'Remember, Mr. Ettinger,' one of the officers said. 'Like I told you inside. Anything you say may be used against you in court. Now, is this the car you were driving?'
'Yes, of course it is.'
'And these are the keys you just gave me?'
'Yes, yes. Now go ahead and open it, dammit. There's nothing in there.'
Totally bewildered, Matt scrunched even deeper into the leaf-covered gully. How could the police have gotten here so quickly? Ettinger was a national celebrity, and the Jag hardly an inconspicuous car. Perhaps the lot attendant or someone else at the club had recognized him.
'Got it,' the officer searching the car said after just a minute or so. 'Under the front seat.' He held up by its edges what was clearly a radio control box. 'Someone get me an evidence bag, will you? Mr. Ettinger, do you really think we're that dumb?'
Ettinger, suddenly stoop-shouldered and almost limp, gazed from the policeman to the control box and back. Even at some distance, Matt could see the filmy confusion in his eyes.
'I want to call my lawyer,' he said.
'From the station, Mr. Ettinger.'
Ettinger was helped into the screen-enclosed back of one of the cruisers. The slam of the door echoed in the still afternoon. Matt waited until well after the cruisers had disappeared before he worked his way over to the factory. He assumed there were security people about someplace. But without Ettinger around to identify him, he could be a bit more brazen. Some sort of inspector, perhaps. Yes, he thought as he backed against the wall of the smallest of the factory buildings. Better not to get caught. But if he did, a health inspector story should work.
There was a small anteroom near where the Huron truck was parked. Matt glanced around for the driver, and then rolled along the wall and peered in the window. The space was empty save for two freezers, both top-opening. Each had Huron Pharmaceuticals painted across the front, in letters identical to those on the truck. Neither appeared locked.
A final check around him, and Matt slipped inside. The half-glassed door from the anteroom to the main building was closed. Through it, Matt could see twenty or more women, each at a work station, filling shipping boxes with what he assumed were the components of the Ayurvedic Herbal Weight Loss System. He backed away from the door and moved to the freezer that was out of the line of sight of any of the women. KEEP VITAMINS FROZEN UNTIL SHIPMENT was stenciled on the lid. Carefully he twisted the handle to one side and eased up the heavy lid. The fitted rack, containing sheets of vitamin capsules, completely filled the space just beneath the lid. Matt studied the sheets for a moment. They were identical to those Sarah had received from Annalee Ettinger. Each contained ninety capsules-a three-month supply. He was about to lower the freezer lid when, for no particular reason, he lifted one of the racks.
The body beneath it, a man's, lay serenely on its back. Eyes open, it was staring sightlessly up at Matt. It was dressed in a dark business suit and red silk tie, and fit into the freezer with no more than an inch or two to spare at each end. Its hands and bronze, mustached face were covered by a thin film of rime. But Matt had no difficulty recognizing the man. He had seen him a number of times on videotape and had wondered about him often over recent weeks.
Pramod Singh, the X-factor in the Ayurvedic puzzle, was a factor no more.
Suddenly queasy, Matt lowered the freezer lid and wiped off the handle with his jacket. Then he slipped out the back door and braced himself against the building, breathing deeply and deliberately, fighting the vision and the nausea. Sarah nearly murdered. Colin Smith and Pramod Singh dead. Peter Ettinger either guilty of killing them or, more likely, set up to look guilty. Someone was tying up loose ends in a hurry. Someone was panicking.
Relax, Matt said to himself. Just get the hell out of here and back to Sarah.
He sensed the presence behind him an instant before he saw the shadow on the wall-the shadow of an arm, slashing downward toward his head. He began to react, but way, way too late. An object, heavy and unyielding, slammed onto a spot just behind his right ear. His teeth snapped together as paralyzing pain exploded through his head and into his neck. The last thing he saw was the ground, careening up toward his face.
CHAPTER 40
Rosa Suarez had just passed the Gloucester rotary at the end of Route 128 when the Medical Center's ancient Chevy wagon began handling strangely. She sped up, wondering if perhaps she had snagged a branch. But the problem only worsened. Cursing softly in Spanish, she pulled over. As things were, she had gotten off to a much later start than she had wanted. If Martha Fezler closed her shop early for any reason, the day, and possibly the whole weekend, would be lost. She carefully folded the map that was spread open on the passenger seat and slid across. Chastising herself for not renting instead of borrowing the wagon, she stepped out onto the soft shoulder and into the hazy midafternoon glare. The problem, it was immediately apparent, was the right rear tire, which was shredded and hanging off the rim in spots.
Rosa had never in her life changed a tire. She opened the rear door and located the jack and the spare. Then she retrieved the owner's manual from beneath a stack of repair receipts in the glove compartment. If the procedure seemed clear to her, she decided, she would give it a try. If not, she would risk flagging someone down.
She returned to the rear of the wagon, engrossed in the instruction manual.
'Hi.'
The man's greeting startled her so, she dropped the instruction book.
He was standing a few feet away, arms folded, grinning kindly. He was in his late twenties, Rosa guessed, with a fine, handsome face and wire-rimmed glasses. He wore a woolen seaman's cap and a dark windbreaker. His car was parked twenty or so feet behind hers, its hazard lights flashing.
'Sorry if I frightened you,' he said. 'I just stopped to see if you needed a hand.'
Rosa took a calming breath, assured herself that her heart was still beating, and retrieved the manual.
'Oh, my,' she said, patting her chest. 'You did startle me, yes. But I thank you for stopping. It's very kind of you. As a matter of fact, if I change this tire myself, it will be a first for me.'
'I'd be happy to do it for you.'
The man came forward and pulled out the jack and spare. He walked with a fairly marked limp, caused by his left leg, which seemed not to bend at the knee at all. She hoped the problem was nothing permanent.
'An old college football injury,' he said, setting the jack in place. 'I often wish I could have that moment back.'
'Oh, I'm terribly sorry. I didn't mean to be staring.'
'You weren't, really. It's just that I notice things. Except that I didn't notice that linebacker. If I had dodged to the left instead of to the right, who knows where my life might have gone? You heading into Gloucester?'
'As a matter of fact, I am. Are you from there?'
'Temporarily. I'm a biologist with the Department of Marine Fisheries. We're doing a lobster project up here.'
'How interesting. I'm a scientist with the government, too. An epidemiologist at the Centers for Disease Control.'
'Atlanta's a nice place,' he said. 'Although a little hot for my taste. One hint in changing a tire is always to loosen the lugs before you jack up the car. It makes everything much easier and safer. Where're you headed in Gloucester?'
'A place called Fezler Marine.'
'Never heard of it.'
The man took off his cap and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. His hair was the color of the sun. He had all the physical attributes of a movie star or a model, Rosa noted. Yet here he was, a highly educated scientist. She was impressed.
'It's on Breen Street,' she added.
