with a sickly rot that made her gorge rise.
Where was it coming from? She saw nothing unusual, or out of place, except for the copious streaks of blood.
“Fletch, come here. Do you smell anything?”
Fletcher breathed in deep. “Blood and gore and carpet cleaner. Maybe some old pot smoke. Bacon grease.”
“Nothing flowerlike? Like old flowers left to mold in a vase of water?”
“Like the way patchouli smells? I’ve never liked it, but I can’t say—”
“No, that’s not it.”
Fletcher came closer, sniffing. “Ugh. Yeah, I smell it now. What the hell? It wasn’t here earlier.”
Sam edged to the breakfast bar, wrinkled her nose as the smell grew stronger. She looked closer at the bar. Runnels of blood had come off the counter, streamed down the paneling. There was a break in the blood, almost as if a ruler had been placed in the down flow and the blood had run over it in a perfect line.
“Do you have a Maglite?” she asked.
“Sure,” Fletcher replied, handing her the flashlight he’d stuffed in his jacket pocket.
She shone the light on the edges of the counter, then down into the paneling. In one small area, about twelve inches across, the blood dribbled into nowhere, just plain disappeared. There was an edge here, a break in the wood. It was almost indistinguishable from the other panels—it looked like a normal seam where the pieces met. She reached out and pressed the edge, and a panel popped open. The scent gusted forth, and she stepped back, gagging.
“Christ, what is that?”
Sam pulled the waist of her T-shirt up to cover her nose. She flashed the light into the small space. Saw a silver handle. Using her gloved hand, she pulled it open.
And immediately began backing away again.
Son of a bitch.
“Fletcher, alert HAZMAT. Now.”
His head jerked toward her. “What is it? What’s in there?”
“It’s a wine refrigerator, but the power’s been cut.”
“Let me see.”
“Don’t—”
He stepped around her. “What is this stuff? Some sort of science experiment?”
Sam grabbed his arm and pulled him backward, toward the front door. “Without examining it closely, I can’t say for sure. There’s a bottle labeled Vibrio cholerae.”
At his blank look, she explained. “Cholera, Fletch. And there’s more than one vial in there. Cattafi has an unsecured refrigerator full of transmissible, possibly deadly bacteria and viruses. Ones that shouldn’t be anywhere but in a secure lab.”
“What do you mean, deadly bacteria and viruses? What the hell?”
She glanced back at the refrigerator. “It looks like Thomas Cattafi was being a bad, bad boy.”
McLean, Virginia
RILEY CALLED ROBIN just past ten. She was still at the house. She’d called in sick, which raised a few eyebrows, but to hell with them. She hadn’t had a sick day since she’d woken up in Ramstein, Germany, three years earlier, pumped full of shrapnel from the remnants of a roadside IED. A blindingly red day, it was all she could remember, a fog of puce, sucking at her, draining her dry. Later, when she was healed, she remembered the screams, and was happy the fog had taken away the memories.
She rubbed her left side, where the scars were the worst. She couldn’t be upset about them. She was the only one who’d survived intact. Another five feet and that wouldn’t have been the case. She’d be missing legs and arms, like the rest of the team, not just her spleen and a kidney. Aside from the lingering headaches and occasional blackouts and swirls of colors when people talked or were emotional, she was just fine. Mostly fine.
She answered the phone with trepidation, wondered where her nerve had gone.
“What’s happening?”
“A lot. The police just called HAZMAT to Cattafi’s apartment.”
“HAZMAT? What in the hell?”
“I don’t know. Was Amanda still on that vaccine scam?”
“I think so. She was working it hard a few months ago, I know. But, Riley, seriously, we hadn’t talked in a few weeks. I don’t know if it has anything to do with her. Might be the boyfriend’s troubles.”
“Speaking of, Alicia traced the call made to your cell phone this morning. It pinged off the tower closest to Amanda’s town house on Capitol Hill.”
Robin pulled a cup down from the cabinet, the delicate china from her parents’ wedding set, went about making a cup of tea. “As far as I know, she has that place rented out to a couple of congressional aides. She wouldn’t go there if she came to town. She’d just grab a hotel room, or stay with me.” Or go stay with a boyfriend Robin knew nothing about. “Someone should do a welfare check, just in case.”
“I’ll send Lola.”
Lola Jergens was Riley’s particular pet. Petite, wheat blonde, small enough to fit in his pocket, attractive in a bland, generic, easy-to-forget-her-face way, he’d been grooming her to handle the more discreet needs of their workload around town. He took her on assignment sometimes, too. Robin had to admit, Lola was a good choice. They could count on her to be subtle. Then she thought about it, and changed her mind.
“No. I’ll go. I have a key. It will save us some time. Where is the phone now?”
“After the call, it drops off the grid.”
“Destroyed?”
“Most likely. Listen, Robbie, you have to operate under the assumption that whoever has, or had, that phone knows where you are. Knows who you are.”
She patted the Glock under her arm, though he couldn’t see the action. “Worry not. I’m ready for anything. Just so you know, I put a call in to Atlantic. We’ll see if he knows anything about this.”
“Good, that’s good. Do I want to know what HAZMAT is going to find?”
“I haven’t the foggiest. But I’m going to go take a look in her files, see what I can dig up.”
“Has Metro been in touch yet?”
“I would assume they’re having a hard time finding me. I’ll go to them once we know what’s really happening.”
A surge of red filled the air. Mop up your mess, little sister. Followed by a swirl of canary yellow. How dare you die on me!
“Be careful, Robbie. Stay in touch.”
“Always.”
* * *
Robin logged in to her secure home system and immediately went to her email account. Checked to see if there was anything from Amanda officially, saw nothing. She logged out, crossed platforms, went to Gmail and tried Amanda’s account. Prayed she hadn’t changed the password—not that it would matter; Robin could get in, it would simply take more time—but she was lucky. The password was the same, and moments later, her sister’s private correspondence was open.
She ignored the inbox, went directly to the drafts folder. It was a common trick—give two people access to a single account, and communicate through the drafts without ever sending the email, thus ensuring absolute privacy.
There was a single draft email in the file, dated three hours earlier. Addressed to Amanda, no subject. Five innocuous words.
Did you