeth one. “I guess that's better than nothing.”

“You still hot on the mob-hit theory?”

“Unless you got a better one.”

I said that I didn't and then I thanked him for his cooperation.

“Don't mention it,” said Metzler. “One more thing. Can you tell me why the hell the CIA is sticking its pecker into a domestic case?”

“Yeah, well, good question. I'll ask Chalmers next time I see him,” I replied.

“I'm sure you will, Cooper. Gotta go.” Metzler rang off.

Rudenko fired off a shrug at me when I caught his eye. He was embarrassed. “Sorry,” he said. “I thought the CIA was just coming to have a look.”

“That's OK,” I said. Different rules applied during a terrorist act on home soil. The local police didn't stand a chance against federal agencies that got boners at the mere mention of the word “terror.” And that certainly seemed to be what we had in downtown San Francisco, even if no one knew who was doing the terrorizing. “If anything more turns up, you've got my number, right?” I pulled a DoD business card from my pocket.

Rudenko gave me a nod as he took it and walked out.

I asked myself again why the CIA would be interested in Boyle and came up with nothing except for the fact that they were specifically interested in the guy. Was Boyle the reason the Company was on the scene? Was he the only reason? There was something strange going on here, besides Chalmers's fashion sense. I thought about the wallet. If I still had it, I'd be handing it over to forensics immediately to have its authenticity verified. But I didn't have it. All I had were the remains of someone I could, if I wanted to, claim was formerly Sean Boyle, Ph.D., murder suspect. The trouble would come when I decided I didn't believe it was Boyle here on the bench, which was right about now.