Maybe (11 page)

“Isn’t Ethel asking about her husband’s whereabouts?”

“No.”

“Because?”

“I’m afraid Ethel suffered an overdose.”

I frown. “You couldn’t find it in your heart to spare her?”

“Doc was a good husband. Almost never worked late. We’re still days away from fixing his background. She would’ve raised a stink.”

“What about Homeland?”

“I informed them of his heart attack this morning. They agree I should keep him on ice till we’ve cleaned his history.”

“Do they know about Ethel?”

“They think she’s here at Sensory, under a doctor’s care.”

“You’re holding both bodies?”

“I am.”

“Show me.”

Lou takes me to the cooler and shows me the bodies. I don’t know Ethel well enough to positively identify her, but this other one is definitely Doc Howard. We use a lot of body doubles in our business, but this is my old friend. I’d stake my life on it.

The question remains. Was he Darwin?

“Someone at Homeland knows Darwin’s identity,” I say.

“You’d think so.”

“If they think Doc was Darwin, they’ll want to replace him.”

“That’s my hope.”

It dawns on me Lou wants the job. If he’s framing Doc Howard, here’s another motive.

Lou says, “Don’t look so surprised. Stranger things have happened.”

“You’re a computer expert and researcher.”

“So?”

“I doubt they’ll offer you the job.”

“Maybe they’ll offer it to you,” he says.

I think about that as I head to the lobby to fetch Miranda.

Miles Gundy.

WHAT DO LITTLE girls and moms like to do?

Little girls take ballet. Moms take barre classes set to music. What do they have in common? Both use ballet barres, the long banister-type railing dancers use for stretching.

Miles pulls into a parking space that offers an unobstructed view of the entrance to
Dancing Barre
in Memphis. He tunes his radio to the local sixties station, cranks it up, and sits tight for twenty minutes waiting for the instructor to show up for the three-fifteen class. She’s early, of course, but not
that
early. Miles jumps out of his car, grabs the large canvass bag from the back seat, and enters the studio.

The instructor says, “May I help you?”

“I’m from corporate,” Miles says. “And you are?”

“Missy Tadasana.”

“I know you’ve got a class at three-fifteen,” he says. “If nothing’s out of order, I can be out of here in two minutes.”

“I don’t understand. Who are you, again?”

“
Dancing Barre
is a franchise,” Miles says. “Twice a year we test the facility for cleanliness.”

“Ms. Pranayama didn’t say anything about this,” Missy says.

“We don’t schedule our visits, Missy. That would defeat the purpose.”

“Well, this studio is spotless. You can tell by looking.”

“I’m sure you’re right. But I need to run a special cloth over the ballet barre and the floor to check for microbes. You’ll want to watch.”

“Why?”

“If the cloth turns blue, we’ve got a problem.”

“I should probably call Ms. Pranayama.”

“If the cloth turns blue I’ll call her myself. Otherwise, I’ll be out of here before you get her on the phone. You want to see how it’s done?”

“I guess.”

She follows him into the room. He places the bag on the hardwood floor, slides the zipper open, and removes two pairs of latex gloves, a spray bottle, and a thick cloth. After donning the gloves, he sprays the cloth with a chemical until it’s wet. Then he wipes the entire length of the ballet barre from right to left, sprays the cloth again, and wipes the barre from left to right.

He holds the cloth up for Missy to see.

“No blue,” she says, proudly.

He smiles. “This might be the cleanest facility I’ve ever tested,” Miles says.

“Seriously? Wow! Ms. Pranayama will be so happy to hear that. Do we get a certificate or something?”

“I don’t think so. But they’ll definitely want to mention it in next month’s corporate newsletter.”

She smiles. “We can post it on the bulletin board.”

“That’s a great idea!” he says, as he packs his gear.

“Wait. Aren’t you supposed to test the floor?” she says.

“If the barre’s this clean, the floor will be too.” He winks. “I’m scoring you an A-plus.”

“That’s rare?”

“Extremely. You should be very proud. Be sure to tell your clients.”

She says, “Wait. The barre’s still wet. Do we need to wait for it to dry?”

“No. I wore the gloves because my hands are sensitive to the fibers in the cloth.”

“In case someone asks, how long before the barre dries?”

“Five to ten minutes.”

She looks at the clock above the front desk.

“That’ll work,” she says.

“Nice to meet you, Missy.”

“You too.”

Miles leaves, thinking,
She never even asked my name
!

Donovan Creed.

MIRANDA AND I are ten miles from Roanoke when my phone vibrates.

“Hi Lou.”

“Am I on speaker?”

“You are.”

He says, “In that case, Miranda can guess, also.”

“Guess what?” she asks.

“How many unemployed chemists are recently divorced and have kids?”

“You already know?” Miranda says.

“What can I tell you?” he brags. “My guys are the best.”

I say, “In the United States? In this economy? I’d say twelve.”

“How about you, Miranda?” Lou says.

“Six.”

“You win. Sorry Donovan.”

Miranda smiles.

“She’s a natural,” I say. Then ask, “So you’re saying there are exactly six?”

“No. I’m saying she’s closer to the actual number than you.”

“So how many, altogether?” Miranda asks.

“One. Miles Gundy. And he lost his custody battle last week.”

I take Miranda’s hand in mine and bring it to my lips.

“Come work for me!” I whisper.

“No!” she whispers.

To Lou I say, “Miles Gundy?”

“That’s right. And you’re going to love where he lives.”

“Tell me.”

“Highland, Illinois.”

“Why’s that a big deal?”

“It’s only a four hour drive from Louisville.”

“So are a lot of places,” I say. “Give me the address.”

“Four-Sixteen Atlantic Avenue.”

Miranda writes it down.

I ask, “Is this where
he
lives? Or his wife?”

“Eloise let him keep the house. She and the kids are staying with her sister.”

“You have that address?”

“Twelve-forty-two Vincent. Same town.”

“Car?”

“Two-year-old Honda Accord. White. License plate 4XT167C.

“And he worked where?”

“Esson Pharmaceuticals, St. Louis.”

“What else do you have?”

Lou gives us the other details he’s uncovered, Miranda writes it all down. I tell him to let us know the minute he hears anything that could be related to a mass attack on women or children.

“Of course,” Lou says. Then asks, “Shall I call Sherm Phillips? Tell him we think Gundy’s our urban terrorist?”

I look at Miranda. She shakes her head no.

I ask, “Has the government sounded an alert about the plastic dispensers?”

“Not that I’ve heard.”

“And you’d know, right?”

“I would.”

“Then let’s don’t call Sherm.”

He pauses. “You’re sure about this?”

“Yes. I personally warned the President. You heard me.”

“But still…”

“They’ll send a hundred people to his house. You know they’ll fuck it up.”

“Of course they will. But we’ll get credit for identifying him.”

“You’ll get even more credit if I catch him with the evidence.”

“True.”

Lou goes quiet. I know what he’s thinking.

“Lou, I don’t want to be the next Darwin. I’ll track Gundy down and kill him. Then you can tell Sherm you isolated this guy as a possible, and dispatched me to check his house for evidence. I’ll make it look like Gundy tried to shoot me.”

“Be careful going to his house. It might be booby trapped.”

“Speaking of booby traps,” Miranda says, “How’s Sherry?”

Lou sighs audibly. Then says, “You guys make a perfect couple.”

When we get to our hotel, I give Miranda the room key and watch her walk to the elevator. Before getting on, she spins around and blows me a kiss. I touch my cheek and pretend it knocks me back. Then I walk down the hall to Dr. P.’s room and knock on the door. When he opens it I say, “Hello, Darwin.”

“THE PROBLEM WITH this business,” Dr. P. says, “You can’t get out.”

“Tell me about it,” I say.

We’ve been talking ten minutes, long enough to go through the whole “How did you know?” phase.

I just knew.

Something had been nagging at me the whole trip out here. Dr. P. was visibly nervous about taking a trip with me until I explained why we were going to Louisville. Once there, he was terrific with the hospital personnel and the Derby State Fair patients. But he was even more nervous about coming to Sensory Resources. He even wanted to book a flight back to Vegas.

Dr. P. was on the team that planted the chip. He was a staple at Sensory before I arrived. So why didn’t I suspect him before now?

He didn’t seem the type.

Which is exactly how he survived all these years, undetected.

First of all, you’d never expect a world-class surgeon to be a cold-blooded killer or head up a team that gathers intelligence, conducts assassinations, cleans crime scenes, harvests body-doubles, and makes shady back room deals with high-ranking government officials.

I mean, who has the time?

And second, if it could possibly be a world-class surgeon, you’d expect it to be Doc Howard, not Doc Petrovsky. Doc Howard was the crusty, take-charge head of Sensory’s hospital and surgical center. He ran the place. Dr. P. was his trusted employee. It hit me while viewing Doc Howard’s body. The logical successor to Doc Howard was Dr. P.

But Dr. P. didn’t want the job. Didn’t even want to step foot in the place.

Why?

Because he’s Darwin.

And tired of it.

He wants to do what I’ve thought about doing a hundred times.

Retire.

In his case, to Vegas, where he can end his years working in a private practice he owns. He possibly hopes to meet someone, have a social life.

He’s sitting on the side of the bed. I’m in the straight-back chair by the desk. The curtains are closed. I make a note to avoid hitting the hanging lamp when I stand.

To his credit, Dr. P. didn’t bother denying his identity.

“What happens now?” he says.

“I’ve always wondered if retirement was possible.”

“It’s not. They always find you.”

“They haven’t found you yet.”

“Well…” he turns his wrists, showing me his empty hands. Implying I found him.

“You framed Doc Howard?”

“Yes.”

“Does Lou know you’re Darwin?”

“No.”

“Who does?”

“No one.”

“That’s not possible. Washington knows, yes? And someone at Homeland Security.”

“The original people knew. I’m speaking of Watkins and Lorber, but they’ve been dead for years. Sherm Phillips and the others have been on board since 9/11, and they were told from the start that Doc Howard was Darwin.”