Craig Kreident #1: Virtual Destruction (29 page)

But when he pushed open the dark-brown door, giving a shove with his hip to squeak it out of the old jamb, he found a perfectly normal attic through a cloud of dust.
 
He sneezed.
 
Craig doubted Michaelson would have found it easy to fit his large frame into the cramped, low-ceilinged attic.

He went back to the guest room and started going through the drawers of a small desk and nightstand.

Paige called upstairs.
 
“Find anything?”

“Not yet.
 
What about you?”

“Nothing.
 
The guy doesn’t even have any cookbooks.
 
For a scientist, he doesn’t own any electric gadgets either.
 
No TV, no radio or computer.
 
Besides the coffee maker—a vital item, I suppose—the only thing he’s got down there is an answering machine.”

Craig looked up.
 
“Any messages on the machine?”

“Eight.
 
Even dead, Dr. Michaelson’s a busy guy.”

Craig nudged shut the dresser drawer and stood up.
 
“I’m coming.
 
Let’s check it out.”

Downstairs, Craig pressed the solid-state device.
 
A filtered voice immediately drifted up from the small speaker, “Hey, Doc Michaelson—we’ve filled your freezer with another month’s supply of Gourmet De’lite dinners.
 
The Perrier water is under the sink.
 
We’ve billed your account.
 
Thanks.”

“Gee, we could stay here for a nice dinner, I suppose,” Paige suggested.
 
Craig ignored her and moved closer to the machine.

After the fourth message came a woman’s voice, tired and disappointed.
 
“Hal—this is Diana.
 
Pick up if you’re there.”
 
A pause.
 
“Where
are
you?
 
I got into Livermore last night and you’re not home.
 
I thought you were catching the red-eye.
 
Give me a call when you get in.
 
I’m staying at the Pleasanton Sheraton.
 
I must have missed you on the plane.”

Paige raised her eyebrows.
 
“A girlfriend, you think?”

“Could be,” Craig said.

The next message, recorded some time later, was the same woman’s voice, more distraught this time.
 
“Dammit, it’s ten o’clock in the morning and you
still
haven’t gotten in—or you’re not returning my calls.
 
What the hell’s going on?”
 
She continued to talk, and Craig listened with deepening interest.

“You might think this is all a big joke and you’ll be able to breeze past this senate confirmation, but you’re not bulletproof.
 
Get that through your thick, arrogant skull.
 
If they ever find out about us, it’s going to be one hell of a ride for you.”

She paused, and Craig stared at Paige.
 
The woman, Diana, sounded as if she had been drinking.
 
“People have had their careers ruined for far less than fucking administration officials.
 
Talk to me—do I have to threaten you?”
 
Then she hung up.

“A woman scorned, you suppose?” Craig suggested.

Paige’s blue eyes went wide.
 
“Somebody else who doesn’t have Michaelson on their Favorite People in the World list.”

CHAPTER 29

Saturday

Recreation Facility

Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory

Craig felt uncomfortable standing in his new swimming trunks as he looked out across the blue expanse of the Livermore Lab’s Olympic-sized swimming pool.
 
Black lines rippled under the water, marking lanes of traffic for those wishing to swim.

Children splashed their parents in the shallow end, while show-offs attempted fancy dives in the deep water.
 
This wasn’t the way he had expected to spend his Saturday morning.
 
Not at all.

Paige Mitchell treaded water in front of Craig, smiling up at him as water drops glinted on her face.
 
She stroked backward, swimming out of his way.
 
The curves enclosed within her sleek black one-piece distracted him from thoughts of the water.
 
“Come on, Craig—what are you waiting for?”

She had invited him to come to Livermore on a Saturday, even though she didn’t normally work weekends.
 
Craig, on the other hand, lived inside a case once he took it on, filling his mind with the convolutions and the information, poking and prodding the whole thing until it fit together.
 
Discouraged that the weekend had interrupted his investigation, he had found Paige’s offer too good to be true.

“Bring a suit,” she had told him—and in his mind he’d pictured his usual dark suit and tie.
 
She had laughed when she corrected him, saying, “No, your
bathing
suit!
 
You don’t think I’m going into the Lab to work do you?
 
It’s my swimming day.”

And so, since it was the only chance for him to talk over the case with someone who knew as many details as he did, he’d taken her up on the offer.

But now, as the water stretched out in front of him, he had to dive in or continue to look silly.
 
Squeezing his eyes shut, he abandoned elegance and leaped into the air, grabbing his knees in the classic cannonball maneuver he remembered from junior high.

He splashed down into what seemed like the Arctic Ocean.
 
He came up gasping and sputtering, flinging chlorinated water from his eyes and blinking in amazement at Paige, who swam back toward him, giggling.

“It’s cold!” he said.

“Not
cold
,” Paige said, “just unheated.
 
There’s a difference.”

Craig shivered and stroked across the pool, generating body heat before his skin could grow numb.
 
“I’d sure like to know the difference before my brain freezes over.”

“You’re a wimp,” Paige said.
 
She swam briskly toward the other side of the pool.

He followed her, feeling his body adjust to the temperature as he kept moving.
 
Under the warm noon sunshine he found after a few moments that it wasn’t so unpleasant after all.
 
Craig didn’t need to admit that fact, though.

“Is this torture part of your training for the Security Department?” Craig said, coming alongside her and looking her in the eyes.
 
She had tied back her sandy hair with a rubber band, and the wetness had streaked it a darker brown.
 
She continued to swim, an easy gliding motion across the water.

“Security?” Paige answered, raising her eyebrows.
 
“I don’t work for them.”

Craig looked puzzled.
 
“I thought you were my security escort.”

She shook her head, splashing water.
 
“Not me!
 
I work for the Protocol Office.
 
I’m Lab liaison.
 
I spent four years here as a technical editor, then moved to the Visitor’s Center, got into Public Relations.
 
Over the course of my assignments I picked up all kinds of background on how Lawrence Livermore works—so I’m in charge of escorting VIPs around the site.”

“VIPs like me, you mean?”

“Fishing for a compliment?”

Craig stroked to keep up with her.
 
“Actually I was swimming for one.”

“Well, if you want to earn points with me,” Paige said, “you can at least close your mouth when you stare at my swimsuit, kay-O?
 
Don’t you have a girlfriend or something, since you’re a big impressive FBI agent and all?”

Her bluntness took Craig aback, and he let her swim to the tile wall before he stroked to catch up with her.
 
“Sorry, Paige, it’s just that. . .”
 
Then he raised his right hand out of the water.
 
“Oh forget it, no excuses.
 
Guilty as charged.

“And to answer your question:
 
No, I don’t have a girlfriend.
 
Had one for a couple of years.
 
She was named Trish, went to Stanford medical school.
 
I thought everything was just fine between us, but then she got her degree, got an offer out at Johns Hopkins, and suddenly went through a pre-midlife crisis.”
 
He rattled off the facts like Jack Webb summarizing a Dragnet case.
 
“Changed her name to
Patrice
and moved to the East Coast where I hear she’s now bringing in about a hundred thousand a year.”
 
He sighed.
 
“Which comes out to about two dollars an hour, judging from the amount of time she spends at the hospital.”

At the shallow end of the pool a swimming lesson had started.
 
A group of young children splashed and squealed, while their instructor seemed in love with his high-pitched whistle.

Hanging onto the smooth wall of the pool, Craig caught himself and swallowed.
 
“I generally make it a policy not to talk about old girlfriends, especially not with another lady present.”

Paige eyed him, and her deep blue eyes seemed like polished sapphires in contrast to the color of the swimming pool.
 
“Is that an FBI rule, part of your training?”

Craig shook his head.
 
“No, just common sense.”

The line of conversation made him uncomfortable, though, and he tried to steer toward a safer subject.
 
“So. . .I’ve been thinking about the case.”
 
His clumsy diversion was so blatant that Paige blinked at him in disbelief.

“I went to see Aragon at his home again last night,” Craig pushed on.
 
“He’s still on a lot of pain killers, but he made the connection right away in his mind when I told him that Michaelson had died from a fatal dose of HF—the same acid that had been spilled all over his own hands.

“You should have seen how defensive he became.
 
I get the impression Aragon is usually a mellow sort of guy, always wants to be friends with everyone, disregards problems and conflicts. . .but as soon as he put together in his mind that he might be a murder suspect, he started pointing those bandaged fingers as hard as he could.”

Paige frowned.
 
Together they slowly swam toward the shallow end of the pool.
 
“Who did he blame?”

“Well, Aragon says Gary Lesserec should be our prime suspect.
 
Michaelson died in the VR chamber after all, and Lesserec’s the one who spends most of his time there.”

Paige reached shallow enough water to stand up.
 
She waded over to the steps.
 
“Not too convincing,” she said.

Craig followed her.
 
“Well, he pointed out something I didn’t know before, though.
 
Apparently Michaelson stole a bunch of Lesserec’s ideas, took them as his own when he pitched his International Verification Initiative.
 
Lesserec claims he just wants to work on the project, that Michaelson could have the glory and the controversy.
 
But Aragon doesn’t think Lesserec was satisfied with that after all.”

“And there’s that memo in Michaelson’s desk, posting Lesserec’s position,” Paige reminded him.
 
“I wonder if Lesserec even knew about it?”

She climbed out of the pool and stood glistening and dripping in the sunshine.
 
Craig stared at how the droplets played on the ripples of her back.
 
Paige turned and furrowed her brow.
 
“Makes sense to consider him a suspect.”

“I have to agree,” Craig said.
 
“But then, I can’t stand Gary Lesserec, and I would take a greater pleasure in finding him guilty than somebody else.”

“Not a very professional attitude,” Paige said.

“Tell me about it.
 
So, Lesserec had access to the VR chamber, and we know Aragon was somehow in contact with hydrofluoric acid—but Lesserec was also doing prep work in the Plutonium Facility.
 
And someone named Diana is leaving threatening messages on Michaelson’s answering machine.”

“The plot thickens,” Paige said.

“And time grows short,” Craig answered.
 
“I want to check out those places around the site Michaelson visited before he died.
 
Can I get in to them today?”

Craig stood beside her, shivering, as Paige handed him a towel.
 
In the other corner of the shallow end, the group of kids held their noses and practiced putting their faces in the water.
 
The instructor blew his whistle again for the mere effect.