Читать книгу Morgan O'Brien Mysteries 2-Book Bundle - Alex Brett - Страница 15

Adeep, visceral joy spread through my body, ending with a dumb grin on my face. Then: “Damn!” I kicked the table.

“I thought you’d be delighted.”“I would be, if Patsy knew how to boot up a computer.” I thought for a minute. Either someone had stolen her charge code or, more likely, someone was doing the search for her. Either way, it must have been done by someone within the Council. Still, it was frustrating: so near and yet so far. I’d have to wait and see what Duncan turned up from the commissionaire. Not looking up, I started to gather all the reprints together.“Can I keep these papers?”

“They’re yours.”

I was stuffing the files in my briefcase when I heard her clear her throat.“I need a favour,” she said. She didn’t sound happy about asking.

“Shoot.”

“I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow. I was wondering if you would…” her voice trailed off.

I stopped my busy work, looked up, and mentally gave myself a good swift kick in the rear. Sometimes I get so tied up in my own world I forget that my friends have problems too. However, there was no point in getting maudlin. That would really piss her off.“Hold your hand? What time?”

“The appointment’s at five, but we need to leave here about four-fifteen.”

“No problem. Is there something going on?”

She shrugged, but her sardonic mask had slipped back into place. There was even an evil twinkle in her eye.“I’ll take you out for dinner after, maybe to a bar.”

“Don’t get your hopes up.” I zipped up my briefcase.“Thanks for this. It helps a lot. And I think I will take your advice and have a little heart-to-heart with Elaine.”

“Oh boy,” was Sylvia’s only comment.

I drove back over to C-lot and made for the first row where I’d parked this morning. It was getting late, and I hoped that some of the early birds would have called it quits and gone home to study. In fact, the same spot that I’d left earlier in the afternoon was still open, and I nipped right in.

As I walked along the line of cars I noted that the Mustang was gone, but the Rabbit and Acadian were still parked where I’d seen them this morning. But now, parked next to the Rabbit, there was a pale blue Valiant in perfect condition. I peered in. The interior looked original, although some body work and a paint job lowered the value slightly. But if a Slant 6 was hidden underneath the hood the car was a collector’s dream. Only in Vancouver.

Dinah had said that Natural Resources was just across the street from Life Sciences, so I headed toward the Zoology entrance, but instead of going in I continued straight, jay-walking across the street that bordered the Zoology wing. Directly across there was a low, white building. A receptionist was just packing up and reaching for her coat. She had blood red nails that would put a grizzly to shame.

“I’m looking for Dr. Edwards,” I said. She looked blank.“He works on salmon.”

She looked at me as if I were the incarnation of the bimbo queen and said,“This is Geophysics. Maybe you should try Zoology.”

She was obviously in a hurry to get home so I took my time responding.“I’m looking for Natural Resources,” I said slowly, enunciating each word as if speaking to a naughty child.

She caught the edge in my voice and became significantly more polite, pointing to the right with one of her claws.“The path at the side of the building? Just go down it. It’s the temp at the end.”

I went back outside and found the asphalt path leading between Geophysics and a large five-story building beside. By the time I’d reached the bottom I knew why Natural Resources was a demotion. For starters, it was almost impossible to find, and the “temp” the receptionist had mentioned was a temporary building, probably WWII vintage, that looked like it had originally been built as army barracks. Fortunately, when I got inside, I could see that it had all been renovated and was clean and bright. I could hear Bach’s Mass in B Minor pumping out of one of the labs. As I got nearer to the music I could see the name on the door, and it was Dr. Jonathan Edwards.

Music was my escape as a kid. I’d played in orchestras, sang in choirs, and marched in military-style bands. I closed my eyes and almost let myself be transported by the purity and hope — the belief — in those crystal voices. Credo in unum, Patrem omnipotentem. I believe in one God, the Father Almighty. Not that different from science, really. I took a deep breath and banged on the door.

“It’s open,” came a voice from the other side. A gorilla of a man sat hunched over a binocular microscope. He didn’t look up but continued to manipulate the dial on the microscope stage, and I could see the slide zinging back and forth in his field of view. He paused to jot something down in a notebook sitting open by the microscope, but didn’t take his eyes off the oculars.

“Yes.” His voice was abrupt, not really rude, but preoccupied.

“Morgan O’Brien from the National Council for Science and Technology. We spoke on the phone.”

The slide stopped abruptly. Then it started to move again. He wrote something else in his notebook. It looked like he was hurrying to finish up a measurement, and that gave me a minute to scan the room. Dr. Edwards was obviously another highly organized mind. Papers and equipment were strewn everywhere, and, while the lab had all the requisite equipment — hood, freezers, water baths, drying ovens, centrifuge — all of it looked slightly out of date, like last year’s model. The exception was the massive apparatus at the back of the lab: a gleaming stainless steel tube about two metres long that lay horizontal on a chest-high pedestal. With a viewing portal at each end, it looked like some kind of robotic submersible for deep-sea exploration, except that it was firmly anchored by a tangle of wires and tubes to a bank of monitoring equipment — digital counters, oscilloscopes, and a PC scrolling “Gone Fishing” in large crimson letters against a backdrop of aquamarine.

I heard Edwards push himself out from the bench, and when I turned back he had swivelled around and was examining me. I didn’t avert my eyes, just stood there and waited, taking equal time in examining him. We were like two male dogs on their first encounter; suspicious and wary, but curious too.

I’d expected an urbane young professor in loafers and gold-rim glasses, but Edwards looked like a turn-ofthe-century prospector just back from the Klondike. Even sitting I could tell he was huge: a solid six-foot-two or -three, blue-black hair and beard, and hazel-green eyes. The hair and beard were shaggy, but beneath the lab coat his jeans were clean and nicely fitted, his plaid shirt was tidy, and a pair of red suspenders complemented the colours of the shirt. I glanced back up at his face and was suddenly aware of what I hadn’t picked up on the first take. Hidden beneath all that hair was an alarmingly handsome man: high cheekbones, a strong, definitive nose, and full lips. With a little trim and dressed in Armani, Dr. Jonathan Edwards could easily be on the cover of GQ, and I could see why Elaine had fallen for him. That, and his voice: a low, soft bass that resonated through my body as a pleasurable hum.

“Your mass spectrometer?” I said, nodding at the tube.

“My baby,” he answered. “What do you want?”

I put my briefcase on the counter, opened it, and pulled out Connell’s publishing record. “Take a look at this.”

He was surprised, but pulled the papers toward him. As he read, his eyes became wide. He reached over, switched off the music, and glanced back at me. “Have a seat.”

I pulled a lab stool over and sat down. Five minutes later he hadn’t said anything direct, but I’d followed his index finger down the margin and knew he was studying the thing entry by entry. I heard him mutter in disbelief more than once. When he got to the bottom he tossed the list on the bench and stared at the wall for a full minute. He was obviously shaken. Finally he turned to me.

“Where’d you get that?”

“Doing my job. Remember? The one you told me to go and do?” He had the decency to look chagrined. Good. I continued. “Do you recognize any of the work?”

“Is it for real?”

“You mean did he really publish that stuff? He sure did. It’s all out there.”

He pulled the sheet onto his lap again and poked at one entry. “That’s mine.” He looked up. “It’s ‘in press,’ part of a larger paper. Graham’s never done any work like that. It has to be mine.”

“Initial it. I’ll get you the paper and you can check it out.”

He pointed to another. “That’s Elaine’s. I’m sure of it. She’s a prof in Zoology — ”

“I know Elaine. Any others?” “Hell yes. Hadley from Nanaimo. Westergarde from Dalhousie — he’s a graduate student. This one could be Dickinson at the Freshwater Institute. Jesus, he’s an eclectic little bastard. How’d he get hold of all this data?”

“I was hoping you’d tell me.”

Instead of answering he stared at the wall behind me, processing. His foot tapped rhythmically on a leg of his stool. Since I had the distinct impression he was not going to make me party to his conclusions, I interrupted him.

“Why did you leave Zoology?”

He looked startled, then his eyes narrowed. “That’s none of your business.”

“It’s not related to your complaint against Riesler?”

He hesitated, then came out with a definitive “No.”

I let the silence fill the room until I could see Edwards squirm, then I fired another question.

“Could it be Connell who’s embezzling Network funds?”

“Madden’s in charge. I’m not going back on my accusation, if that’s what you want.”

“Fine. Then let’s talk about Madden.”

He looked at me for a second, then stood up abruptly. “I need a coffee. You want one?”

Good diversion, but it wasn’t going to work. “Sure. With milk or creamer if you’ve got it.”

He walked over to the side counter and poured two mugs of coffee from a carafe thermos that was sitting near the back, then he bent down and opened a little half-fridge beneath the bench. I tried not to look inside. I didn’t want to know what might be leaking its juices into the carton of milk. I’d read one of his papers where the analytical technique called for “liquefying the tissue” before running the test. That meant throwing a whole fish into a food processor and blending it up like a milkshake. When he handed me the coffee I surreptitiously examined the surface of the liquid, looking for anything suspect — a fish scale, a little chunk of cartilage, a few fin rays — but decided that I needed the caffeine enough to take a side order of sushi.

The coffee was excellent: strong and very fresh. This guy couldn’t be all bad. I noted that he had dumped about four tablespoons of sugar into his. I guess he wasn’t planning to sleep any time in the next twelve hours either. When we were both settled with our coffee I went back to it.

“Madden,” I said firmly.

“What’s to talk about? My lab was supposed to get two hundred thousand dollars this year, and I haven’t seen a penny.”

“That doesn’t prove a thing. Maybe Riesler decided that somebody else could do the work better than you. It’s within his rights as project manager.”

“There isn’t anybody else. There are only three researchers in the world who can do these kind of tests and interpret the data. Me, my Ph.D. advisor in California, and my graduate student here on a good day. There is no other lab, not to do this work anyway.”

I thought about that. The government gives a principle researcher almost total discretion in the distribution of funds, trusting that he (and it usually is a he) knows best how to get the work done. Riesler did not, however, have the right to direct the funds to research with a different purpose.

“Where do you think the money is?”

“I think Madden’s ramping up another project. I think he’s funnelled it into his lab budget.”

“Do you have any evidence?”

“He’s not exactly going to hand over his financial records to me, is he. But I hear things. It’s a small community.”

“Like what?”

“Like his interests have diverged. Like he has something big stewing on the back burner.”

“Did you ever ask him directly where the money went?”

Edwards looked into his coffee cup and swirled the liquid around. “I tried, but he referred me to JJ.”

“And what did he say?”

He took on JJ’s nasal tones. For a guy with such a low voice he did a good imitation. I tried not to smile. “‘Madden has reallocated that money to a more fruitful line of inquiry that will be more cost-effective in the long run.’ What a load of crap.”

“And he didn’t tell you what this ‘line of inquiry’ was?”

He shook his head. “But I made some calls. Like I say, it’s a small community, and that’s a lot of money. Somebody would be talking if it had landed in their budget.”

“But why finger Madden? Why not JJ? He has signing authority, and I understand the two of you are not exactly bosom buddies.” Oops. An unfortunate choice of words. Edwards didn’t seem to notice.

“JJ is Riesler’s puppet. The guy hasn’t had an original thought in fifteen years.”

“Maybe he decided to branch out.”

His laugh was derisive. “That’ll be the day.” “Who’s funding the Asia project?”

At that question Edward’s foot twitch took over his whole leg and he had to put a hand on his thigh to slow it down. “The fucking Asia project. I’d like to blow the damn thing up.” He took a swig of his coffee and banged the mug on the counter. “It’s funded privately by a consortium. Fisheries Enterprises International. And I know what you’re thinking, that maybe the Network funds are going there, but I get the impression there’s lots of money.”

Like maybe an extra $200,000 in this year’s budget? I’d have to check out this consortium, get the exact funding figures. Then suddenly, Edwards’s leg stopped moving.

“That’s a good example,” he said, poking the air for emphasis. “That’s tilapia work, right? So why is Madden using the FEI grant to fund Elaine’s research on olfaction?” Then he caught my expression and seemed to reconnect with the fact that I was a government investigator. “I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t want her involved in this… she isn’t involved in this. It’s between Madden and me.”

I was speaking almost to myself. “So Riesler’s funding Elaine’s work. Isn’t that cozy.” Then I looked at Edwards. “How do you know that?”

He panicked. “It’s not related.” “Then there’s no problem, is there. How do you know he’s funding her work?”

He suddenly looked tired and defeated. “I can’t answer that. You’ll have to ask her yourself.”

“Just for the record, I want you to know that Elaine’s an old friend of mine, but that isn’t going to stop me from investigating her. You’re damn right I’m going to ask her myself.”

Suddenly he perked up. “You’re her friend?” He pushed the search results back to me. “Could you show her these? Make her look at them. It’s relevant.”

I could hardly wait for dinner.

Before I left the lab Edwards disappeared down the hall to make a copy of the search results. He’d get back to me tomorrow with any additional information he could glean from the titles. While he was gone I took the opportunity to plug in my laptop and dial into my account. I had thirty-seven e-mails waiting to be read. In the modern world, there is no escape. Most of them covered topics of vital importance, like a going-away party for Marielle and a mandatory day-long course entitled Building Positive Relationships. There was also a missive from the Office of the Director General that had been sent to Bob, who had cc’ed it to all of us. I always read Patsy’s memos. I like to see how many times she can use the word “notwithstanding” on a single page of text. It’s her current favourite, right up there with “linkage” in the New Age government lexicon.

Her e-mail was disappointing. She only used it once: mind you, the whole memo was less than two hundred words long. It said that, notwithstanding previous memos to the contrary, due to cost-cutting measures, no overtime would be approved unless a request was submitted in writing forty-eight hours in advance and was signed off by your supervisor, section head, and the DG. Then there was a little ramble about everyone being responsible for the budget and tightening their belts and blah, blah, blah. I whacked the message.

There was an e-mail from Bob with the subject heading “VERBAL REPORT BY END OF DAY.” I whacked it without even opening it up. As I scrolled down, whacking as I went, I found what I was looking for near the bottom. It was an e-mail from Duncan with the subject heading “The Plot Thickens.” I liked that. I opened it up. It said, “Greetings from the Commissionaire. Keys to Ahmed Assad, Joanne Laframboise, Robert Gregory.” So Bob had been in the building the day the mystery reference search was done. I liked that even better. I decided not to worry too much about a verbal report by the end of the day.

Before shutting down the system I fired off a reply to Duncan thanking him for the good work and letting him know that the search had been charged to Patsy’s code. I also reminded him to follow up on any possible connections between the Council and the Network. Edwards returned with my copy of Connell’s records just as I was logging out.

“If my office calls,” I said, closing the computer, “tell them you haven’t seen me. Better still, tell them you’re thinking of dropping the investigation.” He started to protest, but I cut in. “Trust me. And I’ll talk to Elaine.”

That stopped him. Then he said, fumbling for words, “When you see her could you tell her that… that… just tell her hello, I guess. That if she needs me, I’m here.”

I almost put my hand on his shoulder, but it would have been too intimate for him. I gave a nod instead. “But I think you should know, she’s as stubborn as a mule.”

He smiled, more to himself than to me, and said softly, “I know. That’s what I like about her.”

I was almost out the door when Dinah’s story of the missing fish popped into my head. “You ever heard of anything like that?”

Edwards thought for a moment. “It’s funny. I was talking to a Fisheries officer up the valley just about a week ago. He’d seen the same thing on a creek just outside Harrison. Never seen anything like it before. You want me to give him a call?”

“Yeah, I would. I’m sure Elaine would appreciate it.” That brightened him up. “I’ll see what I can track down and call you when I’ve got something.”

I smiled. With Elaine dangling as the carrot, I didn’t need to worry about Edwards talking to any reporter, so for now, at least, the media threat was gone.

At the door I turned back to take one last look. He sat on his stool in front of the microscope looking troubled and lost. Suddenly, he looked up and caught my eye. He smiled slightly and raised his hand. “See you,” he said, very gently. His forlorn looks and deep voice sent a shiver of desire up my spine.

Forbidden fruit, I thought, and walked into the hall without looking back.