“GAMBLE’S SYMPTOMS FIT WITH ABRIN POISONING, AM I CORRECT?”

Abrin? I was expecting ricin.

“Yes,” Larabee said.

“What can you tell me about it.” Williams laced his fingers and dropped his hands onto his genitals.

“Abrin is also known as agglutinin or toxalbumin. It’s a highly toxic lectin found in the seeds of Abrus precatorius, the rosary pea.”

“How does it work?”

“Like ricin, abrin attacks cells from the inside, inhibiting protein synthesis and causing the cells to die. As the toxin penetrates the body, more and more tissues are destroyed. This leads to organ failure and eventual death.”

“How quickly?”

Larabee shrugged one shoulder. “Hours or days. It depends on the dose and the route of exposure.”

“Route of exposure?”

“One could touch a surface on which abrin particles or droplets have landed, or particles or droplets could land on the skin or in the eyes. One could inhale abrin if it’s in the form of a mist or powder. One could ingest it if it’s in food or water.”

“That’s it?”

“I suppose pellets, or abrin dissolved in a liquid, could be injected into a person’s body.”

“How common is accidental exposure?”

“Not common, though it happens.”

“Give me a scenario.”

“Rosary pea seeds are used to make jewelry and percussion instruments, mostly in India or Indonesia. I think the products are illegal in this country. Anyway, there have been cases in which broken seeds have exposed the wearer.”

“So, in all likelihood, it would take a deliberate act to obtain abrin, either from rosary pea seeds or from some other source, and use it to poison someone?”

“In all likelihood. Now, I want to know—”

“If ingested, how much is required to kill a human being?”

“Very little.”

Williams curled his fingers in a “give me more” gesture.

“One seed would probably do it.” Larabee tapped the paper on his blotter. “Now. My turn. How was this sample obtained?”

Williams answered with carefully chosen phrasing. “Early this morning, Special Agent Randall and I entered an unlocked vehicle licensed to Wayne Gamble and collected a coffee mug clearly visible through an open window.”

“Your lab has an amazingly fast turnaround time.” I couldn’t help myself.

“This case has top priority.”

“Why is that?”

“The FBI has obtained information that”—Williams paused for another vetting—“bumped our request to the front of the queue.”

“This is your interpretation of normal professional exchange?” Disdain chilled my words.

Larabee had had it. Before Williams could respond, he jumped in. “Dick with this office, you’ll wish you were working a coal mine in Guizhou province.”

Williams and Randall exchanged another of their Men in Black glances. Then Williams graced us with a crumb of an explanation.

“Ted Raines works at the CDC but supplements his income with part-time employment at Emory University. The project on which he is a lab technician is funded by the U.S. Army Zumwalt Countermeasures to Biological and Chemical Warfare program. The project’s research focuses on the fate and mobility of environmentally dispersed phytotoxins.”

“Such as ricin and abrin,” I said.

“Yes.”

“So Raines has access to these substances.”

“Theoretically.”

For a full minute we all let that percolate. Down the hall, I heard my office phone ring.

I broke the silence. “The landfill John Doe showed signs of ricin poisoning. Wayne Gamble shows signs of abrin poisoning. Cindi Gamble and Cale Lovette disappeared in 1998. Ted Raines has now vanished. You believe these facts are interrelated?”

“That is correct.”

“How?”

“The FBI would very much like to know.”

“Why did the FBI order my John Doe torched?” Larabee spat the letters as though they were a bad taste on his tongue.

“That is hardly a fair assessment.”

“Why was the Lovette-Gamble file confiscated?” I asked.

“I cannot confirm bureau involvement in that.”

“You had that one all loaded up.” Larabee was growing more steamed with each of Williams’s evasive replies. “Tell me, then. What is the FBI doing to resolve this whole mess?”

“The bureau is working with local law enforcement to determine Mr. Raines’s whereabouts.”

“Probably six feet under, like Gamble and Lovette and the poor slob from the landfill.”

Williams ignored Larabee’s outburst.

“With the consent of Mr. Raines’s wife, experts are searching the hard drive from his home computer. Unfortunately, his laptop goes with him when he travels. Mr. Raines’s cell phone records are also under scrutiny.”

“Unfortunately, his cell phone goes with him when he travels.” Larabee’s sarcasm had the atomic weight of lead.

“We have established that Raines’s mobile was not used after Monday last week. A call was made from Charlotte to the Raines’s home landline. We are also looking at the GPS on Raines’s second vehicle.”

“Which, unfortunately, was in his driveway when the poor schmo fell off the planet.” Larabee stood, anger barely in check. “This is bullshit. Get back to me when you’re ready to share what you learned by stealing my stiff.”

Williams and Randall rose, smiled tightly, and took their leave.

Back in my office I had not one but two phone messages. Both were unexpected.

I returned the calls in the order in which they came in. And slammed into yet more anger.

“Galimore.” Curt.

“It’s Dr. Brennan.”

“Oh. Sorry. Didn’t check the caller ID.”

“I was surprised to hear from you. Figured you’d be completely jammed up with the situation at the Speedway.”

“They’ve turned me into a goddamn traffic cop!” Galimore sounded furious. “The bastards won’t let me anywhere near the garage area. Did you know there’s some question Gamble died by accident?”

“Yes.”

“Hallelujah! Everyone’s in the loop but the head of security!”

“Williams and Randall were here.”

“The freaking FBI. This happened on my patch. And what do I get to do? Freaking crowd control!”

“You going to break down now?”

“What?”

“It’s manly and all. But I’m not good with tears.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Getting in touch with your feminine side.”

For a moment I heard nothing but background noise. Then Gali-more chuckled. “You’re a real wiseass, you know that.”

“Yes. Why did you call?”

“While my people play mall cop, I’m going to do some real police work. You want to meet Craig Bogan?”

I did.

Gamble’s cranial fragments wouldn’t be ready for analysis for twenty-four hours. I had no other cases.

Hawkins would disapprove. Ditto Slidell.

Screw Hawkins and Slidell.

“I’m at the MCME,” I said. “Where shall I meet you?”

“Right outside. I’ll be there in thirty.”

I disconnected and dialed again.

This time the anger was pointed at me.

“What the hell are you thinking?”

“Good morning, Detective. Going to be another hot one out there.”

“Cotton Galimore is a slime-spewing, amoral, bastard of a scumbag.”

I had to give Slidell credit. His prose was creative.

“Don’t hold back,” I said.

“You’ve got no business breathing air with that freak show. He’ll use you, then ditch you like a snotty tissue.”

“Perhaps I’m using him.”

“Galimore’s a booger that you can’t flick off.”

“That was good. The way you expanded the metaphor.”

“What?”

“Why did you call?”

“The impending gang war turned out to be a cheating ex taking revenge on the love of his life. Killed her and the boyfriend, put the lady’s brother in the ICU.”

It is one of the most common causes of violence against women. The man threatens. The woman asks for protection, maybe gets a restraining order. Big help. The cops finally step in when Mr. Tough Guy actually batters or kills her. Every time I hear of a case like that, I feel the same outrage and frustration.

“If I can’t have you, no one can,” I said, voice coated with disgust.

“Yeah. Noble. Anyways, I’ve got a little downtime now, so I plan to check out the car Gamble and Lovette drove off in the night they disappeared.”

“The ’sixty-five Mustang described by Grady Winge.”

“Yeah. I’m thinking there couldn’t have been many of those. Wish I had the original damn file. I’m probably reinventing the wheel.”

“Are DMV registration records kept that long?”

“I’ll let you know.”

“Any mention of the car in Eddie’s notes?”

“That’s where I plan to start.”

I told Slidell about Larabee’s autopsy results. And about the abrin found in Wayne Gamble’s coffee.

“What the hell’s abrin?”

I provided a quick overview. Slidell saw the connection right away. “Like the shit what killed the landfill John Doe.”

“We don’t know if the man died of ricin poisoning. He’d also suffered head trauma.”

“Guess you could say that about Gamble.”

“But it’s not just the abrin,” I said.

I told Slidell about Gamble’s calls to me, about his anxiety, and about his decision to confront the person tailing him.

“So the FBI’s thinking Wayne Gamble got iced. Why?”

“I don’t know. But there’s more.”

I relayed what Williams had shared concerning Ted Raines.

“The feebs are fingering Raines?”

“No one’s suggesting that Raines killed Gamble.”

“Then what’s the link?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re saying that a lot.”

I hesitated, decided it was better to have everyone on the same page. Leaving out the part about the shotgun, I described the encounter with Eugene Fries.

“I’m telling you. Galimore is a snake.”

“Let it go.”

Angry air whistled in and out of Slidell’s nose for several seconds. “Who would have threatened this guy Fries?”

“I’ve no clue. But they made an impression.”

“Who’s wrong? Fries or Winge?”

“Yes.”

A beat.

“You think one of them lied?”

“I don’t know. But I think Owen Poteat may have.”

I walked Slidell through my interpretation of Rinaldi’s coded note.

“Sonofafrigginbitch,” he said.

“Sonofafrigginbitch,” I agreed.