Death Row (21 page)

Ben was nonplussed. "Then get her a fan."

Joni sighed. "Come along, Benjy. We're going to have a little talk. The one your daddy should've had with you a long time ago..."

The man who greeted Ben an hour later at the front door of the laboratory was wearing a white coat with a pocket protector that held an array of pens and pencils and even a small calculator. Ben supposed he looked the very image of an industrial chemist, but for some reason he kept thinking of Sherman and Mr. Peabody.

"Thank you for agreeing to see me, Dr. Reynolds."

"Not at all." Conrad Reynolds was a short, balding man in his late forties, and remarkably convivial for someone who spent his days with test tubes and formulae. "I still remember Ray Goldman fondly. And Frank Faulkner, for that matter. Please come inside."

Ben followed him through the door. The front lobby of the building was about as stark as it was possible to be without becoming a warehouse. No attempt whatsoever had been made to meliorate the trek from the door to the elevator bank. Only a single sign that read: prairie dog flavors, inc.

"Mind if we go upstairs?" Reynolds asked. "I've got some chairs in my lab. And there are a few others you should talk to."

"People who knew Ray?"

"And Frank, yes. All those years ago. Not many employees have lasted that long, but a few." They rode up three floors.

When they stepped out, they faced a heavy iron sealed door. "I'm afraid the security around here is in the same league as the Pentagon's. Excuse me just a sec. Retinal scan."

Ben grimaced. "Can I wait outside?"

"That was
retinal
, Mr. Kincaid. Re-tin-al." Reynolds pushed a button, and a screened panel on the door flickered to life. Reynolds pressed his face against it. A red light flashed across his eyes. A moment later, Ben heard the door click open.

"Wow. That really works? I thought that was just on
Star Trek
."

"This isn't even new tech," Reynolds replied. "We've had this for more than a decade. Nowadays they're using voiceprints and DNA tests."

"Is all this necessary?"

Reynolds nodded. "Our owners are very protective of our secrets."

"Mind if I ask why?"

Reynolds gestured toward the interior. "Because the stuff we come up with in here is worth billions, that's why."

Ben stepped into what seemed to him a prototypical chemistry lab, not that he would really know. There were long tables covered with tubes and Bunsen burners and vials of brightly colored fluids held upright in wooden racks, some of them labeled with long Latinate names. It reminded Ben of his organic chemistry lab class back at OU. He only hoped he handled this case better than he had the class.

The one difference was the smell. Marvelous mouthwatering aromas assaulted his senses the moment he stepped inside. Part bakery, part steakhouse, part patisserie. No wonder Reynolds seemed so genial. If Ben worked in a place that smelled this nice, he'd probably be happy, too.

"What kind of work do you do here?" Ben asked. "What industries do you serve?"

"We specialize in the fast-food industry. Have since this lab was built." He took a chair and offered Ben the one beside it. "We serve other businesses on occasion, but that's our bread and butter."

"I see. What do you do for the fast-food people?"

"Make their food taste good." He winked. "And believe me, that's no mean feat."

"But-surely you don't cook their food."

Reynolds chuckled. "Cooking, Mr. Kincaid, has nothing to do with it. You have to realize that, in most fast-food restaurants, virtually everything has been processed and flash-frozen, then reheated for serving. If it weren't for the chem lab, it wouldn't taste like anything. Certainly nothing you'd ever want to put in your mouth."

"What do you do?"

Reynolds's eyes twinkled. "Magic." He reached for a nearby vial containing a clear liquid. "See this? This is the secret of the double whammy burger in the Bob's Burgers chain. And that one? Something we came up with last year. Made the chicken sandwich a top seller at Burger Bliss."

"That stuff is in the food?"

"Just a touch. That's all it takes."

"Doesn't sound very appetizing."

"Don't be fooled. Those burgers sell by the millions. You've eaten fast food before, haven't you?"

Ben smiled wryly. "Once or twice."

"And be honest-for the most part, it tastes pretty good, doesn't it? May not be good for you, but the flavor is generally yummy. That's why they sell so well. Up to ninety percent of a food's taste can derive from its aroma. And we provide the aroma."

"That's amazing."

"Yes, I suppose it is. It's the dirty secret that has made the fast-food industry the gigantic economic success it is. May have made the whole nation obese in the process. But it's made a lot of businessmen very rich. Last year, Americans spent more than one hundred and ten billion dollars on fast food-more than they spent on cars, computers, or college. Combined."

"That much?"

"It's a huge business. Hugely successful. For years, the taste and aroma business was dominated by a handful of chemical plants located just off the New Jersey Turnpike. International Flavors & Fragrances is the largest. They handle many of the large fast-food chains. They're responsible for six of the country's top ten perfumes. We were actually one of the first to make a success of it in the Southwest."

"Based on your fast-food formulae?"

"It isn't just that. We've devised flavors for potato chips, cereals, bread, crackers, ice cream, toothpaste, mouthwash. Even pet food."

"I'm surprised all this chemistry doesn't jack up those cut-rate fast-food prices."

Reynolds flat out laughed. "Are you kidding? Fast food is cheap for a reason. You're not exactly eating Grade-A meat, you know. Typically, the packaging costs the company more than the food itself. They can afford a chemical or two to make it scrummy."

"Where do these flavors come from?"

"Most are a combination of several chemical compounds, but often the primary aroma comes from a single component. Let me show you." He grabbed one of the vials of colored fluids, uncorked it, and held it under Ben's nose. "Close your eyes and tell me what you think."

Ben took a whiff. "Apple."

"Yeah. Except actually, it's ethyl-2-methyl butyrate." He uncorked another vial. "Try this one."

Ben inhaled. "Marshmallow."

"You'd think. But in truth it's pure ethyl-3-hydroxybutanoate. And methyl-2-peridylketone gives you popcorn. Benzaldehyde smells like almond. And 3-methyl butanoic acid gives you human body odor."

"Wouldn't that make a swell hamburger."

"No, but a hint of it might make a splendid cologne."

"How can you add these chemicals to food without telling people? Aren't there FDA rules? Labeling laws?"

Reynolds smiled. "Ever read one of those labels?"

"Only when I'm trying to diet."

"Next time you check one out, or read the ingredients on a fast-food product, look for the words
natural flavor
."

"I thought we were talking about chemicals."

"We are. But if they come from organic sources, they're called natural flavors. Even if we've worked for months to create those natural flavors in the lab. If they come from inorganic sources, they're called artificial flavors. Either way, it sounds pretty innocuous, don't you agree?"

"And you don't have to explain what they are?"

"Nope. The FDA doesn't make us identify the ingredients of the flavor additives, as long as they're GRAS-Generally Regarded As Safe. You wouldn't believe some of them. Beef extracts are commonly added to chicken sandwiches. So-called natural smoke flavor is often added to grilled chicken breasts. Is that natural? You tell me. Whatever it is, we're specifically protected from detailing the ingredients-because these formulae are considered trade secrets."

"Nice loophole."

"Believe me, it's true. The fast-food corps are constantly spying on one another, trying to swipe the other guys' formulae. They hire spies-they're called
kites
in the biz-to ferret out their competitors' secrets. Every aspect of this business is cutthroat. Did you hear about the Kraft Foods pizza case? Kraft sued Schwan's, claiming they stole their frozen pizza plans. They asked for 1.75 billion in damages."

Ben whistled.

"We're expected to do our best to keep these secrets out of the hands of kites. Which is why we have the tight security."

"We've come a long way since Betty Crocker, huh?"

"Oh, not really. Flavor additives go way back. Remember, when Columbus and most of the other early explorers took off, they were searching for spices. Making food taste good was big business even then. We're doing the same thing they did, except with chromatographs, spectrometers, and vapor analyzers."

"Is this the kind of work Ray Goldman did? And Frank Faulkner?"

"Frank was a flavorist. He specialized in developing new food flavor formulae. He was one of the best. Sort of a cross between a chemist and a poet. There was talk that he might start his own lab. Before the tragedy. He did some breakthrough work on mouthfeel."

"Mouthfeel?"

"Oh yeah. Very important. Mouthfeel is the combination of chemicals and textures in the mouth that determine how a processed food is perceived by the consumer."

"Can that be controlled?"

"You betcha. Mouthfeel men use starches, gums, fats, and emulsifiers to alter the texture of foods."

Ben considered. "Did you know anyone who might have had a grudge against Frank?"

He shook his head. "It's like I told the police all those years ago. The murder came as a complete surprise to me. To all of us."

"What about his personal life? Any skeletons there?"

"Not that I ever heard about. Frank seemed like the model of a family man. So many kids-but he loved them. You could tell that whenever he mentioned them. He'd been very successful and made a lot of money, and he liked to shower it on his family."

"What about Ray? Any gossip there?"

"Not that I recall. But I didn't hang with him much. You should talk to Chris Hubbard. He'd know more. They were pretty close."

Ben pushed out of his chair. "Okay. Is he a flavorist?"

"Sort of. He works in the biological additives department."

"Biological additives? Do I want to know about this?"

Reynolds walked him to the door, smiling thinly. "Probably not."

Mike entered the exercise room without knocking.

"We need to talk. Now."

Sergeant Baxter was seated on the floor, legs crossed, hands pressed against her knees, eyes closed. She did not look up. She did not answer.

"Did you hear me? We need to talk!"

Baxter opened one eye. "Leave me alone. I'm on my break."

"That didn't stop you from barging in on my coffee klatch and it's not going to stop me from interrupting your-" He stopped short. "What the hell are you doing anyway?"

She opened the other eye and sighed. "I'm meditating. Was, at any rate." She pushed onto her knees and dusted off her backside.

"You meditate?"

"Every day. Keeps me centered. Keeps me from losing control."

"So that's how you do it."

She gave him a withering look. "You should try it sometime, Morelli. You could use a little tranquillity in your life."

"Actually, I used to meditate. Regularly."

"A big ol' macho brute like yourself?"

It was Mike's turn to wither. "Used to." Without thinking, he took her elbow and helped her up. Baxter appeared surprised but did not resist. "I was into the hatha yoga thing. And Zen meditation. Back in college."

"How did you ever get started on that?"

"Oh, it wasn't me really, it was-" He shook his head. "Someone else."

"But you stopped."

"Yeah. I had to make some major life changes a while back. I guess that's one of the things that fell by the wayside. Hadn't even thought about it for years. Shame, really. I always rather enjoyed that."

Baxter folded her arms guardedly across her chest. "I'll probably regret this, but... if you'd like, I could show you a few positions."

Mike considered for a moment, then shook himself out of it. What was he thinking? "We need to talk."

"You've said that three times now. Instead of talking about how we need to talk, why don't you just say what's on your mind?"

Good point. "We have to work together."

"Just now figuring that out?"

"God knows I've tried everything possible to avoid it, but it remains true. You may not like it. I don't like it. But we still have to do it."

She cocked an eyebrow. "So what do you suggest?"

"I suggest we behave like professionals. No more big scenes in the kitchen."

"I can live with that. If you think you can restrain that tongue of yours."

Control, he told himself. Control.

"That means you've got to cool it with the nasty reports. Partners don't do that to one another."

"Blackwell tore it up. And he told me that... that you didn't say anything. About what happened the other day. What you overheard. I... uh... appreciate that."

Baxter couldn't have looked more surprised if he had proposed marriage.

Mike continued. "We both know you could've gotten me into a hell of a lot of hot water. And it must've been tempting, especially after my report. But you didn't." He paused. "Thank you."

She waved her hand.
"De nada."

Mike suddenly felt ungodly uncomfortable. Why was it so much easier to deal with this woman when they were yelling at each other? "We're going to have to find a workable compromise."

"Sounds good."

"Even if I don't necessarily think this investigation is... meritorious."