Quantico. Greg Bear
that, for old printers?’ he asked.
Botnik gave Rose a hard stare.
‘I can’t see it,’ Gerber said. ‘Too many holes. I think we have drug runners getting creative. Maybe this time, the escort vehicle carried both contraband and jamming equipment, with the International truck, full of a dummy load, acting as decoy. Hell, you could pack ten million dollars worth of Tart in a suitcase. Maybe Porter saw the printers, surmised the rig wasn’t carrying, and went after the jammer. That explains the tire tracks.’
‘Then why would the driver of the rig light out?’ Rose asked. ‘Why not just stay put, act innocent, plead to a misdemeanor and get a ticket?’
Because he did not want anyone to learn about his printers.
The bastard knows I’m looking for him.
‘I believe in the competence of our patrol officers,’ Gerber said, his face flushed. ‘We’re done here, Agent Rose.’
‘Mm hmm.’ Rose knelt in the gravel and rocks and looked hard at the ground around the knee imprint and the toe mark. Didn’t feel right torching an officer. What sort of smuggler…?
A former cop?
Rose pictured the driver of the International biting on his glove’s fingers to pull it off. It could have dangled from his teeth as he fired at Porter. She got down on her hands and knees. Urban cops tended to wear close-weave protected gloves, to reduce the chances of cuts or needle pricks during pat-downs. Many wore Turtleskins. Rose preferred Friskmasters. ‘Did anybody find a glove?’ she asked.
‘No, ma’am,’ Gerber said.
Rebecca measured the distance between the toe marks. A smooth stone in just the right place had been pressed down and twisted, the dirt scrunched up around its perimeter. She picked it up. A fleashit speck of rain-washed blood had fallen on the tumbled-smooth surface. She palmed the stone, and then saw another drop of blood, unmistakable, on a pebble nested in a patch of sand. ‘Something here,’ she said. The young analysts joined her in the ditch. As they worked over the area, she pocketed the larger rock, unseen.
‘Could be a ground squirrel or a coyote,’ Gerber said with a sniff.
‘I’d like to be copied on any human DNA results.’
‘Of course.’ Gerber knelt beside her. ‘It’s a golden age of cooperation.’
Botnik walked beside Rose back to the Suburban. ‘Gerber’s a good guy. He won’t stand in our way if we need something. And don’t get me wrong. If Hiram Newsome shows an interest in inkjet printers, I’ll be there for you with bells on.’
‘Thanks,’ Rose said. ‘Has your Minitest been certified recently?’
‘Not in the last month,’ Botnik said.
‘Can I borrow a plastic bag?’
One of the young agents gave her a baggie. She pulled the rock from her pocket and slipped it into the baggie, inspecting it to make sure the blood speck was still there.
‘Jesus,’ Botnik said, and whapped the steering wheel with his hand. ‘This is just the kind of federal arrogance that’s killing us.’
‘They have blood evidence, we have blood evidence,’ Rose said, deadpan. ‘Pima County ME lost its board certification again last year. Arizona CID is backed up for days or even weeks. And you haven’t even primed your Minitest. What’s a poor girl to do?’
Botnik turned a fine ruddy shade. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘You’ve got it figured out. But you still have a problem. You still have to learn where the suspect was going. Maybe somebody around here can help. To that end, I’m hoping you’ll spread at least a little enlightenment.’
‘Thanks again,’ Rose said. ‘But we have reasons to keep it quiet.’
‘Quiet?’ Botnik chuckled. ‘This is the worst-kept secret in the FBI. It’s got something to do with Amerithrax. The only question I have is, what the hell’s the connection?’
Rose took a shallow breath.
‘I do crossword puzzles,’ she said. ‘Sometimes, when I can’t solve one right away, I put it aside. Some of my puzzles have been waiting for years.’
‘Secrecy is most of why we’re boots up in a pile of shit,’ Botnik said. ‘What if there’s another anthrax attack and you could have prevented it by sharing?’
Rose stared straight ahead.
‘Is there going to be another attack?’ Botnik asked.
She climbed into the truck. The WAGD in her pocket buzzed. No squeeee of alarm, just a little warning buzz: all done. ‘Keep the rest of the boxes sealed and make sure nobody pokes around the open ones. Take along a HAZMAT team. I’d like a thorough fingerprint check and PCR on all of them. If HAZMAT clears them, I’d like them quietly removed from state jurisdiction and impounded as federal terrorist evidence. Send them on to Frank Chao at Quantico.’
Botnik shrugged. ‘You got it.’ The two field agents climbed into the seats behind.
‘You’re investigating jammers, right?’ Rose asked.
‘We are,’ Botnik said.
‘What priority?’
‘Moderate.’
‘Push it higher. Let’s spread the theory that jammers might have killed Porter. And if you find our particular jammer, let me know.’
‘Anything to help.’
The sun was coming up. ‘Could we drive west for a few miles?’ Rose asked. ‘Slowly. Before we return to Tucson.’
‘I hear and obey,’ Botnik said, and salaamed lightly over the steering wheel. ‘Looking for something in particular?’
‘Just being thorough.’ She leaned her head back, mouth gaping, pulled down one eyelid with a finger, and deposited a drop of Visine. She treated the other eye, returned the Visine to her coat, and removed the marker-sized analyzer. Reading small print was becoming harder and harder. The narrow LCD panel flashed happy zeroes. No WAGD biohazards were on the printer or inside the box. No anthrax. She hadn’t really expected any. They wouldn’t use the printers and then pack them up and ship them. Nobody was that stupid—nobody still alive.
Half a mile down the road, she spotted something crumpled and black on the gravel shoulder. Botnik stopped to let her retrieve it.
‘Hatch Friskmaster, right hand,’ she said as she climbed back into the Suburban. Botnik pulled out another Baggie. She slipped it in and he sealed it.
The earnest agent sitting directly behind her looked impressed. He held up a Thermos. ‘Coffee?’
‘Christ, no thanks,’ she said briskly, her cheeks flushed. ‘I’d jump out of my skin.’
Her slate buzzed in her pocket and she jerked. Botnik lifted the corners of his lips. ‘Just like that,’ she said, then answered the slate.
‘Rebecca, it’s News.’ Hiram Newsome—News to friends and close associates—was Assistant Director of Training Division at Quantico. He had taught Rebecca most of what she knew and had long supported her work on this unfinished puzzle. ‘Tell Botnik to haul your ass back to Tucson. I’ve chartered you a jet to Seattle. Someone’s been ordering medical equipment they have no honest use for. I’ve told Griff you’re coming in. He’s irritated, of course.’
‘Erwin Griffin?’
‘The same. Play nice, Rebecca.’
‘Always,’ Rebecca said.