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  Pete, who'd started resuturing the wound, said, "Sit still."

  Tim flipped the page and was hit with a dense spreadsheet filled with abbreviations and numerals. It looked like a lot and not much at the same time. "Pete-"

  "Shaddup for a second. I'm almost done."

  "Wait a minute. What am I doing?" Tim started to pull away, but Pete was midstitch. "You're not an EMT."

  "No, but I play one on TV." Pete produced a square mirror and held it up, barbershop style. "All done."

  The sutures actually looked pretty good, but since Tim didn't want to concede the point, he returned his focus to the report that Pete had recovered from Tess's work computer, where she'd forwarded the e-mail. Charts, graphs, more numbers, nothing clearly labeled. The bottom sheet showed Tess's pizzazzu account access log. Tess had logged on the evening of Thursday, May 31, and then just past midnight on Saturday, June 2. Tim closed his eyes, recalling dates and constructing the likely story.

  Monday, May 28, Tess discovers she's pregnant. She buys folic acid tablets and hires an attorney. Wednesday, May 30, she or her attorney alerts Chase that she'll be prosecuting him for rape. Dean calls and asks her to lunch on May 31, where he threatens to pull Sam from the study if she doesn't drop the case. In return for her cooperation, he offers to shepherd her-and Sam-back into Vector's fold. She accepts, planning to use the opportunity to dig for information she'd been pursuing. She discharges her lawyer the next morning, Friday, June 1. That night at The Ivy, Tess manages to switch her valet ticket with Chase's, get into his vehicle, and forward herself the e-mail with its attachment containing damaging information about Vector, perhaps involving covered-up risks of Xedral. She's careful to erase her tracks, deleting the record of her action on the BlackBerry, unaware that Chase's primary computer at work still holds a record of the forwarded attachment. At home she logs on, a little past midnight, reads the attachment, and forwards it to her work e-mail since she doesn't have a printer at home. Monday she goes in to work and prints it.

  What she doesn't know is that Chase, back at the office to start the workweek, sees on his computer that the sensitive e-mail was forwarded Friday night. He has Percy do some digging, finds out that the recipient e-mail address belongs to Tess Jameson. Chase talks with Daddy Kagan, and they decide to wait it out and watch her, maybe tap her phone to see how she's going to respond. They know that Tess will likely tip her hand-if she deciphers the report-by dropping Sam from the trial herself.

  That day Tess faxes a letter to Vector, withdrawing Sam from the study. Tuesday she contacts Melissa Yueh at KCOM and tells her she wants to see her, that she has something to show her. She's decided to blow the whistle. Kagan amp; Co., alerted that Tess understands the report and is willing to act on the conclusions she's drawn from it, deems her an unacceptable risk and puts out a contract on her life. Percy Keating sets up the deal online with a hit man he believes is the Piper. He has Ted Sands, a former Beacon-Kagan security worker, do the cash drop at Game the next day, Wednesday, June 6. Wes Dieter intercepts the cash and the job. He murders Tess two days later, safely before Yueh's return from Baghdad.

  Only one question remained.

  Tim tapped the sheaf and said, "What's hidden in these numbers that's so goddamned dangerous?"

  Pete's thin shoulders rose and fell. "Beats me. Shit like this, it takes some decoding."

  "You think Tess could've figured it out herself?"

  "After what she staked to get it? You bet your ass. Remember, this was a research-savvy woman with an accounting degree. And she followed a trail that led her here. To the smoking gun."

  Together they stared at the report.

  "Given that she's dead," Pete asked, "who are you gonna talk to?"

  Tim eyed the Vector logo on the document header. "Why not go to the source?"

  Chapter 72

  Seemingly relieved to be back in submissive charge, Edwin made Tim and Bear wait a solid five minutes in the parlor before Bear's escalating threats, conveyed in hushed tones through a house phone, bought them an escort back. They'd requested to see Dolan but wound up in Dean's study, alone with the progenitor. They'd left the confidential report that Krindon had recovered in Bear's rig outside, not wanting to show their cards until they were ready. And before leaving the hospital, they'd run off a few copies, leaving one with Freed so he could start making headway with the numbers in case they struck out here.

  Dean rose as they entered. A sturdy security guard sat in one of the two club seats, flipping through the newspaper. He did not look up. A garbage-can-size paper shredder stood out in the corner, anomalous among the elegant study furnishings.

  "We came to see Dolan," Bear said. "Why were we brought here?"

  "Dolan's very shaken up from this morning. I don't think it's wise-"

  "We didn't ask for your wisdom," Bear said. "We asked to see Dolan."

  "He's too upset to see anyone."

  "He's a grown-up. He can make his own decisions."

  Dean cocked an eyebrow as if perhaps that wasn't true. "I understand you helped us at the presentation this morning, and for that I'm appreciative, but that doesn't give you the right to storm into my house and make demands."

  Tim said, "We know you had Tess Jameson killed."

  The guard lowered the paper, his forehead wrinkling. Dean sat down, folding his hands across a knee, his dark gaze trained on Tim. "Would you go check on the rear-perimeter motion sensors?" He waited until the door clicked behind the guard, then said, "Can I be assured I'm not being illegally recorded this time out?"

  "Of course."

  "I'm not a stupid man, Deputy Rackley. I'm aware that you have your suspicions. Let me give you some advice. Don't waste your time here. If that fantasy of yours were true? You'd never, ever link me to it. I'd never be so foolish."

  Tim's disgust settled into a calm anger. That's how they are, the privileged, when they decide that laws no longer suit them. They always have men beneath them to make deals and move money, and when the lower floors start caving, the penthouse stays afloat.

  "Well," Tim said, "then I'll have to find something else."

  Dean smiled, white teeth against tan skin. "Happy hunting."

  Tim walked over and rested a hand on the paper shredder. Still warm. "I can have a warrant for Dolan faxed here in minutes. If I get it, we're searching the entire house."

  It was a bluff, but one Dean wouldn't want to call with his paper shredder still throwing off BTUs.

  Dean studied Tim a few minutes, then said, "I'll call him in."

  "No," Tim said. "We'll talk to him alone."

  Dean said, "He's in his room. I don't think you'll find him informative."

  Tim and Bear made their way through the mansion to the second floor of the south wing. A guard stood at the door to the Kagan brothers' rooms like a bouncer, arms woven across a massive chest. A vein squiggled through the ball of his biceps, a firework's dying flare. He wore a benign expression, but there was no question he was blocking the door. He didn't move as they approached.

  Bear said, "Out of the way."

  Prudently, he stepped aside. Tim threw open the door. Dolan was sitting on the pool table, feet drifting in circles as if stirring water.

  Bear said, "You're coming with us," and grabbed him by the arm, steering him out. Dolan whined and fired questions all the way to Bear's rig but didn't figure out simply to tell Bear to let go of him. Bear threw him in the front seat, and he and Tim climbed in on either side of him. The dashboard clock, at 1:32 A.M., had fallen back to an hour slow.

  Bear drove a few blocks and pulled over on the quiet, dark street. He bent down, reaching beneath the floor mat. Dolan's concern changed to fear. He recoiled, practically scaling the bench seat, but there was nowhere to go.

  Bear tossed the confidential report into Dolan's lap. Dolan took a moment to thaw. He looked at the top sheet, then turned a few more pages, rapidly, his interest growing. "Where did you get this?"

  Tim told him.
/>   Dolan held his stomach and leaned over as if contemplating throwing up. He said, "How do I know you didn't generate this yourself?"

  "Because we don't know what the hell it is. We can't analyze this kind of scientific data."

  "This isn't science."

  "Then what is it?"

  "It's accounting." Dolan flipped through the pages, zeroing in on a few abbreviations with his finger-L12-AAT mapped for comparison beside X5-AAT.

  Tim noted his change in focus. "What?"

  "These are the trial names for the latest generation of viral vectors I created. Lentidra and Xedral. Lentidra was back-burnered."

  Bear said, "The permanent-cure vector? That was far along in the pipeline, right? Tess was all over it, had a bunch of info gathered on her hard drive. Early trials, the press release about the animal study going south, all that."

  Tim recalled Tess's notation in the margin of the Xedral report stuffed into her bookshelf-Why Lentidra fall off map? Tim found himself, now at last, caught up to her inquiry. "Why was it back-burnered?"

  "They ran into problems during animal trials. I looked at the data, but…"

  "What?"

  "The trial data are all outside my lab."

  Tim imagined that such a vague answer from Vector's senior scientist would only have further fired Tess's imagination.

  "And they withhold it from you?" Bear asked. "It's your company."

  Dolan cupped sweat off his forehead. "They gave me the data. In a variety of formats, actually. I'm just not certain how…complete it was. It's something I've been looking into."

  Tim said, "Are they similar? Lentidra and Xedral?"

  Dolan adjusted his glasses with a little lift. "You're thinking if there was some problem with Lentidra, a design irregularity, something, it could reflect on Xedral, too? It's possible." He flipped to the next page. "But this looks more like-"

  His cell phone rang, Bach's familiar Gothic trills. He caught himself, his shoulders rising in a half cringe.

  "What were you saying, Dolan?" Tim said. "What do you think this report is?"

  "I…I don't know."

  "Bullshit," Bear said. "These are your inventions, Dolan. You can read this."

  Dolan tilted his head down so his chin wrinkled. He looked scared, and much younger than his thirty-two years. The phone finally stopped ringing. "Take me back, please."

  "Listen-"

  "Take me back." Dolan shoved the document out of his lap. "Arrest me or take me back." Bear started to say something, but Dolan cut him off: "Then let me out!"

  Bear tugged the gearshift down into drive, and they coasted smoothly back across the wide Bel Air streets. They pulled up to the estate, and Tim got out.

  Dolan scooted across the seat, knocking the report onto the curb, and climbed out. He stood frail and bent; whatever he'd glimpsed had eaten away at his posture. At the end of the long walk, the giant house loomed, a few illuminated rooms granting it an uncanny vitality. He stared up at the house's impressive mass as if awed by it. Tim waited for him to move, but he didn't.

  Dolan turned back to them. "I'm not like them. I'm weak."

  Tim stooped and picked up the report from the gutter. He rolled it and pressed one end to Dolan's chest. "Don't be."

  After a few moments, Dolan took the pages and stuffed them into his waistband. He pulled his shirt down, hiding them, and shuffled toward the porch that just four nights before had been the stage for Ted Sands's murder.

  Chapter 73

  Morgenstein stepped out of the shower with a shaggy bath mat wrapped around his waist, a stopgap towel that ended midthigh. He weaved a bit in front of the cracked mirror and took another pull from his fresh bottle of Bombay Sapphire. A used condom, infused with streetwalker-preferred strawberry flavor, stuck to the futon mattress behind him. He'd had a hell of a night, and still had seven hundred bucks of the snitch money hiding under the cap of his Speed Stick.

  He shook his head, throwing flecks of water onto the stained mirror, then traded the square blue bottle for a Q-tip. He'd just inserted the cotton tip into his ear when a shadow flashed from the open closet to his left and struck his elbow.

  He sagged back against the wall, a grasping arm knocking over toiletries and dirty glasses, the bath mat falling. He felt no pain, just a loud, constant rush, a seashell pressed to his left ear.

  A revolver came into focus first, then Walker behind it.

  Morgenstein's fingers scrabbled up his left cheek, growing sticky, and then he unscrewed the bent Q-tip from his ear canal. Blood ran through the fingers of his cupped hand.

  He picked up the bath mat from the floor and secured it around himself, an incongruous act of modesty given what was at stake. The marks of his fingers were rendered on the cloth in crimson.

  They'd told him Walker was going to come. He wasn't sure if he hadn't believed them or simply hadn't cared.

  Grim comprehension hit him, a cold, chest-high wave. He cleared his throat, but it still felt coated with gin and phlegm. He couldn't hear himself well over the white noise permeating his skull. "Your father would never harm me."

  Walker cocked the hammer with a thumb, the gun doing a tiny tilt and bob. "I'm not my father," he said, and squeezed.

  Chapter 74

  I heard you got shot."

  Bear took a turn too hard, and Tim braced against the door, almost dropping his cell phone. "Shit, Dray, I'm sorry. I just got grazed. Coupla stitches."

  "For a few stitches I wouldn't have bothered staying awake worrying." Despite her tone, her voice was uneven. She blew out a shaky breath. "I figured if you were dead, Guerrera wouldn't have mentioned it so nonchalantly."

  In the background Tim heard Tyler fussing. "He's not asleep?"

  "Same story." She sounded exhausted. "This case goes on much longer, I'm filing for hazardous-duty pay."

  "Our space between sightings is shrinking. I'd say we're closing him down."

  "Yeah? How many stitches has he got?"

  "He's losing some blood."

  "Do tell."

  As Bear flew through stoplights, not bothering to distinguish red from green, Tim described the events since the last time he'd checked in with her, shortly after Walker's sniper attempt at Beacon-Kagan had hit the news channels. Caden Burke's emergence, the shoot-out at Game, Tim's visit to his father-this alone was met with stunned silence-the visit to Morgenstein, the raid on the apartment, Tim's standoff with Walker, the trip to the hospital, and, finally, the failed interface with Dolan.

  Not surprisingly, Dray zeroed in on a detail he'd long dismissed as insignificant. "Walker dumped the Camry in the airport parking lot, right?"

  "We already checked, Dray. There were no other vehicles stolen out of there around that time."

  "He drove away in something."

  "He might've taken the bus. A cab."

  "Covered in ash and reeking of trash? Maybe he wrote 'fugitive' across his forehead with a Sharpie, too?" Different tone: "No, you can't have a Scooby-Doo Band-Aid. Go back to sleep or I'm gonna put my head in the microwave. Yes, I'll send your daddy in when he gets home." Back to Tim: "Plus, why bother when you're gifted at boosting cars, which he clearly is?"

  "So?"

  "So check what cars were stolen in the surrounding area that night. He's not gonna swipe a car from the lot claiming he lost the ticket. They ding you for two hundred bucks. He'd have to grab something a block or two away."

  The Ram screeched up to Freed's downtown high-rise. The doorman looked startled beneath his wannabe-Manhattan red cap.

  Tim said, "The task force is on overload. Will you get on it?"

  "Sure. Guerrera has the parking-lot ticket with the time stamped on it?"

  "Yes. Thank you. Gotta run."

  "Oh, and Timothy? Let's keep tonight's count to those five stitches. In you, I mean."

  An elevator operator rode with them up to the penthouse floor. Freed's building was one of the crown jewels of downtown's gentrification, twenty-five floors of luxury liv
ing for Japanese businessmen, Europeans who missed real city living, and the occasional East Coast star whose career required a seasonal transplant to within limo range of the studios.

  Freed answered the door in a silk kimono-looking robe that managed to be masculine but earned a behind-the-back eyebrow raise from Bear nonetheless. They crossed a marble floor to a granite table suspended from the ceiling by two centered steel cables. His copy of the confidential report had been laid out, page by page, across the surface. Post-its with notes and questions, rendered in blue ink from Freed's Montblanc, lifted from the sheets like feathers. A floating fireplace magically burned logs. Someone rustled beyond the cracked bedroom door, but despite Bear's nosy detour in that direction, the identity-and gender-of Freed's visitor remained concealed. The wall-length window looked down on the rooftop bar and lounge of The Standard hotel. The pool cast a diffuse aqua glow over the scene-monkeys slurping bright name-brand drinks and rolling around on the waterbed cabanas. A projector Supersized Casablanca onto the side of the neighboring building.

  Tim nodded at the pages on the table. "Make headway?"

  "You could say that. I've got X5-AAT pegged as Xedral's latest model, but I've been trying to figure out what L12-AAT is."

  "It was the final model of Lentidra," Tim said, "a viral vector they pulled back after they hit problems during animal trials."

  "They pulled it back, all right, but not because of that." Freed looked troubled. He sat at the end of the table and scooted his chair in. "This report is, among other things, a risk assessment. It provides a comparative cost-benefit analysis of both viral vectors." He tapped a graph. "This part shows projected profit margins for Xedral, mapped against those for Lentidra."

  Bear said, "Xedral's projected profits are higher."

  "Significantly higher. Initially."