The Serpent's Kiss

76

Kevin Matsumoto, according to the DMV, lived in a small house in Ferndale. Jill was able to get a photograph of Matsumoto from his driver’s license file downloaded to her laptop. Like most driver’s license photos, it was somewhat useless. Matsumoto’s headshot indicated a dark-haired Asian male with a goatee, an angular face and a sullen expression. She didn’t think the expression was significant, because she had yet to see a really perky expression on anybody’s face in a driver’s license headshot.

The vital information indicated he stood six feet tall, weighed 175 pounds, and had brown eyes.

Derek studied the photograph while she drove to Ferndale. “I wonder what he’s doing now,” he said.

“Plotting to kill somebody.”

“That’s not what I meant. I mean, he quit school. Did he re-up at one of the other universities around here, did he get a job, or what?”

“He was a graduate student in biochemistry. If he had his Bachelor’s in chemistry or biochemistry, he may well be working somewhere.”

“With access to all the ingredients to make sarin.”

“Is it hard to make?”

Derek shook his head. “Not for a grad student in biochemistry. Not for a halfway decent undergrad in chemistry or biochemistry.”

Jill’s phone chirped. She answered it, listened, said, “Okay. We’re on top of things. I’m sorry, Simona. Why don’t you just sit tight…” she listened. “Yes, you might do that. All right.”

She put her phone away.

“What was that all about?” Derek asked.

“Matt Gray’s locked Simona in an interrogation room. I told her to sit tight and not make waves, basically. She said she’s still got her cell phone, but the charge is low. She’s going to make some calls, let other agents know what’s going on, maybe go over Matt’s head.”

Derek sighed. “Is Gray always this nutty?”

Jill laughed, a short, unamused bark. “He’s been more paranoid than usual lately. One thing you have to keep in mind about Matt. We’ve all got our areas of expertise. When they wanted an SAC in Detroit, they had to take a couple things into consideration. The Bureau’s pushed all the communist hunting and organized crime work to the back burners and put the majority of our resources into fighting terrorism. That’s fine, I guess. But in Detroit, there are a couple different issues to be concerned about in fighting terrorism. One is immigration and border security. The Ambassador Bridge to Windsor is the busiest commercial border crossing in the United States. And Michigan has a huge international border with Canada. Secondly, Detroit and Dearborn have the largest Shiite Muslim populations outside of the Middle East. So when they wanted a new SAC, they were really looking for somebody who either had experience dealing with immigration and border security, or somebody with experience with an Arab population. Matt worked port security in Miami for years before he came here.”

“So he’s not really an expert on domestic terrorism.”

“He’s not operational in that sense, no.”

“That doesn’t exactly explain the raving paranoia.”

“No. That’s more…” She hesitated. “Matt’s got a few personal problems. One is he’s married with three kids. Matt sleeps around.”

Derek turned at the bitterness in her voice, but chose not to ask the obvious question. “And that makes him paranoid?”

“This is sort of unsubstantiated,” Jill said, turning off Woodward onto Eight Mile Road. They moved from light commercial onto what looked to Derek like light industry, a few factories manufacturing things like septic tanks and machine shops making tools and parts in support of the auto companies.

“Go ahead.”

“Well, Matt’s wife is the daughter of Senator Walker.”

Derek thought. “Republican from Georgia?”

“Right. And chair of the Senate Ways and Means Committee.”

“So his father-in-law’s got a lot of clout.”

“Very much. And Matt’s wife has been suspicious of his philandering for some time. Rumor is the marriage is on the rocks and if she goes to daddy with the truth, Matt’s career is likely to be toast.”

“So he thinks everybody’s out to get him?”

“He has good reason not to trust most of the female agents in his office.”

Again, Derek didn’t comment. After a moment’s silence, he said, “And that’s why he’s a raving paranoid?”

“It’s a factor. We think daddy’s been watching how things have been going in this office very carefully. Just hints and rumors we’ve been getting from other agents. You know, ‘Hey, I hear Senator Walker’s concerned about how things are operating up there.’ That sort of thing.”

“Just because you’re paranoid…” Derek said.

“Right. Maybe they are out to get you.”

They pulled up in front of a small bungalow in what looked to be a working class neighborhood. It was on the edge of a light manufacturing strip, a row of boxy houses, probably two bedrooms, small yards, single story, car ports rather than garages. Kevin Matsumoto’s house was dark. There was a small concrete stoop in front. It looked like it was sided with either wood or asbestos siding, the drapes drawn, a few untended shrubs along the front of the house. There was no car.

They studied the house for a moment. Derek voiced their thoughts. “I don’t know how to go in there safely.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“Any suggestions?” he asked.

Jill shook her head, her jaw firm, eyes hard. “Sometimes…”

He looked at her, a question in his eyes.

“Sometimes you just have to knock on the door,” she said.

Derek scratched his jaw. “I’ve got another option, actually.”

“What’s that?”

“Try a window.”