Splicer (A Thriller) Page 12

  He knew they were on his trail. But in a few days, once matters were cleared up in the city, he would be up at the lake and disappear until the trial was over. The cabin was a great hideout, but more importantly, it was designed like a small fortress. He felt confident that he could hold off a small army if he had to. There was that damn word confident again. The emotion that caused self-destruction.

  He turned off the power on the laptop and then flung a glass bottle against the far wall. Damn his carelessness. Rusty’s wife. She could be the death of him. He had to do something. Talk to her? Yeah. He would talk to her all right.

  CHAPTER 30

  Jayne found a small table near the kitchen, away from the action by the bar. Kelsey's Bar and Grill was a local hangout for lawyers looking for a place to crawl off and lick their wounds; Jayne had a different purpose today. She sat with her back to the rough stucco. When she removed her suit jacket, Rusty could see that she had goose bumps on her arms. He didn't feel cold at all.

  "The best news all week has been that brouhaha over your business card. The entire Prosecutors department is acting like it's suffering from PMS." Jayne smiled wickedly. "And only one of them is a woman."

  A waiter, as serious as a judge, took their drink orders. Jayne ordered a Heineken. Rusty, a Caesar, no celery. When he left, Rusty asked her "How could Dimbrowsky make such a mistake?"

  "There's only one reason. They're all in such a hurry to hang this on you; they've forgotten to do all the homework. Your business card was sitting there under Ludd's front seat, as neat as can be. So they fingerprint it. And of course they find a perfect thumbprint. It couldn't have been cleaner if it was part of a teaching exhibit in Criminal Methods 101. But there's one tiny problem," and then she smiled sweetly, a smile he had never seen before in her repertoire. "The thumbprint doesn't belong to you … and it doesn't belong to Ludd. In fact it doesn't belong to anyone. I love it."

  Rusty drank from the icy rim of the Caesar's glass, felt the rock salt bite into his tongue. Jayne was looking at him, waiting for the obvious question, but all he could think about was that she didn't look quite like his lawyer anymore. Had the light changed her complexion? It looked softer, her eyes less penetrating. Her blond hair had fallen over one eye and she hadn't moved it yet, hadn't carelessly flung it back out of the way. He decided he liked it there. "So whose fingerprint is it?"

  "That's the point. It's nobody's fingerprint." While she waited for that to sink in, she drew back on the long neck of the Heineken bottle. Rusty watched her stretch back. He was surprised by his reaction to the appearance of the soft swell of her breasts under a pale blue silk blouse. He coughed and looked back towards the bar, towards the light and noise. "You're not paying attention," she laughed. He turned back to her, swallowing hard. The problem was he was paying too much attention. Then she asked him another question.

  "How could you use a business card without leaving your fingerprint on it. Show me." He pulled one, a little worn at the edges, from the inside front pocket of his coat. She took it carefully in her right hand. "Look. These cards have been printed on special stock. They have a very shiny surface. Clay-coat they call it. It's perfect for picking up prints. How would you hand one to a client?" She handed it back to him. He pretended to pull it from his breast pocket again then handed it to her across the table held between his thumb and forefinger. She took it gently from him using the same combination.

  "Even in this light I can make out our finger prints. Now, you could have handed it to me by the edges, which is a little awkward, but the only way I can take it from you is with thumb and forefinger. One of us has to leave a fingerprint."

  "What if they were wearing gloves?" he offered, feeling slightly stupid about the whole conversation, but transfixed by this new personae of hers. She was almost rising out of her chair.

  "In June?

  "So then who is this other Tom Thumb?”

  She nodded her head. "I like that. Our Tom Thumb is obviously like some sort of intermediary. You know, those guys you hire to pass around your business cards."

  "I think you've been at this too long."

  "It's a joke, Rusty. But the best kind - a joke on the prosecution. It's killing them that they even found the damn thing. The best part? It'll make the jury go crazy. If we get that far."

  "Let's drink to that."

  She turned to him conspiratorially. "So tell me. How did the murderer get your business card?"

  Rusty pulled a folded piece of loose leaf from his jacket pocket. "Here's the list I made. It's only got seven names on it. I didn't have a lot of time to hand out business cards. Two days to be exact. So the list includes important suspects like my mother …"

  "You're such a good son. Does she hate you that much that she would frame you for murder?"

  "Knowing how she felt about Ludd, she might have volunteered to do it herself."

  Jayne leaned over him, the scent of her perfume causing him to flush slightly. She didn't seem to notice. "Who's this?" she asked, pointing.

  "My roommate."

  "Motive there?" She looked up at him, her face only inches from his.

  "I don't think she really cares that much."

  "You never know, Rusty. You just never know. "She looked back at the list then smiled. "Quasimodo?"

  "I put that in just in case you were going to say you didn't see a name that rings a bell."

  Jayne threw her head backed and laughed, a long lusty appreciation of a simple joke. It was good to see her happy after the scare she had put into him over her conspiracy theory. "Very funny, Redfield. But don't they call that 'gallows humor'?"

  "They haven't reinstated the death penalty since I last checked, have they?"

  Jayne rubbed her hands together then put her jacket over her shoulders. Rusty guessed wrong that the beer had given her a chill. She opened a file on the black plastic tabletop. "Dimbrowsky or Kozak, I'm not sure who," she began, "has been burning the midnight oil - likely because of their mishandling of the business card evidence. They've produced another lab report. We can go over it in detail later but one of them has me a little worried." Rusty cleared his throat; his shoulders notched down, his mouth set for bad news. "Do you remember reading anything about 'spit' on Ludd's driver side window?"

  Rusty's eyes narrowed. "Did you say spit?"

  "Expectorant. Spittle. On the glass." She was still serious.

  Rusty shook his head slowly. Spit? This thing is about spit?

  Jayne flipped through the folder. Her mouth was set hard. "Well - they typed it. They DNA fingerprinted it. When you've got the tools, I guess you might as well use them."

  "So they DNA fingerprinted the spit on the window glass and …?"

  "And it's yours," she said, looking across at him.

  "Impossible.”

  "Are you telling me, you of all people - that you don't believe in DNA fingerprinting?"

  "No. I didn't say that. Its just that I know something you don't."

  "Like what?" She gave him an I dare you look. It was loaded.

  "I know I wasn't there. As for spitting on it? From the outside I might have considered it - if the opportunity presented itself."

  He stopped for a minute as if he was counting to ten. "What if I had a machine that could produce a copy of anyone's fingerprint?"

  "Here we go again," she said.

  "Just type in a name - JAYNE McEWAN - and out would come a little, I don't know, a decal that I could press onto a cocktail glass and there you'd have it. Your fingerprint at the murder scene. Or on the murder weapon. How valuable would a fingerprint be then in a court of law."

  "It depends on how much this machine costs."

  Rusty smiled, appreciating the irony. "Like a computer. Anybody could afford one."

  "The weight of the evidence would be lessened but it would still be a factor." She looked at him hard. She needed an answer.

  "Great. So there's a computer system sitting in at least four labs in Toronto - the good old
GeneFab IM5 - that can produce a quantity of anyone's DNA by duplication. You just put the results in a bottle. Splash a little around. And Rusty's DNA is found at the scene of the crime."

  Jayne stared through him. She had just turned down his offer of another Heineken. She was working again. "You can't just make up DNA though. You need a piece of the original."

  "And I've thought about that," he said. Jayne didn't respond, working the permutations over in her mind.

  "I've been involved in dozens of murder trials," she finally offered. "DNA typing only came up in one. It's very expensive …"

  "Won't be for long."

  "But it is now and the Toronto Police don't have one of those IM5's you're talking about, what with the cutbacks lately. They’re lucky they still get to use their police radios! So the question is - why would the Crime Unit request DNA typing of spit on a window when the obvious source was the murder victim?"

  Rusty shrugged. "Don't they always?"

  Jayne laughed humorlessly. "Almost never. Everything has a price tag attached to it. DNA testing costs a small fortune. They've got your card and you've been placed at the scene with the other evidence. Even the partner, Rosenblatt, is supplying some kind of corroborating story. So what the hell do they need two sets of DNA typing reports for? Something's not kosher here? Dimmy has to be the one who ordered it. I'd like to know why?"

  "So what the hell do we do about this evidence?" asked Rusty.

  "I don't know. Problem is, most of the time you're talking over my head. What do you think will happen if we bring in an expert? The jury is even less likely to know what's going on."

  "So we do it for them. Right in court. We'll duplicate the DNA of one of the juror’s right on the floor of the courtroom."

  "And if it doesn't work, we just plead insanity?" She glared at him. It felt like charity. Or maybe she was right. The case against him might be falling apart. But he wasn't sure if that made a difference. He was still worried about her confession the other night in her car but they had since decided to just go for broke. He had spent the last few evenings shadowing Grieves’ old haunts. A friends place, a favorite bar, some former fellow employees at GeneFab who treated Rusty like he was three stages more sinister than the Ebola Virus. Nothing had come of it. He put down his glass and drew a circle in the condensation on the side. "Explain something to me, Jayne!"

  She was sobered by his serious tone. It wasn't the reaction he expected. She was obviously thinking the same things he was. Who were these people and when would they show themselves? "I'll try," she said.

  "Let's change the subject for a moment. And please stop reacting to my questions like I'm opposing counsel. I'm just curious." Jayne shrugged. "To me, Friday afternoons, Caesars and Law, don't mix." She nodded, still wary. "What happened to your marriage?" he asked.

  Her face showed surprise. "Is this where we get to show each other our battle scars?" She winked.

  "Glad to. You first."

  She flipped that errant strand of hair out of her face. "Nobody's fault really. I just make a lousy … co-dependent."

  "I promise to lay off the tech talk if you do."

  Jayne twirled her beer bottle lightly between her fingers. "He finished Medical school the same year I passed my bar. Two yuppie professionals ready to take on the world. We moved to Ottawa. Then, within the next three years, we moved twice more. Career moves. Once for his career, once for mine. Only my move was without him."

  Her response was off-hand. No emotion showed at the edges of her smile. "How easy was that?" Rusty probed.

  "You know what it's like. On a scale of one to ten? Two point two. Or one thousand. Depending on what time of day you ask me the question. I suppose for some people it would be devastating. Not that I'm the Ice Queen. I just don't have a lot of time to worry about it. He probably didn't either - the shit head."

  "So you've given up on the whole idea? Men! Women!"

  "Well, I can't say I've given up on women exactly. I haven't tried them yet. But I've tried men." She looked at him directly. "I've definitely tried men."

  "And lately?"

  She drained part of her Heineken. "Don't push it, Redfield. I'm trying to retain this good mood."

  "You, client. Me, Jayne," she said slowly. Then she stood to leave. For a fraction of a second she seemed to hesitate. Then she said good-bye and walked out of the room. He watched her leave. At the bar she turned ever so slightly and looked back before she left. He nodded and smiled. Well Rusty! he thought, feeling depressed and energized at the same time. Some salesman you are.

  CHAPTER 31

  Spin control, thought Aaron Grey, fascinated by the idea. Another lunatic 21st century concept born in the age of the oxymoron. Spin was bad. Spin was chaos. Spin was quantum mechanics, the science of unpredictability and improbability, a nagging inevitable part of life.

  Yet Aaron Grey persevered. He fought the odds, arm-wrestled with the gods. Sure his arms were tired, but something burning deep down in his gut kept him going. Without it, he suspected, he would be a husk. Like everyone else he thought.

  The Canadian government’s delay tactic on GeneFab's sale was a painful thorn in his side. He was about to address it. Control the spin that was about to throw his project off the track.

  Aaron Grey's principle weapons were his phone and his IOC - his inter office correspondence. His memos, fortified by his position and his immutable resolve had the effectiveness of armor piercing shells. He fired them off with as much care. Each email left a ripple on the pond. His phone calls on the other hand tore the surface of the lake open and whipped the shore.

  He dialed first seven digits then four, then six. A metallic female voice intoned, "Please enter your six digit security code." The line whistled, cleared, and then went oddly silent. There was a velvety stillness in Grey's ear - he sensed the system reeling out ahead of him at light speed, snaking down fiber optic tunnels to its destination, unstoppable. Like him.

  "Yes," said a woman's voice, her intonation filtered slightly by the scrambling circuitry. She knew who she was speaking to. He was the only one who would or could call her on this line.

  "We have a little problem. We need you to look after it for us."

  "Fine." So simple was her answer it chilled Grey. He'd done a good job of training her.

  "Flight 207 at 9 p.m. Your time tonight. Under the alias of Oswald. Diane Oswald."

  "You think I look like an Oswald?" Kim Soo answered sleepily.

  "Remember, I don't have the foggiest notion what you look like. Now."

  "My nose is better. I'm not happy with the chin. Did a fabulous job on the breasts. That's important in my line of work. Suppose it's deductible?" Grey ignored the chatter.

  "Take whatever you need. You'll fly to Pearson International in Toronto. Direct. You'll be there at least a week."

  "A week? This a holiday?"

  "Think of it anyway you want. You'll have a considerable itinerary. You have rooms booked and a car waiting. There will be some instructions. I'll email you the rest when you get there. Take your encrypted laptop."

  "Am I going to need anything else?"

  "An arsenal, if you should require it, will be made available.” He also knew she carried her personal murder bag everywhere she went. He had heard about some of the tools she used. A favorite was a glass rod but he didn’t want to dwell on the gruesome details.

  "Clothes though would be more effective," he said.

  "Or lack of."

  "Just be careful."

  "Thanks. You too." There was just a hint of sarcasm in her modified voice. The scrambling might have masked it, but Grey came to expect it. It was part of her M.O.

  There was no jarring click then on the line, no sense of termination, just a return to that silky silence –and Kim Soo was gone.

  Soo was perfect in many ways, thought Grey. She had no scruples. She never thought twice. If there was one thing that Grey believed was the critical ingredient in an effective operative, it was in
knowing how many times to think. Think once. Thinking twice was dangerous. Not thinking at all was the FBI.

  There was a shallow indistinct line between agents like Kim Soo who always did what they were told ... and psychopaths. And Grey understood it. The callous ones were the most efficient. They didn't ask why. Didn't grow depressed by long lingering assignments that challenged their beliefs or their motives. They just did it. They were invaluable in the field. But they had absolutely no loyalty to anyone but themselves. Grey learned how to deal with these types. Keep your promises.

  On Kim Soo’s to-do list would be an information gathering session with a very senior Canadian politician who it was estimated owned as much as fifteen percent of GeneFab. He had the clout to overturn the Securities Commission investigation into the GeneFab sale – he was just being shy. Kim would use her powers of persuasion to move things up on his timetable. And there were others who had insider information. She would try to loosen their tongues as well.

  Kim Soo had less than a year left on her contract and then she would be free to go away on her own. And she would be released, in a fashion. But a deadly agent like Kim Soo could never be allowed to put herself on the open market. She was bright. She must know that thought Grey. Surely she must know that.

  CHAPTER 32

  At the age of seven, Malcolm Grieves sat in a worn recliner in the basement of his parents suburban home, both enthralled and terrified by a creature that lived on an airplane wing. The TV show was Twilight Zone; the episode, the infamous William Shatner piece where an innocent passenger on a plane flight is haunted by the image of a hairy monster clinging to the airplane's fuselage in mid-flight.

  Most children related immediately to the character played by Shatner, someone who sees nightmares in the dark that only he can see. Except Grieves. His perception was quite different. He saw himself as the creature, locked out of the normal loop, clinging to a freezing wing section for dear life. Or, in instances where they are forced to recognize him, hostile and afraid.