“You know, that van back there doesn’t belong to a cleaning company,” she says.
“How do you know?” I ask, following her back to the vehicle.
“The telephone number on the side is fake,” she says. “I tried it. And look at this.”
She points through the front window and we both peer in. On the floor, peeking out from under a pile of garments, is something that looks very much like the butt of a pistol. Jammed into the pocket by the driver’s side is a sophisticated walkie-talkie kit. And nothing else. No cigarette packets, gum, newspapers, religious icons on the dashboard—none of the normal, everyday stuff that you would expect from people who might use this vehicle to go from job to job, if they were actually cleaners. There is one more thing in the front, though. We both spot it at the same time and exchange a look. It’s a small remote-control unit, the kind you use to open garage doors. I lean down to unlace my boot.
“What are you doing?” she wants to know.
I just smile while I pull out the shoestring and rapidly tie it into a firm loop right in the middle, a loop that looks like a tiny noose. Riya watches as I hold the long ends of the string apart and work the shoelace—and the loop—into the top corner of the van’s door.
“Didn’t they teach you this in the police academy?” I ask.
“How to steal cars?” she returns. “I must have been sick that day.”
Moving the shoelace back and forth, I make it slide down so that the loop is inside the car where I can maneuver it into place till it hooks onto the end of the lock mechanism. It’s an aging van, with an old-style lock that you push down or pull up with your finger. With a quick tug on the loop, the door lock pops up. Riya opens the door, raising an eyebrow at me.
“I really wonder about your past, Jessie,” she says, taking hold of the remote.
“I’m just resourceful,” I assure her. “And I watch a lot of ‘how to’ videos.”
“So do I,” she says. “But usually things like ‘how to make fresh pasta.’ Not ‘how to be a criminal.’”
Eagerly, she presses the button on the remote, and the door slowly rises open. Riya pulls her gun out of its holster before we step in. Just because the place looks deserted, doesn’t mean it is. If nothing else, the driver of that van might be inside.
We’ve entered through a delivery door that leads into a storage area. Stacked white metal shelves fill the room. There is nothing on them, except a couple of empty cardboard boxes and a carton of disposable gloves. Creeping farther on, into the main part of the ground floor, we find a couple of large science labs, but they don’t feel like a place that’s processing blood tests for the general population. The long workbenches and white laboratory sinks look much the same as the storage area—empty and abandoned. Riya runs a finger through a thin film of dust on the lab benches, showing that they’ve been unused for some time.
But from the floor above us, there’s sound. We freeze, both of us glancing up at the ceiling. Footsteps perhaps? Silently, I lead Riya back toward the storage area, toward a staircase we passed back there. When we get to the stairs, she takes my arm and draws me back behind her, indicating that she’s the one with a weapon. I do have a knife in my boot but decide that this isn’t the best time to show off about it, so I fall back and follow her as she moves silently up the concrete steps.
We reach the second floor. Ahead of us, the space is mostly open plan, with regular lab tables and stools. At the back, two men in jeans and T-shirts move around. Crouching low, we stay back near the stairs and watch them. One man is around fifty, gray-haired but stocky and muscled—clearly someone who takes his gym time seriously. The other is taller and younger with a head of thick, swept-back hair. The young one is passing documents through a small paper shredder that sits on one counter. The older guy wears long protective gloves and works at the other end of the space, moving in and out of some kind of walk-in refrigerator that sports a thick door and a digital temperature gauge.
“Can you see what he’s doing?” Riya whispers.
“He’s getting stuff out of the fridge—little tubes. He’s packing them.” I don’t dare to lift my head any higher, but not getting a proper look at the action is driving me nuts. It certainly appears that these two are busy clearing out whatever is being stored in this lab. As if to bolster my theory, the younger guy comes walking back out to the benches closest to us. Quickly, I pull back and hold my breath, and feel Riya do the same. Ever so slowly, her hand comes up to her jacket pocket and she removes a compact mirror. She holds it out and uses it to watch him.
Not twenty feet from us, the young man opens drawers and pulls out more paper. Leaving the drawers open, he goes to the back and starts shredding them. In the meantime, the other guy opens the door to an incinerator and starts tossing tubes and vials into it. I lean out and use my phone to snap some pictures of both of them.
“We have to do something,” Riya whispers. “They’re destroying evidence!”
Before I can answer, before I can even think, she stands up, striding into the room, her gun out in front of her. I stay in my place, crouched down, and listen, horrified, as she crosses the room.
“Police,” I hear her say. “Put your hands where I can see
