“Great.”
“Could Minor Roar have escaped from your lab?”
Her eyes lashed onto mine. “What do you know about Minor Roar?”
“Ellen told me about it.”
“Goddamnit.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“How about none of your business?”
“How about answer the question, or I call Rita Alvarez with a story?”
“Enough.” There was iron in her voice now. Chicago steel. And I knew, for the first time, who had the grit to take CDA where it needed to go.
“If Minor Roar had escaped from our lab,” Molly said, “it would have presented itself in Chicago. There’s no evidence of that.”
“Ellen told me it shares an almost identical DNA signature with the released pathogen.”
“ ‘Almost’ is the key word. There are dozens of organisms that have a similar genetic structure to what we’re seeing on the West Side.”
“So it’s a coincidence?”
“Not a coincidence. Just a different branch on the same genetic tree. But definitely not Minor Roar. Or somehow sprung from Minor Roar.”
“Does Ellen agree with you?” I said.
“Of course she does. Now, where is she?”
“I don’t know. Ellen also told me she left you a possible vaccine. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“Then what are you waiting for? Hold your press conference and be a hero.”
“You think that’s what this is about?”
I didn’t respond.
Molly inched closer. “Is that what you think?”
“I try not to.”
“If Ellen contacts you, please let us know.” Molly pushed the folder on Gilmore an inch in my direction. “Meanwhile, there’s Mr. Gilmore.”
“Yes, there is.”
“Find him, Michael. And you’ll find the person behind the pathogen.”
CHAPTER 55
I drank my coffee and watched Molly melt into the morning fog. My cell phone chirped. I didn’t recognize the number and didn’t answer.
I left the shop and walked north on Plymouth Court. The unmarked cruisers were still at the end of the block. Lights still flashing. I walked over to a silver Crown Vic with tinted glass. Vince Rodriguez popped the locks, and I eased into the front seat.
“You responsible for this?” I said.
“Shooter sees all the blue, he thinks twice.”
“Thanks for helping out.”
“Not a problem. Molly Carrolton just walked by.”
“I know.”
“You want someone on her?”
“Leave her.”
“All right. You want to tell me who it is that wants to pop your ass?”
“Might be better if you didn’t know.”
“Might be better if I did.”
Rodriguez was right. At least from where he sat. So I told him about the man with the limp.
“His name was Robert Crane. Homeland Security ID. I suggested he take an early retirement. He was more than happy to disappear.”
“Probably should have killed him.”
“That what you would have done?”
“No. Sounds good, though, doesn’t it?”
“Someone in Washington is nervous, Vince.”
“If they only knew how little you know.”
“Not quite.” I pulled out the report on Gilmore and tossed it across the car. “Molly got a DNA hit on the cigarette I gave her. Former operative for the Agency.”
Rodriguez’s eyes glowed as he read through the file.
“She also got an address.” I took out the slip of paper Molly had given me and held it between my fingers. “Says he might be holed up there right now.”
Rodriguez whistled. “Goddamn.”
“Exactly.”
CHAPTER 56
Molly’s address turned out to be a small warehouse in an industrial park on the northwest edge of the city. The park itself had been shut down for a couple of years. Yet another TIF project, waiting to go into someone’s patronage pocket.
Rodriguez had wanted to come with, but we both knew it was better if he didn’t. So I drove to the address alone and sat in an empty parking lot. Storm clouds grumbled overhead, and it smelled like rain. The package Ellen had given me lay on the seat beside me. I pulled it open and reread the note she’d written. Ten minutes later, I locked up the car and walked toward the warehouse.
The west side was a long face of tired brick. There was a loading dock at the south end, with a double set of rolling doors secured by a heavy chain and padlock. Beside the dock was a single green door. I crept up and turned the knob. Locked. I thought about trying to pick it. Then I just kicked it in.
The room was large, with high ceilings and wooden stairs that led to an open loft. Dull light filtered in from windows cut just under the pitch of the roof. The rest of the room was painted in varying degrees of shadow ending in black. I ran my hand across a wall of rough stone. The floor was broken cement and dirt. The smell of stale grease and cut metal hung in the air. To my left was a large dark lump. I reached out and felt the curved groove of a lathe. An old machine shop.
My eyes drifted up and into the loft. A lamp lit a desk. There was a laptop on it, and a spread of papers. To the left of the desk was a fire exit. The door was ajar, rocking lightly on its hinges.
I took the steps two at a time. My eyes swept over the desk on my way to the door. I pushed it open and stared down a run of black iron stairs that led to a dirt parking lot. The lot was empty. I hadn’t heard a car start. And I should have. Instead, there was gun in my ribs and a voice at my shoulder.
“Why aren’t you more surprised, Kelly?”
He stripped off my coat and checked to see if I was wearing a vest. Then he lashed my wrists together and threw me in a chair. I could see out a window to my left. An old tree, polished branches naked against the darkening sky. A hard patter of sudden rain. I looked back at the man I knew as Peter Gilmore. He was long and angular, with hard, crusted features and a salt-and-pepper buzz cut. My gun was in one hand. His own, in the other.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“What was that?” I said.
