Читать книгу Morgan O'Brien Mysteries 2-Book Bundle - Alex Brett - Страница 12

I managed to find Cindy’s office on my own, although it looked more like a recycling depot than a place of learned thought. It also stank of formalin.

When I pulled out the desk chair, the cushion was greasy and wet. I wiped my finger across it and sniffed. At least that explained the odour. Cindy must have dropped a sample before leaving the lab the night before. Formalin is a diluted form of formaldehyde and equally as toxic. Short-term exposure in an enclosed space, like this office, could cause brutal headaches, nausea, and blurred vision. With long-term exposure you were headed for the cancer ward.

On the side wall, running just below the ceiling, were three blacked-out windows. I pushed aside the papers and empty coke cans, climbed up on the desk, and managed to pry one open. Clean, cool air spilled into the office like a sacred, healing force, and I surveyed the scene from above. I read in a book once that a messy office is the sign of a brilliant mind; someone who does-n’t require external order to keep all their thoughts lined up and in focus. If it was true then Cindy was a genius.

As soon as I had wheeled the chair out into the lab, I began to gather up all the papers on her desk. Most of it looked like scrap paper, but there were several unmarked file folders buried at the bottom. Out of curiosity I flipped one open. Inside were raw data sheets, “massaged” data, where the raw data had been run through several statistical tests, and some computer-generated tables and graphs. It looked like the results of an experiment on gravel composition and survival, although survival of what I wasn’t sure.

I flipped open another file. Same sort of thing: the component parts of single experiments being prepared for analysis and publication; definitely not for the garbage heap. I rooted around, separating the files from the scrap paper. As I pulled the last file toward me, a tattered Rite-in-the-Rain data book slipped from between the covers.

There was no label on the cover, no name and no dates, so I fanned through the pages. It contained field notes from this year’s season. The date, time, and weather conditions were noted at the top of each page, followed by an observation on the density of something per square metre. Following this there were five columns of numbers, each column headed by a code of some sort. The book was full, with the entry on the last page dated “14 October 1038 h.” A week ago Monday. It didn’t mean much to me, but with Cindy’s sudden absence Elaine might be needing this record to continue her experiments. I opened up my briefcase and popped it in.

Once the desk was clear enough to work on, the next order of business was calls: Sylvia, the hotel, and maybe Dr. Edwards, but I needed a phone book. There was nothing on the shelves, so that left the desk drawers. I braced myself and opened up the top right-hand drawer. It was even scarier than the surface of the desk. In addition to random pieces of paper — old data sheets, computer printouts, course notes — my hand came in contact with sticky, lint-covered cough candies, frayed Kleenex (looked used, but I didn’t investigate further), and an unhealthy supply of long, black hairs. I found a photo of, presumably, Cindy and her mother, with Cindy looking as disorganized as her office. Her hair needed a good trim, and although she was pleasant looking she would never be described as pretty, in part due to her teeth, which were crooked and overlapping in front. She wore a tatty South American poncho and was squinting at the camera, her arm around a matronly-looking blonde. Both women were smiling. I put the picture back where I found it: next to the half-eaten bagel.

I finally located the phone book buried in the bottom left-hand drawer. I excavated around it and managed to get enough of a hold to pull it out. As I did so, I heard a set of keys slide from between the pages. I put the book on the desk and rooted around in the drawer until I found them. The key chain was in the form of a salmon with You’re my Chum enamelled on the side. Cute. On the back it was stamped Campbell River, BC. There were Volkswagen keys, lots of official university keys stamped Dept. of Zoology, Do Not Duplicate, and several other keys that I couldn’t identify. These must be Cindy’s extra keys.

After a brief moral skirmish I shrugged and dropped the keys into my jacket pocket. As a graduate student, Cindy would have access to all sorts of interesting places, and I prefer legal access to break and enter. Anyway, it was the least she could do after making me clean up her office.

There was an urgent message from Bob waiting for me at the hotel. I was to call him ASAP. I ignored the message. Instead I called Sylvia to cancel lunch.

“Any more on who did that search?” I asked. “I don’t sleep here, you know.” She sounded a bit cranky this morning.

“So when will you know?”

“Tomorrow, maybe. I’ll give it a shot when Ottawa closes tonight, but it may take me a day or two to figure out how to hack my way in.

“Okay. Just keep me informed. Can you do another search in the meantime? This one’s urgent.”

Sylvia grunted, a vestigial response from her days as a man. “As usual.”

I ignored the comment. “Graham Connell.” I spelled it out. “And if you find anything —”

Just then I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. I looked up to see Dinah lounging in the doorway.

She gave me a wry smile. “Stinks in here.”

I kicked myself for not being more careful, then continued in a normal voice, “ — leave a message at the hotel, or send me an e-mail. I’ll check in later.” And I hung up the phone.

If someone had told me that less than twenty minutes ago this woman had run from the room distraught, I wouldn’t have believed them. She was clear-eyed, confident, and in firm control of her emotions. She looked down at the floor, toed the cement, then looked back up at me. “Sorry about what happened back there. It was dumb. It affects my work, is all. She could have told me herself.”

“I get the impression she left in a hurry.” “Maybe.” She paused for a second and looked away. “And maybe not. Anyway…”

I waited, but she didn’t seem inclined to continue.

“Maybe you and I should start over.” I extended my hand. “Morgan O’Brien. A post-doc from Ottawa, but I’m also an old friend of Elaine’s. I’ll try to stay out of your way down here.”

After a moment’s hesitation she pushed herself off the door frame and took my hand. Her grip was firm, no damp dishrag here. “Dinah, Elaine’s technician. But you already know that.”

I smiled. As a technician, Dinah would be a font of valuable departmental gossip. “Elaine said you’d show me how to access the network, and she wants you to stick around. She’ll be down to see you before class.” I got out of my chair and came around behind it. “Maybe you could show me now.”

Dinah looked at the chair, then at me. “I’ll grab a chair.” And she disappeared down the hall. A minute later she was back, and she pulled a chair in next to mine. As she sat down, all I could think of was king crab: ninety percent legs. I knew I shouldn’t, but I had to ask.

“How tall are you, anyway?”

“Just over two metres. I used to hate it, but now I don’t mind.” She settled into her chair then turned and gave me the once-over with her eyes. “So,” she said after a minute, “how do you know Elaine?” I could see her watching my reaction as if I were a subject in a study on primate behaviour.

“Graduate school. We shared an apartment and we used to do our fieldwork together. It was less complicated than with the men. You know. Their wives got jealous, you always had to rent two motel rooms instead of one, and they had special restaurants they had to stop at, usually because there was a waitress with big tits.”

“And you weren’t into that.” Her voice was matter-of-fact.

I shrugged. “I tend to judge a restaurant by the cuisine.”

She nodded a response, as if that told her something she needed to know, but kept watching me with that odd, wolfish stare: curious and calculating. It was unnerving.

“So,” I finally continued, “have you been working for Elaine very long?”

“I came over with Cindy.”

I must have looked surprised. “From New Zealand?” She laughed. “From Madden’s lab. Elaine sort of inherited us from Madden. Cindy was having…” she hesitated.

I rearranged the expression on my face to one of warm concern. “Ah huh?” I said, with that upturned intonation at the end. I learned that in the RCMP too: Interrogation 101, another valuable skill. It works like a hot damn: you can keep even the most resistant interviewee disclosing for hours with the judicious use of a warm and inquiring smile and a carefully placed Ah huh followed by expectant silence. Like most people, Dinah felt compelled to fill the silence.

“She was having problems with someone in Madden’s lab. She needed to get out, and Elaine offered to take her in. I was part of the package, which was okay ‘cause a lot of my work was for Cindy anyway. So now I work for Elaine, but I’m still paid through Madden’s grant.”

Elaine. That dirty little liar. End of story, like hell. With her technician paid for by Riesler, if Elaine had any sense at all (which was open to debate) she would side with him in departmental disputes.

“Do you know Jonathan Edwards?”

She made a silent “Oh” with her lips and shook her head, as if I’d asked a naughty question.

“Ah huh?” I said, and waited.

There was a pause, then: “He’s gone to Natural Resources. Around here that’s considered a demotion. It’s like the more applied the work the less important it must be. And nobody’s really saying why he left.” Then she leaned closer to me and lowered her voice. “But if you’re going to see Dr. Edwards don’t let the boss lady know. She’ll have a fit.”

That was hard to believe, even for Elaine. “You’re kidding, right?”

She shook her head. “The way she acts, you’d think he broke up with her, when she’s the one who called it off.”

My eyes almost popped out of my head. “They were lovers?”

Dinah brought her hand up to her mouth. “Oh God, you didn’t know. Don’t tell her I —”

And just at that moment, the boss lady walked in the door.

The conversation stopped dead. Dinah busied herself examining the floor. I glared at Elaine, but being Elaine she was oblivious.

“Oh good, you’ve met,” was all she said, then she came around behind me and perched herself on the far side of the desk. She had pinioned Dinah with her eyes.

“You know what’s going on with Cindy’s project?” Dinah didn’t look up, kept her eyes on the floor. “More or less,” she mumbled.

“What the hell does that mean, more or less. Can you, or can’t you, do the work on your own?”

Dinah had regained some of her composure and sat up straight, returning Elaine’s gaze. She was almost as tall sitting as Elaine was standing up.

“I can figure it out by tomorrow, but I’ll need a second person on the net.”

“Tomorrow?” Elaine hopped off the desk and crossed the room. She examined a complicated-looking chart stuck to the wall, then she turned back to Dinah. “You don’t have a field run tomorrow. You don’t have another one until Thursday.”

I heard Dinah take a deep breath, as if bracing herself, but when her voice came out it was firm and strong. “There’ve been a few problems.”

Elaine didn’t move a muscle, just bore into Dinah with her eyes. When she finally spoke her voice was flat and deadly. “What kind of problems?”

“Back off Elaine.” That was me. “It’s not her fault that Cindy left.”

Elaine shot me a nasty look, but turned back to Dinah as she started to explain.

“The return to Weaver Creek is way down. The numbers seem to fluctuate wildly. For a couple of days they’re okay, then nothing. No fish returning at all. Some days we can’t even work. There aren’t enough fish. Cindy scheduled some extra runs to make up the days we lost. It should be okay.”

Elaine was now the picture of controlled rage: glassy eyes, tight jaw, and a mask-like expression. “Why wasn’t I told?”

Dinah cleared her throat and allowed her glance to slide sideways. “Cindy wanted to be sure that it wasn’t an artifact. That it was real.”

I spoke up. “It’s not part of the normal population cycle?”

Dinah shook her head. “We looked at the return rates for the past thirty years. There’s nothing like this in the records.”

“Terrific.” Elaine pushed herself off the wall. “Just what I need right now. And what does Cindy think is going on?”

Dinah shrugged slightly. “Somebody dumping toxic waste at night? That’s the most likely explanation, but there’s no big fish kill downstream. It could be poaching, someone stringing a net across the stream and taking everything that’s coming up. Cindy was going to take some samples yesterday, but I don’t know where she got with it.”

“So we’re going to lose the field season,” said Elaine. “Not all of it.” Dinah’s voice was hopeful. “I can complete the runs if we can find someone to help me.”

“I can help out,” I said, looking at Elaine.

“What’s the point,” she snapped. “If something’s disrupting the population and we don’t know what it is any data we collect is absolutely useless. That goes for all the olfaction work too. Dinah, pull all the runs done on Weaver Creek fish.”

I kept my voice low and non-confrontational. “One step at a time, Elaine. Let Dinah and me complete the runs and see if we can figure out what’s going on. Worry about the big picture later.”

Elaine’s breathing was audible. She looked like a bull preparing to charge. Finally she said, “Damn it,” and banged her fist against the wall. Then she looked at me. “It seems you’ve come on the perfect week. We might be needing an investigator after all.” Then she addressed Dinah. “Notify the Department of Fisheries and Oceans and the Salmon Commission. See if anyone knows what’s going on. And when you go up tomorrow bring me back samples on dry ice; brains, livers, and a couple of whole fish. We’ll check for parasites and toxins. And let Madden know. It may affect his work too.” She started to move toward the door. “And this time,” she stopped at Dinah’s chair and gave her a sharp poke in the shoulder, “keep me informed.” Then she stormed out the door.

Neither Dinah nor I dared to breathe until we heard the lab door slam shut. When I was sure Elaine had gone I turned to Dinah. “She’s under a lot of pressure right now. It’s no excuse, but we’ve got to cut her a little slack.”

“Yeah, well…” Dinah didn’t sound convinced. “Anyway, thanks for the defence back there.”

She rose slowly from her chair as if she didn’t quite know what to do next. Then she looked at me. “What did she mean by investigator anyway?”

“An in-joke. Not very funny in the circumstances.” She nodded absently, then picked up her chair. “Goddamned Cindy,” she muttered, and left the office. A minute later I heard her leave the lab.

I waited a second, listening, then hit the redial button on the phone.

“Hi babe,” came Sylvia’s husky voice. “Changed your mind about lunch?”

“I need another search. And I need the printout and articles by four today. Comprehensive. The last five years.”

I could hear her typing in the background. “Shoot.” I paused. “Dr. Elaine Okada.”

The typing stopped, and there was silence on the other end of the line. I thought Sylvia might refuse, but then I heard the typing resume. Her only comment was, “She’ll kill you,” and that I already knew.

Graham wasn’t in the lab when I arrived. The ratfish were. Or at least what remained. They lay sliced open, pinned back, and hacked apart in their dissecting trays, which someone had carefully lined up on the side counter. I passed them with hardly a glance, making my way to Graham’s office.

The door was open, so I walked right in. I’d already started my greeting when it registered that the back of the head at the desk was not Graham’s. At the sound of my voice, the man swivelled around and surveyed me with interest. Then he said, “Ah,” and shut the file he’d been reading. He turned and came gracefully to his feet, extending his hand. “Dr. O’Brien I presume.” His voice was smooth and gently self-mocking. It took me a moment to respond.

“Forgive me. I was expecting Graham. You are…”

“Madden Riesler. Please, call me Madden. I’m afraid Graham is tied up elsewhere.” He turned up his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Research beckons. But I told him that I’d be delighted to conduct the tour myself. Elaine speaks very highly of you.”

“Really?” I tried not to sound too surprised. Elaine must really want me off her turf.

“Absolutely. I think she hopes to see you here in a more permanent situation, and I’ll do everything I can to help.”

“That’s very kind.”

“My pleasure. I have the greatest respect for Elaine’s work.”

He had taken my elbow and was guiding me out of the office. In another man I would have found this offensive, but not in Madden Riesler. It had to do with his manner. Charming, understated, slightly self-effacing, and very respectful. In fact, he was beguiling, and I tried to maintain enough objectivity to analyze my reaction.

In the corridor he began telling me about his lab and his research. I tuned out, nodded and smiled at random intervals, and took a moment to examine him. He was certainly handsome: lithe and small, with a quiet confidence that was unmistakably masculine. His eyes were electric blue, and the colour was accentuated by a faded denim shirt and jeans that casually set off his trim frame. While his face was young, slightly narrow with well-defined cheekbones, a prominent nose, and clear, unlined skin, his hair and close-cropped beard were a dramatic grey blending to white. The effect was startling, and very attractive, as if the best features of several different people had been pulled together and moulded into one. When he grinned I could see tiny wrinkles frame his eyes, but other than that, I would never have guessed that he was nearing fifty.

I suddenly realized that he’d stopped speaking. “Finished the inspection?” he asked, then chuckled.

“Caught in the act.” “And did I pass?”

I thought about that for a minute. Would I give this guy hundreds of thousands of taxpayers’ dollars to spend however he saw fit? You bet. Hand me the cheque and tell me where to sign.

It was a disturbing thought.