The Target (18 page)

The intercom interrupted his thoughts. Jonas shoved the flask away and pressed the respond button. “Yes?”

“Dominic Prill is here to see you. He says it’s important.”

For a moment, he didn’t place the name.

“From R&D,” his assistant prompted.

“Yes. Send him in.”
Please let it be good news.
He started to reach for his jacket, then changed his mind. He didn’t need to impress his employees.

The scientist was in his late twenties, ridiculously thin, and not smiling.

“Have a seat.”

Dominic perched on the edge of a chair and repeatedly clicked the pen in his hand.

Jonas resisted the urge to snatch it away. “Just relax and tell me what’s going on.”

“Someone took three SlimPros from the sample batch.”

No!
“How is that possible? Unless it was an employee.”

“A woman drugged me at the gym.” A pink flush spread over Dominic’s cheeks, and he cast his eyes down. “I think she put me in a wheelchair and used my palm-pass to get into the vault. I can barely remember any of it. I woke up in my car about three in the morning, feeling drugged and confused.”

Oh hell.
Cheryl again? It had to be. But why did she want the SlimPro? Was her own product failing? “What did the kidnapper look like?”

“I’m not sure. I have a vague memory of a tall blond woman waiting at the front of the gym.”

Not Cheryl, but maybe someone she hired. “You say she took three?”

“I counted our supply this morning, and that’s what’s missing.”

“Thank you for telling me.” He couldn’t bring himself to let the researcher off the hook. “We’ll have to increase our security. And you should be more vigilant.”

“Yes, sir.” Dominic blinked a few times. “Are you going to report the incident to the authorities? I’d prefer not to.”

What did his employee have to hide from law enforcement? “I don’t think they can help us. But I’ll have our security team check the video footage and see if the cameras caught her.” Jonas was torn. He desperately wanted to stop Cheryl and find out what the hell she had in development. But he didn’t want the FBI coming around again. Things had been too weird lately.

Yet now that Cheryl had the SlimPro and could start reverse engineering, his company had to fast-track the launch. Instead of producing a small test batch this week, the manufacturing plant needed to scale-up and produce a full run—‌so they could get the product on trucks and out to as many clinics as possible.

He reached for his desk phone, temples pounding. He’d never felt so much pressure.

Monday, July 14, 3:20 p.m.

Cortez waited in a conference room in the massive downtown headquarters, where all six homicides teams worked. He drank his coffee, studied his notes, and practiced his presentation. He wanted to sound professional, with an excellent command of the terminology. A flutter in his stomach, as he realized he had nothing significant to report. Would Hawthorne start giving Harris the legwork and make him comb through the paper trail?

This would be the first time the three had met together to discuss the case. Hawthorne had been in the hospital until Saturday, keeping everyone updated by phone, then had come into headquarters that morning to get caught up. He’d been abrupt when he’d called Cortez to set up the meeting. Maybe Hawthorne had run out of pain meds.

A moment later, the older detective crutched through the open door, his canvas briefcase slung around his neck. Following him was Detective Harris, a matronly woman in her early forties with a long, horse-like face. She had a reputation for sharp analysis, and Cortez hoped to learn from her.

“Good afternoon.” He stood to show respect for both.

“Not really.” Hawthorne lowered himself into a chair and set his crutches on the floor. “Sergeant Riggs will join us shortly wanting an update. He scheduled a press conference for this afternoon and wants something to report.”

“We may have a lead.” Harris went to the case board and began mapping out the evidence. “We should have done this on Friday,” she mumbled as she wrote. “But the College Killer case still takes priority over a B-list actor.”

B-list?
“James Avery was a classy Hollywood star,” Cortez argued. “Those designations are not just about how much money a movie earns.”

“Don’t hyperventilate. Hawthorne told me to say that.” She gave him a wicked grin. “I’m a James Avery fan too, but only a few actors past fifty are still a big box office draw.”

Hawthorne cut in. “Let’s focus please.” He turned to Cortez. “What did you learn this morning about Avery’s appointment at ProLabs?”

“Not much.” He cleared his throat. “The victim arrived at four-thirty for a DNA analysis. He was probably under a court order because of the paternity suit filed by Alicia Freison. Blood was taken and submitted to their in-house lab analysts, but they won’t have results until later this week.” Cortez paused, forgetting what else he wanted to say.

“When did the victim leave?” Harris asked.

That was it. “I don’t know. The appointment should have only taken five or ten minutes, but the receptionist doesn’t remember seeing him walk out the door.”

“What does that mean?” Hawthorne’s tone had an edge.

“Probably nothing. She could have been away from her station.” Had he failed to ask the right questions? “But no one saw him or heard from Avery after that. The lab doesn’t have any security cameras inside the building, but they monitor the front door from outside. I asked the manager to send me the video for late that afternoon.”

“Let us know what you find out.”

“What about his family?” Harris asked. “I’m sure Avery has a sizable estate.”

“His widow has a solid alibi until about ten with her yoga instructor, and his son lives in Oceanside. Julian Avery says he was home with his family, and his wife corroborates that.”’

Harris turned from the case board. “Who stands to inherit? Have you read the will?”

Heat rushed to Cortez’s cheeks. “His wife thinks the money will be divided between her and his son. But she hasn’t seen the last version of the will. Avery’s lawyer was out of town last week, but I left messages for him to call me. I’ll stop at his office first thing tomorrow.”

“What about the paternity suit? Did you find the woman?”

Sergeant Riggs strode through the door. “What have you got for me? The press conference is in twenty minutes. Most of the questions will be about the College Killer, and the lieutenant will take those, but someone will ask about James Avery.”

Hawthorne gestured. “Cortez was going to tell us about a lawsuit he’s following up on.”

All eyes were on him, so he sat up straight. “Her name is Alicia Freison, and I questioned her Saturday morning. She claims James Avery is the father of her four-year-old son and that the DNA test will prove it. She has an alibi for Tuesday night, but it’s her sister, so I don’t have much faith in it.” Cortez hesitated. Should he offer his opinion? It seemed important. “Whoever killed Avery either transported him out to the cannery or met him there. Then they punched him in the face repeatedly and gave him an overdose of barbiturates. Freison doesn’t seem physically big enough to do that by herself, and she had nothing to gain by killing Avery.”

A moment of silence.

Harris spoke up. “Unless she thinks his heirs are more likely to settle with her now that he’s dead. Instead of going to court, I mean. We need to bring her in for questioning. She probably has a thug boyfriend.”

“I agree.” Hawthorne glared at Cortez. “Make it a priority.”

Cortez thought it was a waste of time, but he wasn’t running the case. “Copy that.”

“Is that all you’ve got?” Riggs gestured with impatience.

What was he forgetting? Cortez glanced at his notes. The truth serum. “The medical examiner’s office called this morning and said Avery had sodium thiopental in his blood. It’s a barbiturate that’s sometimes used by psychiatrists to relax patients or get them to tell the truth.”

“What the hell?” Hawthorne stared, open-mouthed. “Was that the only drug in his system?”

“He also had high levels of phenobarbital, which is what killed him. There was only a trace amount of the thiopental, but I think someone wanted information. That would explain the beating and the drug.”

Riggs shook his head. “I can’t tell the media that. They’ll go nuts with speculation.”

“Why didn’t I get a copy of the toxicology report?” Hawthorne demanded.

Cortez didn’t know and refused to feel guilty. He had enjoyed delivering that revelation. “The full blood-work analysis hasn’t been done, and the assistant ME was returning my call.”

“I have to go prep,” Riggs said. “I’m sorry I can’t get more people on the team, but the College Killer is still out there preying on young women, so that has to be our priority.” He turned and left.

Hawthorne glanced back and forth between the two detectives. “What else have we learned?” His eyes settled on Harris.

“The paper trail wasn’t helpful.” She gave a small shrug. “Avery’s phone records revealed nothing of value. The day of his death, he took a call from his manager around noon, and made a call to a cosmetic clinic to set up appointments for laser treatments. That’s it. Except for all the calls from his wife, asking where he was and when he’d be home. There isn’t anything unusual in the days leading up to his death either.”

“His bank and credit cards?” Hawthorne tapped his cast, his jaw set.

“Nothing interesting,” Harris said. “No large deposits or withdrawals. No unusual purchases.”

Hawthorne turned to Cortez. “Where was Avery between the time he left his house and the time he reached Prolabs?”

“Playing golf. I checked it out on Friday. He was with two friends. Nothing unusual.”

“Oh, hell. We have to be missing something.” Hawthorne looked pained and shifted his cast to a new position.

Harris paced in front of the board. “If the killer wanted information, it was probably about money or valuables. Maybe Avery has a stockpile of cash, and they wanted the combination to his safe.”

“Why not take him to his house?” Cortez countered.

“What if Avery screwed somebody over?” Harris asked. “Maybe a producer or somebody who’d invested money in a film project.”

“It’s possible. But I talked to his agent and his friends. He wasn’t involved in any films. Everyone is mystified.”

Another silence.

Finally, Cortez said, “I’ll pick up Alicia Freison for questioning tomorrow and canvas the businesses around ProLabs again to see if anyone witnessed anything in the parking lot.”

“ProLabs.” Harris’ eyes lit up. “Who owns the company?”

Cortez checked his notes. “An investment group called Biomed Holdings.”

Harris snapped her thick fingers. “Avery is one of the investors. I saw an earnings report that was included in the financial information his accountant gave me.” She jotted the firm’s name on the board.

“So Avery is a partial owner of the business where he was seen last?” Hawthorne squinted at the board. “I don’t know what it means, but we have to follow up.” He looked at Cortez again. “Go back to ProLabs and get a look at their books.”

As Hawthorne grabbed his crutches and struggled to his feet, he gestured at Harris. “You pick up the Freison woman and question her. She might open up better for a woman.” He slung his briefcase around his neck. “I’m heading home.”

“You might wait in your office until the reporters are gone,” Harris called after him.

Hawthorne groaned and kept moving.

Cortez grabbed his satchel and strode to the front of the department, where several distressed civilians waited their turn to talk to the desk clerk. He wanted to see how Riggs was handling the press conference. The desk clerk spotted him and warned, “It’s a circus out there.”

Cortez nodded. “I want to see how it’s handled.”

He pushed out the doors, surprised by the crowd. At least ten reporters, plus camera guys were gathered. The sun beat down, and one older man in the back wore a sun-brella on his hat.

A young female reporter asked, “What about James Avery? Can you tell us how he died?”

Riggs wiped his dark brow. “We know two things from the autopsy: Avery died of an overdose of barbiturates. But he also experienced blows to his head prior to his death, so the medical examiner’s office has ruled it a homicide.”

The crowd stirred with excitement, and a different young woman called out, “Do you have a suspect?” It was Risa Rispoli, who he’d had a crush on for years. But today, he didn’t feel it. Adie had called Saturday, they’d had dinner, and she’d won over his heart.

The sergeant spotted Cortez and motioned for him to come over. “We’re following several leads, but we haven’t made any arrests.”

“What about motive?” Risa asked. “Who would want to kill a well-known actor?”

“We’re not at liberty to talk about it yet. But Detective Cortez—” Sergeant Riggs turned and nodded at him—‌“is a member of the homicide team and is looking into a legal matter that Avery had pending. We’ll know more soon.”

A little red meat for the wolves with microphones and notepads. A few of the reporters might be industrious enough to track down Avery’s lawyer or call the court and see what they could discover. Cortez had to get there first.

Risa took three quick steps to where he was standing. She shoved the microphone at him. “The rumor is that James Avery had a paternity lawsuit pending. Is that connected to his death?”

His throat closed up and he caught himself blinking. Finally he squeaked out, “I’m still looking into that.” She started to ask another question, but he cut her off. “We need the public’s help. Mr. Avery was last seen at four-thirty Tuesday afternoon. But he didn’t die until after eight that evening. We need to know where he was in between. If anyone saw him during that time, please call our tip line immediately.”

Monday, July 14, 5:25 p.m.

Dallas watched the clock, waiting for employees to leave the building. Her boss would probably work late, but she didn’t know Decker’s pattern yet. The bacteria samples in the lab called to Dallas. Grabbing one and sending it to the CDC seemed critical. If the pathogen matched Palmer’s wound samples, that would give the bureau what it needed for a comprehensive search warrant. How late would the lab people stay? She would wait them out if she had to.