Box Nine (7 page)

Woo punches the recorder off and looks around the table at the troubled faces. He's enjoying the reaction, Lenore thinks. It allows him to feel both essential to our work and a cut above us. In that moment of watching Woo's face watching her own, she understands that the doctor has an ego that towers over the mayor's, and Lehmann's and Zarelli's combined.

“He was reading from a Bible that we happened to have handy,” Woo says. “But it could have been any book and the results would have been the same. Let me add to your amazement, all right? If I could go back to the prison today and ask him what he'd read for me, he would repeat it verbatim, at the same speed. And our tests show that his comprehension was one hundred percent.”

He pauses, then says, “Before I answer any of your questions, let me risk poisoning your amazement with fear.”

He ejects the cassette from the machine, flips it over, and inserts the reverse side into the bed. He hits the rewind button until the tape stops, then presses Play.

His whispered, theatrical tape voice comes on, saying,
“Tape six, four forty-five p.m. Conversational flow between James Lee Partridge and William Robbins.”

There are two voices talking at once. They're both speaking extremely rapidly and Lenore can't separate them or follow the topic of their discussion. She thinks it has to do with women and/or sex, but she's not sure. She thinks she's pulled out the words
grab, bra, leg, kiss, Carrie, fifteen, Mustang, rubber
and
screw.
But she's not sure of any of them and the longer the tape goes on the more difficult it gets to distinguish any of it until finally all the language blurs once again into that amplified fly-noise, an endless buzz that makes the hairs on Lenore's neck stand up.

When it's clear the buzzing is driving everyone at the table crazy, Woo punches the recorder off.

Peirce is the first to speak. “You're telling us that those two people on the tape, those two convicts, were speaking just then. Having a conversation, right?”

Woo nods. “That's absolutely right, Detective. In excess of fifteen hundred words per minute passed back and forth between each of them. And that's not all of it. There was a level of contact, a level of understanding, passing between them that's difficult to relay to you. They were completely conscious of and continually integrating body language, changes in musculature, eye signals. There was a degree of speed and comprehension present in that dialogue that you or I …”

Lenore can't help herself. She blurts out, “Why are we involved?”

Mayor Welby says, “We'll be getting to that, Detective.”

There's an awkward beat, then Woo, staring at Lenore, says, “No time like the present, I suppose.”

From the bottomless satchel he withdraws two of his own 8 x 10 black-and-white photos, places them flat on the table, and slides them to Lenore. She picks them up, knowing already what they are. She's seen too many of this type of photo. She knows this because it's lost the ability to shock her. The first picture is labeled
Partridge.
The second is labeled
Robbins.
They're both morgue shots, taken from directly above the subject, under the harsh white light of powerful fluorescents. The photos show the subjects from the shoulders up, their heads resting on plain white sheets that Lenore knows are covering stainless-steel slab tables. The subjects' heads are both shaved. In both photos, there are bullet holes in the head and face. In Partridge's case, the upper left-hand portion of his forehead has been blown away entirely.

Lenore stares up into Woo's face and passes the pictures absent-mindedly to Richmond.

“Don't jump to any conclusions,” Woo says, almost under his breath.

“In tandem with this is an additional effect that I, personally, find fascinating. The pathologist's studies on both Partridge and Robbins showed an inordinate buildup of sperm cells and seminal plasma in the testes and urethral glands and a severe retraction of the muscles around the ductus deferens.”

“In English, please,” Lehmann says without hiding his impatience.

Woo nods as he speaks. “Both men were sexually stimulated. Very stimulated. Without the presence of any external erotic materials. Again, we were doing language tests.”

“Speed, Spanish fly, and a Berlitz course in one quick pop,” Lenore says.

“Let's not jump the gun, Officer. We don't know that these effects would present themselves in a lower dosage—”

Lenore ignores him. “Quite a commodity. You take it to speak in tongues and as a bonus you get sex and power. Who's going to want TV anymore?”

“And the downside,” Peirce says, refocusing the table's attention on Woo.

“The downside,” says Woo, still looking at Lenore, “is its unpredictability. At full dosage, you can end up with what you heard on the tape. Homicidal rage. And death.”

He waits until the photos have made their way around most of the table, then says, with his index finger pointed in their general direction, “This is where you people become involved. Because of our limited testing and the complexity of the drug's chemical base, we've been unable to find out what a tolerable dosage might be. It's theoretically possible that the individual's language capacities can play a part in the drug's level of intensity.”

Lehmann pipes in with, “Crack and ice are bubble gum compared with this shit.” Then he glances down toward the mayor and says awkwardly, “Excuse the language.”

The photos come back to Lenore, who says, “How'd this happen?”

Woo takes a deep breath. Lenore thinks it's for effect.

Woo says, “This is a very powerful, but very unstable substance. From my observations I believe there to be three distinct stages of consequences to ingestion. The first you just heard, phenomenal increases in linguistic ability and comprehension. The second consequence follows directly on the heels of the first, and it's a stunning, erotic high, a sexual euphoria, a burst of intoxication to rival anything you've come across recently, I assure you.”

“And the last …” Lenore pauses, then says, “Consequence?”

Woo gives an awful and smug grin and says, “Probably just what you're guessing, Detective. Paranoia that increases unchecked, very likely to the borders of schizophrenia, if not beyond. Accompanied by a limitiess and very shocking rage. A homicidal rage.”

There's silence until Lenore says, “There was no way to prevent this?”

Woo shakes his head. “It's unlikely in this extreme condition that any tranquilizer would have done much good. But to be honest with you, we were somewhat unprepared for the explosion. The guards overreacted. I'm sure in your line of work you can understand how certain tragedies can be unavoidable. In retrospect we often see options that may not have actually existed at the time.”

Lenore ignores the rest of the table and says evenly, “I'm not sure we know very much about each other's line of work.”

Woo nods and says, in the same tone, “Perhaps we can correct this in the days to come.”

Zarelli comes alive and asks, “Well, what happens now? I mean, the convicts are dead. You burn their files and you burn the pill inside that bubble there, and, I guess, DEA—” he gives a head motion toward Lehmann—“tracks down the deal on the consulting firm and all …”

“Not exactly,” Lehmann says, staring down at his sunglasses. “When we found the pills inside the Swanns' spice jar they were wrapped in a piece of paper.” He takes a very small piece of crumpled-up paper from his jacket pocket and lays it on the table. “Just a small piece of scrap paper. Except that it had a phone number written on it.”

“That connected to?” Lenore says.

“Hotel Penumbra.”

The detectives all look at each other and Lenore says, “The Capital of Bangkok Par.”

Lehmann says, “Yeah. And I don't think Leo and Inez were looking to book a getaway weekend, do you?”

“What about Pecci?” Richmond asks.

Lehmann shrugs. “Could be a deal couldn't be cut with the family and the Swanns started looking elsewhere for connections and backers for their new venture.”

“Is there any indication,” Peirce asks, “that any contact was made between the Swanns and any other Bangkok brokers?”

Lehmann shrugs. “No idea. Bangkok is your sewer. We decided that step one was to get you people involved.”

“If the stuff is out there,” Lenore says, “we'll know about it soon enough.” She slides the morgue photos back at Woo.

He collects them back into his satchel and says, “I would say that's a correct assumption.”

The mayor stands up abruptly and says, “I think we all know the critical nature of what we're dealing with. Now, I'm due back at City Hall. I leave you people to coordinate your efforts, but I want to assure you that if there's anything whatsoever that my office can do, please, have the lieutenant call at any time.”

He gives a bouncing, loose-necked nod around the table, grabs Miskewitz's hand, and pumps it fast. He starts to move away from the table, then hesitates and adds, in a lower voice, “Detective Peirce, could I see you privately for a moment?”

Peirce seems to go a little white in the face. She rolls back from the table without looking at anyone and follows the mayor into the outer corridor. Shaw gets Lenore's attention and motions after them with her head.

“His little friend in the department,” Lenore says in an unhushed voice.

Miskewitz rolls his eyes, runs his beefy hand over the roll of flesh under his jaw, and raises his eyebrows. “Well, people,” he says, “we were getting bored.”

Shaw and Richmond laugh. Zarelli stares down at Lenore. Lenore stares up at Woo. Richmond cracks his knuckles and says, “So how do we work it?”

Lehmann says, “I'm bunking here for the duration. You run everything through me. I want to know every piece of information you trip over. I want to know what you eat for dinner.”

Lenore knows she's going to have problems with Lehmann.

Lehmann continues, “Dr. Woo will be assisting us throughout because that's what my boss wants, so include him in all your updates.”

Miskewitz says, “Put everything on hold that you can and junk what you can't. We'll work our normal partners with the exception of Thomas and Zarelli. Zarelli, you tag onto Richmond and Peirce. Detective Thomas, you're to escort Dr. Woo throughout the investigation—”

Lenore comes straight up in her seat and repeats, “Escort?” as if she'd never heard the word.

Miskewitz tilts his head slightly and gives an annoyed smile. “That's right, Lenore. As of today the doctor is on leave from St. Ignatius and on loan to us—”

“As in report—” Lenore begins, and the lieutenant holds up a hand.

“—As in accompanies you. As in the mayor wants it this way.”

“I can't take this guy down the Park,” she says in disbelief.

“Look, Thomas, we're dealing with a new substance here. Dr. Woo is the only one to have seen its effects firsthand—”

“I'll take pictures for him—”

“—There's no more discussion, Detective. That's what the mayor wants and that's what I'm telling you to do.”

Miskewitz turns back to the rest of the table. “I think it's safe to say you'll be putting in a big chunk of overtime, so get that straight at home.”

Miskewitz leans back into his chair, leans his head on his shoulder, and opens his arms to his sides. It's some weird signal that the meeting is over. Richmond is the first to get up, saying over his shoulder to Lenore, “Jesus, I got to use the can.” Shaw begins to move for the coffee urn. Zarelli and Lehmann mumble to one another with disgusted looks on their faces.

Lenore pushes back from the table. Woo approaches her and says, “Detective,” and pauses.

“Poor short-term memory,” she says. “Maybe you should get your hands on some Lingo.”

“Perhaps,” he says, again trying to flash her the killer smile.

“Thomas,” she says, “Detective Thomas.”

“Detective Thomas,” he says, “of course. I was wondering if possibly we could meet a little later. For lunch, possibly. To discuss the investigation.”

Chapter Five

I
n her tiny office, Eva applies the last, slightest brushstroke of blush onto her cheek. She looks quickly at the smudged mirror, then closes the small black plastic case and slides it into her pocketbook inside the bottom drawer of her desk. She raises her hand to brush at her cheek and stops herself, thinking,
Leave well enough alone.
She doesn't like the idea that anyone might notice that she wears makeup, but without it she thinks she has the face of a corpse, cold as ice, white as a sheet.

She can tell already that it's going to be a beaut of a day. The
Reader's Digests
are in and she's got two carriers out sick. She's already called for a couple of floats from down the main branch, but nobody's promising anything. She'll handle it. If she has to, she'll call Gumm and ask him to forget about taking today off. And he'll give.

She pulls her middle drawer open and takes out her eleven-inch clipboard and several preprinted forms which she inserts under the clip. Then she folds all the forms over the top of the board to reveal a blank yellow legal pad. She takes a just-sharpened pencil from her cup and holds it above the pad. She breathes slowly and quiets her whole body, lifts her head, and remains completely still, listening.

Eva's office, which had once been a storage closet, borders the locker room. Eva takes notes on everything that is said in the locker room. The conversations are always the most banal, boring exchanges, but she notes them anyway. She thinks that it's a general rule of life that no information is so small that it can't, at some point, maybe in the far future, be put to good use. So she keeps this private record in her files at home, an ongoing transcription of the locker room small talk, the complaining and swearing and taunting. Poor Ike Thomas, the bruising he takes.