Lethal Exposure (2 page)

CHAPTER 2

Monday, 2:04 P.M.

FBI Regional Headquarters

Oakland, California

“Sorry to disturb you, Craig,” Randall Jackson said. “The SSA wants you in her office in five minutes.”

Craig Kreident turned to see the tall, lean form of his junior partner, who stood dressed in a dark suit and tie, his skin dark as polished wood, his black hair neatly trimmed. Jackson had high cheekbones, deep brown eyes, and a serious demeanor that proved to be a perfect counterpoint to the good humor of his other partner Ben Goldfarb—a pairing that June Atwood, the Supervisory Special Agent for Squad 22, recognized as being the best in the Oakland office.

“What, June can’t use the intercom?” Craig flipped his
Science
magazine shut. The desk was strewn with several months’ worth of
Scientific
American
,
Science News
,
Nature
and other popular technical publications. He kept back issues of his magazines in a credenza behind his desk, cross-referenced so he could look things up.

It was his job to remain savvy on new developments, considering his specialization in technology-based crimes. Technology, inventions, and gadgets fascinated him, especially how the latest innovation could be replaced by a new design in such a short time.

Jackson shrugged, letting his lips curve upward with a trace of a smile. “Why should she use an intercom when she can use a personal messenger? Goldfarb is better at that sort of thing, but he’s still in Washington, so I got tapped to track you down.”

Craig sketched a comb through his chestnut brown hair. “I hope she’s got a new case for me.”

“I wouldn’t want to spoil the suspense, for you.”

“Thanks, Randall,” Craig said dryly, standing.

“You got it.” He turned to leave. “And by the way, no matter what Goldfarb says, that Russian certificate looks great on your wall. Gotta run.” Grinning, he disappeared, leaving Craig looking back at his trophy wall.

Craig’s other citations came from several political entities, Bureau headquarters, even the Lieutenant Governor of California. But this newest award had been issued by the Russian Foreign Ministry, and it had already been the cause of some good-natured ribbing from his fellow field agents.

General Gregori Ursov, current commander of the Russian Strategic Rocket Forces, had applied considerable diplomatic pressure for the award—enough to convince Craig that the former nuclear inspector was far more important than his dossier implied. In overblown prose, the citation thanked Craig for his efforts at the Nevada Nuclear Test Site, and acknowledged him for “displaying remarkable foresight and cooperation in assisting General Ursov and his team.”

Craig had to snort at that, considering the stormy relationship he’d had with the Russian general, especially since Ursov had demanded to be included in every step of Craig’s murder investigation at the NTS.

Most curious of all was the personal letter Ursov had written along with the official transfer of the diplomatic document. The general cheerfully claimed that he had finished his final round of treatment for the radiation exposure he’d received at the Test Site, and while he would be required to maintain a careful watch for cancer signs, he was back on active duty again.

At the bottom of the letter the Ursov had scrawled a perplexing postscript, “Our mutual friend says hello!” Craig wondered if he referred to their Department of Energy escort Paige Mitchell, other members of the disarmament team, someone from the Nevada Test Site, or even a fellow FBI agent.

Or perhaps Ursov had just written the note to baffle him. If so, it had worked.

Craig noted how the framed certificates covered most of the meager wall space. If he got too many more citations, June Atwood would have to move him to a bigger office.
Right
, he snorted. As if she even paid attention to details like that. He slipped on his jacket and turned down his small radio just as the headlines announced one of the year’s Nobel prizes, then walked down the hall to his supervisor’s office.

June Atwood sat at her desk waiting for him. She was a petite woman with well-manicured hands and a carefully molded brush of black hair just turning gray at the temples, which gave her a distinguished “elder statesman” look. She always claimed, with apparent seriousness, that her agents’ aversion to following the rulebook had given her the gray hair years before her time, though she was loath to admit her actual age.

Before he had a chance to knock, she looked up and nodded to him. “Inside, Craig.” She glanced back down at some papers on her desk, then flicked her eyes upward again. “And close the door behind you.”

That was Craig’s first indication of a bad sign. But once the door had clicked shut and he stepped forward to stand next to June’s desk, she gave him a broad warm smile.

“Sit down, Craig. I just wanted a bit of privacy so no one would see me revert to my Old Softy persona.” Smiling mischievously, she pushed a folder toward him and leaned over the desk to shake his hand. “Congratulations. I want to give you a heads up that the Bureau will be awarding you the Shield of Bravery for the job you did in Nevada. The Director will be flying out next month to personally present the award. So at the risk of giving you a swollen head, you’ve truly become the Oakland office’s top asset.”

Craig shuffled his feet, feeling his cheeks flush. He looked down at the paper without seeing the words on them.
The Shield of Bravery!
The prestigious award winners’ names were engraved on metallic plaques back in the Hoover Building.

June continued to talk, and he missed part of what she was saying “. . . your knowledge and expertise in technology-based violations has made you indispensable.” Then she amended quickly, “To a certain extent.”

He gave an uncomfortable cough. “June, you always yell at me for the way I handle things in the middle of a case, and then you pat me on the back for doing such a good job after it’s over.”

“Can’t argue with success, Craig,” she admitted, “but it’s also my job to correct you when you don’t follow procedures.” She picked up a sheet and slid it over to him. She seemed incredibly amused by his discomfort.

She steepled her fingers. “And speaking of following procedures, the newest list of approved weapons just came out. The Director is concerned that some field agents are carrying unapproved handguns—and we all know what that means. Could you make sure your partners are briefed on this?”

Craig glanced over the sheet, then stuffed it in his shirt pocket. June knew very well he didn’t care for any of the handguns on the official list. And as expected, the Beretta he carried was not listed, so he made a mental note to exchange the small caliber weapon with one of the larger Sig-Sauers as soon as he could. “I understand,” he said, trying not to sound annoyed.

“I thought you would,” she said with an even tone. “Getting this Shield of Bravery will put you in a fishbowl, make you even more visible than being an ordinary relief supervisor for your squad. So watch it.”

Craig nodded. Somedays he imagined that June pictured herself as a reincarnated army drill sergeant who had missed her true calling in life.

“Now finish catching up on your paperwork before I assign you to something less interesting . . . say investigating unauthorized uses of the Smoky Bear symbol.”

Craig blinked, not knowing if she was joking or not.
But either way she’s right
, thought Craig.
It’s in the statutes
. “I’m on my way, Ma’am.” He quickly left the office, closing the door behind him again.

At his own office he saw one of the squad rotors looking for him. He waved. “I’m down here Shelly.”

She looked up. “You’ve got a call—long distance from Fermilab, some woman says it’s important. Insisted on speaking to you, in person.”

Craig took a deep breath. “Thanks.” He grabbed for the phone before Shelly could leave. He punched the blinking line after pausing just a moment to gather his thoughts, calming himself and also slightly befuddled by how his pulse had quickened.

Fermilab—a woman. He knew instinctively that it must be Paige Mitchell, who had transferred out to the accelerator laboratory after the Nevada militia incident. He hadn’t talked to her in some time, but she had his home number. Why would she be calling him at work? He kept his voice even, businesslike. “This is Special Agent Kreident. How may I help you?”

“Hello, Craig—this is a voice from your past.”

It wasn’t Paige. Instead, the rich, husky voice spoke of dark hair and flashing sepia eyes. It reminded him of a compact figure with gentle movements that held more than their share of class, creamy skin that would never have been sullied by too much time out in the sun, and of white teeth evenly spaced, except for a thin, enticing gap that made her all the more attractive. . . .

Craig swallowed hard. “Trish? Is that you?”

“It’s been quite a while.” As he remembered that she preferred to be called Patrice now, her voice became serious on the phone. “I’d love to catch up, but I wouldn’t be calling you if it wasn’t urgent. I need your help here. I’m calling from a hospital near Chicago—Aurora, Illinois, actually, near a research facility called Fermilab.”

“I’m . . . I’m at a loss for words.”

She sighed with a breath that might have been a stillborn laugh. “You always were, Craig, but let’s try to have a good conversation now. I’m in the middle of a murder case, and you’re the only person I know who might be able to help me. From what I remember, you’ve been handling investigations that fall right under this umbrella.”

“What murder case?” he said, concerned now. He sat up straight in his chair, feeling sweat prickle behind the armor of his suit. “How are you involved in it? Are you in trouble, uh, Patrice?”

“No Craig, not me—but the victim is. There’s been a terrible accident, and everything’s very confused. We don’t have much time.”

“The victim’s in trouble? What are you talking about?” Craig’s brows knitted. “You said it was a murder case.”

He hadn’t heard from Trish LeCroix since they had gone their separate ways two years before. They had been together for two and a half years in a comfortable if slow-burning relationship. They each had their own interests and they each had careful walls between them, never completely opening up.

In retrospect, after the pain had dulled, Craig realized they had both fooled themselves for a long time, but still he hadn’t been the one to make the break, and that hurt him all the more. Trish had finally chosen a path that would force them apart, take her to the other side of the country as she pursued her medical career at Johns Hopkins, specializing in nuclear medicine and radiation treatment.

They had parted amicably, promised themselves they would always be good friends, kissed each other good-bye . . . and had somehow managed not to speak to each other since.

“Craig, I need your help,” she said, and the tone in her voice alarmed him. Trish had always been relatively emotionless, intellectual, focused on her thoughts instead of her heart—much like he himself was. The plea in her words seemed out of character. “I’m calling in every favor I still have. The FBI is already at Fermilab, but they’re more interested in the explosion than in the murder. They think it’s just an accident—the murder, I mean. But believe me, this is a homicide case unlike anything you have ever seen before. I want you here. I trust you.”

Craig shook his head, growing more confused with Trish’s conversation. “I’ve seen plenty of unusual murder cases,” he said, dancing around the subject. He leaned back in his chair. The suit jacket had become uncomfortable, his shirt sweaty. He shuffled his feet beneath the desk as if he might somehow kick up appropriate words from beneath the floor.

“I’ll bet you dinner,” she answered, “a
nice
dinner, mind you—that this one is different. You have to come out to Chicago. I’ll meet you here.”

Craig knew he couldn’t say no to her. He pulled out a scrap sheet of paper, cradling the phone between his shoulder and his ear. “I’ll see what I can do, Trish. I’ve got some vacation time built up.”

He scrawled down her contact information and then hung up, realizing that his hand was shaking. He pressed his fingers down hard on the desktop to get himself under control again. He had longed for an excuse to go out to Fermilab, and now he had one—but before, the motivation had been to visit Paige Mitchell.

After his first case out at the Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory, when he had investigated the bizarre death of controversial scientist Hal Michelson, he had spent an increasing amount of time with Paige, a DOE protocol representative. She had been his escort through the Livermore Lab and had again helped him out while trying to crack the militia infiltration of the Nevada Nuclear Test Site.

But after the distressing events in Nevada, Paige had changed jobs, using her DOE connections to get her a similar job out at Fermilab near Chicago—a national laboratory that did no weapons work, concentrating instead on high-energy physics with the nation’s largest particle accelerator.

Now, the thought of spending time with his former girlfriend made him uneasy . . .
no
, he thought,
be honest with yourself—it makes you downright nervous
.

Some things were better left alone.

CHAPTER 3

Tuesday, 5:15 A.M.

O’Hare International Airport

Chicago, Illinois

Craig was convinced that whoever had designed the red-eye flight from San Francisco to Chicago should be shot. The plane departed at 11:20 P.M. and arrived into O’Hare at 5:30 in the morning.

Even so, the flight was packed full of weary passengers who had either been willing to put their bodies through this ordeal to save a few bucks, or too pressed for time to come in the day before. For Craig, this was his only option to meet Trish at the Fox River Medical Center the following morning.

June Atwood had been happy to give him a few days leave,
personal
leave, since this case wasn’t under his jurisdiction. Also, according to Trish—
Patrice
, he reminded himself—an FBI team was already investigating an unrelated case, some sort of explosion near the particle accelerator, and he didn’t want to step on any toes. Some agents got touchy over their turf, so he had made a quick call to let them know he was coming.

Ben Goldfarb, Craig’s partner and designated alternate for his caseload, was set to return from Washington today, but Craig had arranged for him to stop off at O’Hare on the way. Though Goldfarb hadn’t seen his wife Julene and the girls for two weeks, he agreed to an extra day or two in Chicago, his old stomping grounds. Craig expected he and Goldfarb could meet with Trish and take care of her questions in a minimal amount of time.

“Trish LeCroix’s involved in a murder case, and you’re going out to help?” Goldfarb had sounded astonished. “Why would you want to do that?”

Defensively, Craig said, “It’s not like she’s the wicked ex-wife or anything. We’re still really good friends.”

“Oh sure, that’s why you talk about her all the time and write her letters every week,” Goldfarb said. “But if you need me, I’ll be there.” The truth was, though the short, curly-haired agent was a top-notch investigator, Craig also wanted him there for moral support.

After getting an armed boarding pass at the airline’s counter, Craig had boarded the flight well before the First Class passengers, took his new Sig-Sauer out of his holster and had placed it in his bag stowed under his feet. Now, the flight played a film, one of the summer’s popular children’s features; Craig could not fathom why the airline would play a
children’s
movie from one o’clock to three o’clock in the morning, when any self-respecting parent would have made sure a child was deeply asleep.

Craig dozed off and on, cramped in his seat with an airline blanket wrapped around him. He had stored his suit jacket in the overhead bin to keep from looking disheveled in the morning. He tried to read a few of his science magazines on the way, but had trouble concentrating.

Craig chased dreams and memories that had been lurking beneath his subconscious, visions of a saucy, dark-haired Trish as they went to movies together, or walked up the steep streets in San Francisco’s Chinatown looking at bizarre trinkets. Trish never liked to buy, but she had a voracious appetite for window shopping. When she did want to purchase something, she went only to the best of stores, never to a street vendor.

Overlaid on those dreams, came other memories. Memories of Paige Mitchell, who was laughing and easy to talk to, always ready with conversation. Dreams tumbled together as they went swimming in the cold Livermore Lab pool, as they met at King Authur’s Buffet at the Excalibur Casino in Las Vegas, and as they discussed cases over microbrewed beers.

Craig struggled back to full wakefulness as the airplane began to descend. Paige and Trish both in the same place—Fermilab was going to be interesting all right. . . .

Barely awake at the crack of dawn, he fought his way along the jetway, trying not to bump too many bleary-eyed passengers. Carrying his briefcase in one hand and his garment bag in the other, Craig spotted Goldfarb immediately.

The shorter agent grinned, his curly hair tousled as it always was. “Welcome to the Windy City, Craig,” Goldfarb said, “City of the Big Shoulders, and all those tourist clichés.” He cradled a full cup of Starbuck’s coffee in his hand as he tossed an empty one into a trash can. Craig wondered how many the other agent had already gulped while waiting. He seemed unconscionably full of energy for such an early hour.

Goldfarb took Craig’s garment bag with his free hand as he extended the full coffee cup. “Here you go—a Grande double espresso. I thought you’d need it.”

Craig took the cup gratefully. The first rich sip burned his tongue, but the second warmed his chest like a shot of smooth, single-malt scotch. “Thank you,” he said. “Sorry you had to get here so early.”

“Anything to meet a friend,” Goldfarb said. “Besides, I got to watch the Concord come in about an hour ago. Very slick. It’s a promotional event from British Airways this month, O’Hare direct to New Delhi, India. They say it decelerates over Lake Michigan so the sonic boom doesn’t knock out any windows.” He gestured down the long concourse. “The little bird is still parked at the gate. You can go see it if you want.”

The supersonic jet aircraft was indeed something Craig would like to see as part of his interest in high-tech gadgetry, but he just wanted to get the day started, freshen up in the rest room where he could shave and prepare himself to meet Trish. He took another swallow of his coffee, a big one. “I’ll catch it on the way out.”

Goldfarb led the way from the gate. “I checked with the Chicago SSA about the explosion at Fermilab, let him know we’d be in town. Some kind of substation or blockhouse blew up near the accelerator. The case agent is a guy named Schultz—lots of Germans around here—and he’s just starting the investigation, looking into various kinds of explosives, terrorist connections. Doesn’t have many leads yet, though.”

“What about the murder victim?” Craig asked, then sipped more coffee.

Goldfarb shrugged. “That’s the funny part. Some scientist got a radiation overdose, but he wasn’t close to any of the blockhouses—and he certainly wasn’t murdered. The explosion at the blockhouse happened after hours, and the place was deserted. They’re just toolsheds for diagnostic equipment. No record of any person nearby getting killed, or even injured.” He paused. “I think Trish’s just yanking your chain. Crying wolf because she knows you’ll come running out here.”

Craig scowled. “We’ll find out as soon as we get there. I’ve arranged to meet her at the Fox River Medical Center in Aurora, Illinois. It should be about an hour drive.”

“I already rented the car,” Goldfarb said. “The best I could get us was a Ford Taurus, gold. Hope that doesn’t shatter Trish’s image of you.”

Craig brushed the comment aside. “She goes by Patrice now. And I’m not concerned about my image with her. Just here to help out, that’s all.”

“Whatever you say, boss,” Goldfarb said. He was quiet for a moment, as if there was something else on his mind. He scratched the back of his head. “Say, didn’t Paige Mitchell get assigned here too?” He raised his eyebrows in an impish expression.

Craig nodded brusquely and headed off to the rental-car pickup with Goldfarb close beside him, surrounded by airport crowds.

Goldfarb pulled their rental car up to the Fox River Medical Center, a brick-walled hospital built sometime in the late 1960s, surrounded by grass and tall oak trees. The medical center butted up against the languid Fox River, which meandered across the flatlands of Illinois, through the old city of Aurora. Tree-lined walkways sliced across the hospital grounds, interrupted by scattered benches and a few drinking fountains. The trees were spotted with yellow, red, and gold leaves, showing the first signs of the coming winter.

Inside, Craig paced the lobby, glancing up too quickly every time the elevators dinged and the doors opened. He caught Goldfarb watching his reactions in bemused silence. “What?” demanded Craig.

Goldfarb spread his hands. “Nothing.”

When Trish finally emerged from the elevators, she wore a neat, white uniform, moving with confident grace. Craig froze. He suddenly forgot all of the clever opening phrases he had intended to say.

Trish spotted him instantly and came right over, tossing her short, dark hair. She always moved in a straight-line path, never stopping to deviate along the way.

“Craig!” she said. “So good to see you again. Thanks for coming.” She gave him a quick formal hug, which he returned stiffly. They backed apart, perhaps more quickly than was necessary, and she looked at him through subtle, wire-framed glasses that showcased her sepia eyes.

“Good to see you again, too. Your call was quite a surprise.” He fumbled for words. “Um, I’ve brought Ben Goldfarb with me. You might remember him.”

“Of course I remember Agent Goldfarb.” She reached out a slender hand to grasp his.

“If you’re going to call me Agent Goldfarb, do I have to call you ‘Doctor LeCroix,’ or can I just go back to calling you Trish, and you call me Ben?” He grinned at her.

Trish laughed. “All right, first names then,” she said, “but you may as well call me Patrice. Trish was from a long time ago. A kid’s name.”

Goldfarb glanced at Craig and shrugged. “Whatever you say, Ma’am.”

Trish turned all business. “I’m sorry we had to get together again like this. It’s been a very difficult few days for me, Craig, as you’ll see in a minute. You’ll need to get moving before it’s too late.”

“Too late for what?” Craig asked. “And why were you here in Chicago? I thought you were at Johns Hopkins—”

Trish was already marching toward the elevators. “Come on, I want you to meet the victim.”

“Great way to start out my day,” Goldfarb said as he trailed along.

Visiting hours had not yet begun, but the three had to contend with orderlies and nurses on the early morning shift. They found a spot in the next elevator, but instead of going down to the morgue as Craig had expected, Trish took them to the third floor and down a corridor through doors marked “Intensive Care.”

“It’s because of my work in PR-Cubed, Craig,” she said, “You know I’m very active in the Physicians for Responsible Radiation Research.”

Craig nodded, stifling his distasteful expression. PR-Cubed was
all
she had talked about for months, but to him they seemed to be a bunch of blowhard Chicken Littles screaming that the sky was falling.

“We were here for a conference and seminar, and we met with the Director of Fermilab. He’s very anxious to make a good impression on us.”

“Did you know the victim?” Goldfarb asked.

“Yes, I know him. I met him in the Ukraine when I went over there to do my Chernobyl follow-up. That’s why I called you, Craig. I need to cut through the telephone-tag games and get somebody on this right away. He doesn’t have much time.”

She led the way to a room where the lights were on. A patient lay on the bed, a man with shaggy salt-and-pepper hair, long sideburns, and a sharp aquiline nose. A telemetry monitor hung from a bracket in the ceiling, connected to him. Four round sticky patches on his chest held small clips to wires that led to a single cable plugged into the monitor. The man received oxygen through nose prongs, and an IV line snaked from a plastic bag stenciled with 0.9% NaCl.

The man was half dressed, scribbling equations on a piece of scratch paper. In frustration he crumpled the paper, struggled to a sitting position, and tossed the paper toward the wastebasket. He looked up, startled to see them at the door.

“Georg, you’re supposed to be lying down!” Trish scolded. “You’re only making things worse.”

“Worse?” he said in a rough, scratchy voice. “I am wasting time—and
that
makes things worse.”

Trish sighed and introduced them. “Georg, these are two FBI agents, Craig Kreident and Ben Goldfarb. They’re here to look into your case. This is Dr. Georg Dumenco, one of the most prestigious scientists at Fermilab. He’s on the short list for this year’s Nobel Prize in physics.”

Craig frowned, then lowered his voice. “I thought you said we were going to see the murder victim. Are you playing games with me?”

“
He’s
your murder victim,” Trish said, crossing her arms over her chest in challenge. “At the same time as the explosion at the accelerator, Georg was working in one of the experimental target areas. Something triggered an emergency beam dump, and Dr. Dumenco received a massive radiation exposure, more than fifteen hundred rads. Definitely lethal.”

“Ah, the scientist who received the radiation dose,” said Goldfarb, nodding. “But the Chicago office said he wasn’t anywhere near the blockhouse explosion. And . . . aren’t murder victims usually dead?”

Dumenco listened, unaffected, but Trish’s flat statement of the facts made Craig uncomfortable. He knew Trish’s bedside manner had never been one of her strong points.

“The explosion is irrelevant, Craig. This is about a lethal exposure. Georg has only a few days left to live—even less time than that before he degenerates so badly he won’t be any help at all.”

“Any help at all?” Craig raised an eyebrow at Trish.

“To find out who murdered him. Dumenco’s convinced his exposure was no accident. And I believe him. Someone did this to him intentionally, and he’s going to die for it.”

“Whoa!” Goldfarb said.

“Why didn’t you report this to the Chicago FBI Office?” Craig said. “They’ve already got a team here investigating the explosion.”

Trish shook her head. Her short hair swung from side to side, catching the fluorescent lights. “I did. But their official position is the same as Fermilab’s—Dr. Dumenco’s exposure was an unfortunate accident, pending further investigation. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. They’re putting together a review board to study the matter, but it’ll take
weeks
to go over all the details, and Georg will be long dead by then. That’s why I need you to get on the case right away.”

Craig looked at Dumenco as the scientist stood up, wearing only a hospital gown at his bedside. The man’s skin had a ruddy appearance, as if he had been severely sunburned. The eyes were bright and intelligent, but shadowed with worry.

“Please do it, Craig—for me?” Trish said, reaching out to touch his arm. If anything, the gesture had the opposite effect, and Craig resented the fact that she played on his emotions.