SINdrome Read online

“Oh, baby!” she squealed. Squealed. Hernandez. It took every ounce of control to keep my head down as she pulled me forward. I really wanted to see the look on her face. “I’m just so fucking happy to be buying a home in the suburbs.”

  She towed me out onto the street, emerging from the woods with confidence as if it was an everyday event, making a beeline for the nearest sidewalk and picking a direction. The second we were in the open, I started to feel the cold tingle of fear run up and down my spine. The sun was shining, birds were chirping, and I could literally hear children playing in the streets, but I was still creeped the fuck out. Walking down the open road when you were at the top of not only the government’s fugitive list, but probably several corporate hit lists as well was…uncomfortable. It was made all the worse by the fact that my head-down pose afforded me only about ten feet of forward visibility, and beyond those few feet, I had no idea what was coming for me. I felt my muscles tensing as my body started to go into fight or flight mode.

  “Will you fucking relax?” Hernandez growled from my side. “I’m going to have a hard time smiling if you break my hand.”

  I realized that my hand, along with everything else, had been tensing, and I now had a white-knuckled grip on Hernandez. “Sorry,” I muttered. I drew a deep breath and tried to force some of the tension from my body as I exhaled. It didn’t work, but at least I loosened my death grip on Hernandez.

  I focused my attention on what little my limited field of vision offered. The houses were nice, beautiful really. Monsters of brick and siding that, taken individually, wouldn’t have looked out of place on some mythical country estate. That effect was killed by the fact that they were close enough together that if you managed to lean far enough out the window, you could probably touch your neighbor’s house. It also took only a minute or so of walking to realize that the entire community had been built using three floorplans. There were small variations, of course, little cosmetic changes that gave a brief illusion of individuality, but the bones of the houses were all the same.

  “Getting close, now,” Hernandez muttered, and the low buzz of stress in her voice brought me back to what we were doing.

  I felt like an idiot. Sure, Hernandez was leading, and sure, I was watching our surroundings—to the limits of my vision, anyway—but I’d lost sight of what we were actually doing here. This wasn’t a stroll through suburbia. I should have been trying to figure out where the hell Dr. Larkin lived. Hernandez was on the job though. Our arbitrary turn out of the woods seemed to have been in the right direction, and she’d been leading me down turns and cross streets for a few minutes. We’d arrived, I noted, at a cul-de-sac, and the little shiny numbers on the mailboxes were lining up with the street address we had on Larkin.

  Hernandez had slowed a bit, not enough to be obvious, but enough to buy us a few more seconds of time before the house was in front of us. “How do you want to play this?” she asked.

  We’d done what little homework we could on Larkin. She was twice-divorced. One kid from the first marriage, off at college somewhere out of state. No known live-in love interests. Parents deceased. She seemed to spend most of her time at work, and there was a good chance, early as it was, that that was exactly where she was right now. The house should be empty. If we could get in without raising any alarms and be waiting for Larkin when she returned home… But we couldn’t know for certain that the house was empty, and breaking into an occupied home could lead to all sorts of unpleasantness.

  On the other hand, Dr. Larkin was unlikely to open her door to a pair of strangers. If she recognized me, that went from unlikely to snowball’s chance in hell. Hernandez still had one advantage working for her. If she was willing to use it.

  “Knock and talk?” I suggested. “If anyone’s home, I mean. If not, we try to bypass whatever security’s in place and wait.”

  I could feel the tension ratchet up a notch as she squeezed my hand almost to the point of pain. “Dammit,” she muttered. She didn’t say anything after that, but she didn’t have to. A “knock and talk” was a common investigative technique where cops would knock on a person of interest’s door and request consent for a search. Or, barring that, just try to get some information. It worked more often than you might think.

  One thing that a knock and talk absolutely required, though, was identifying yourself as a police officer. If even half the help Hernandez had given us to date was revealed, she’d be stripped of her badge faster than you could say the words, and, at this point, probably put in a cell to boot. But despite that she still thought of herself as a cop, and using the knock and talk as a prelude to a push-in assault had to stick in her craw. Hell, any push-in assault had to stick in her craw, but we had a job to do.

  She sighed. “Okay. If we have to, we have to. But we go on my lead. If she is home, and we can talk ourselves in, we do it that way. And we talk first, hermano.”

  I nodded, though, gun to my head, I wasn’t holding my breath that this would end without violence. The woman I remembered from the Walton Biogenics lab didn’t seem the type to roll over from a stern talking to. “Understood,” I said. “But… Hernandez… If it looks like she’s going to bolt or scream or trigger some kind of alarm, we have to take her down hard. We’ve only got one shot, here.”

  She nodded, and picked up the pace, pulling me once more toward Larkin’s house.

  It was a monster. Three stories of red brick and beige composite siding crouched on the end of a cul-de-sac like some sort of fat suburban gargoyle. There wasn’t much to the ultra-modern style of it that I found alluring—it seemed all hard lines and right angles. Even the four-hipped roof, bereft of gable ends or any real architectural flair, seemed cold and functional. Maybe I was seeing the owner—or Walton Biogenics—in the house itself, but the whole thing felt empty and soulless to me.

  As we reached the door, I kept my head low. Every house had security cameras. Hell, the neighbors probably had cameras pointed at the houses all around them, just to make sure they could see the latest bit of hullabaloo.

  Hernandez released my hand as we climbed the stairs. I flexed my fingers, then shifted my weight, feeling the uncomfortable heft of the pistol moving in one pocket and the baton in the other. I really needed to get a proper holster and belt.

  Hernandez took up a position in front of the door, in full view of the security camera nestled at about eye-level. I moved as my training dictated, stacking up to the right side of the frame, where there was a little more space and cover. The tactical flexibility was hindered by the fact that I was still having to keep my head low, but if the fecal matter hit the rotary air impeller, I’d at least be in place to support Hernandez. She gave me a glance with a lifted eyebrow, and I nodded in return. She raised her hand and knocked, three quick, hard bangs.

  After those raps, we immediately stilled, ears straining, listening for any hint of what might be headed our way. No dog started barking—always a good sign. You never knew how a dog would react to a stranger, but if things went sideways, I wasn’t sure I could drop the hammer on a mutt. People, yes. Dogs? Not so much. After maybe fifteen seconds, we heard the sound of footsteps.

  I pressed myself tighter against the wall, and tucked my chin deeper into my chest. It limited my field of vision further, but I didn’t want to risk any chance of Larkin seeing me. If she did, I suspected our knock and talk would become a kick and scream.

  The door swung open. From my vantage, I could only see the bottom third of it, which presented me with a view of jean-clad legs that could have belonged to damn near anyone. But I recognized the voice at once. “Yes? Can I help you?” It was that same calm, controlled voice that had managed to hold it together at gunpoint.

  Hernandez flashed her badge. “New Lyons Police Department, ma’am,” she said, voice brisk. I thought of it as “business cop” voice. Most of us had three: nice cop for talking to victims and kids; business cop for witnesses; and authorita
tive cop for when you needed the bad guy to do what you said. “We need to ask you a few questions related to a recent break-in at Walton Biogenics.”

  A long silence followed. I would have given a lot for a glimpse of Larkin’s face, the set of her shoulders, anything other than the tennis shoes on her feet. You couldn’t read much in a person’s reactions from the knees down. Neither Hernandez nor I tried to breach the silence—sometimes it was best to let the interviewee stew. “But,” Larkin said at last, “I thought I’d already given you people everything you needed. The other detective… Fortier...? said the matter was closed.”

  I ground my teeth at the mention of Francois Fortier and his smug piggy face. If there was any karma in the universe, before this was all over, I’d get a chance to have a conversation with him. By hand, preferably.

  “Of course, ma’am,” Hernandez was saying. “But there have been a few developments, as I’m sure you know.”

  “Campbell escaped,” Larkin said. I was expecting—and dreading—the fear in her tone. But it wasn’t there. She sounded just as calm, just as conversational as she had when she’d opened the door. “I suppose you can come in.” The door swung the rest of the way inward, and the pair of legs moved back into the hallway.

  “Thank you, Dr. Larkin,” Hernandez said as she stepped forward first. I realized that we hadn’t planned out what happened next. I hadn’t expected Larkin to be home at all, not late in the afternoon on a workday.

  As we entered the house, I reached across and grabbed the door, swinging it shut behind me. The click of the latch seemed to echo in the foyer.

  “You may as well take off that ridiculous hat, Mr. Campbell,” Larkin said as I turned back toward her and Hernandez.

  Chapter 10

  My hand dropped to my pocket, digging into it with an awkward shove that had me cursing the lack of a proper holster. Even as I was scrambling for my weapon, I was moving to the left, only stopping when my shoulder bumped the wall of the entryway. Hernandez had moved right, clearing my line of fire, and her weapon was already in hand. I tore the rain hat from my head as I struggled to clear my own firearm.

  Dr. Larkin stood before us, hands upraised. She looked a little less calm as Hernandez leveled her weapon at the woman and I finally managed to bring my pistol to bear. She also seemed different, somehow, from when I’d last seen her. The power suit had been replaced with a pair of blue jeans and a Tulane University sweatshirt, and her hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail. There was a puffiness about her eyes, and lines on her face that I hadn’t noticed. She looked sadder, older. She looked more human, somehow. That would only make things harder.

  “Keep your hands where I can see them,” Hernandez barked, slipping into authoritative cop mode.

  “This isn’t necessary,” Larkin replied, though she did, I noted, keep her hands where they were and stay very still. “I don’t know why you’re here, but I have no intention of resisting. I wouldn’t have let you in if I did.” The hint of a smile flicked across her face, nothing more than a momentary upturn of the corners of her mouth. “Mr. Campbell’s disguise might fool the cameras, but I knew at a glance who he was. You don’t forget someone who sticks a gun in your face.”

  I winced. This was the second time I was sticking a gun in her face, and while she may be complicit on some level with the goings-on at Walton Biogenics, I had no proof of her personal involvement in any of it. Proof didn’t have to matter, I supposed—I wasn’t a cop, and I wasn’t headed to court. But it still did matter. At least to me.

  Hernandez, whatever her stance on proof, was putting safety first, and while I had a more difficult time being hard-hearted to women, my partner didn’t. “Shut up,” she said. “And back up.” Through the hallway, the house opened into a great room, where a large, overstuffed sectional sat. “Back toward the couch. Is there anyone else in the house? Any alarms that you triggered? I swear to god, chica, you’d better tell me the truth, or things are going to go very badly for you.” Larkin’s calm slipped a bit at that, and I couldn’t blame her. Hernandez’s tone was so cold that the temperature in the room dropped a few degrees.

  “No. No one’s here. No alarms.” The words were clipped and a little breathy. I could see a wildness starting to rise in Larkin’s eyes, kind of like the look a deer got when it realized it was actually in danger and it was trying to decide on fight or flight. It was interesting that I hadn’t been able to get that reaction out of her, even when Al’awwal and I were holding her at gunpoint, but Hernandez had managed it with a few words and a harsh tone.

  “If you cooperate, you’ll be fine,” I added, hoping to calm her down. I didn’t say that she wouldn’t be hurt. That would only spook her more. Besides, I didn’t want to make any promises that I wasn’t sure I could keep.

  We had arrived in the living room, and Hernandez kept Larkin covered as the doctor edged around the couch and, at a flick of the pistol from Hernandez, dropped into a seat. Hernandez settled into a chair, easing her service weapon into her lap, but not, I noted, holstering up. I dropped the borrowed nine-millimeter back into my pocket—after making sure the hammer was down and the weapon was safed. I took my own seat at the other end of the sectional, so I was looking at Larkin across the coffee table.

  “You haven’t freaked out yet,” I said. “Why not?”

  She was still eyeing Hernandez askance, not focused on the gun, but rather on my partner’s cold-eyed stare. At my words she glanced away, dropping her gaze to the plush carpet beneath our feet. “I…” She hesitated. Her hands came into her lap, one gripping the other, wringing and twisting. “I…may have been wrong. About Walton Biogenics.”

  Hernandez snorted. “You think?”

  The sudden exclamation reminded Larkin of the woman with the gun, and her eyes snapped back to watching and monitoring what she perceived as the real threat. “Why the change of heart?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “I got copies of the information you released. And… I watched you turn yourself in. It made me think that if nothing else, you had to believe what you were saying, if you were willing to go to prison just to get it in front of everyone’s eyes.” She met my gaze, but only for a moment, then her stare went back to Hernandez. And her gun. “So I started reading through Dr. Kaphiri’s research.” She fell silent. I could tell she wanted to keep going, that she was struggling with something. Her breathing had become a little ragged and the set of her shoulders had tightened.

  Do enough interrogations, and you get a feel for when a suspect is about to talk. Sometimes, they need a little push to get the words out. Other times, that push will have the exact opposite effect, and set back the entire process. Larkin wanted to talk, needed to talk. And I could tell that she would get there on her own, that pushing her would only slow things down. I shot a quick look at Hernandez, who gave me the barest of nods. She saw it, too.

  The silence stretched on for a few more moments, and then Dr. Larkin’s hands stilled. Her breathing slowed. Decision reached, she opened her mouth to talk.

  And the reflection of a red dot fluoresced against the wallscreen.

  Chapter 11

  I reacted on instinct, hurling myself bodily across the coffee table while simultaneously shouting, “Down!” toward Hernandez. She didn’t even hesitate, rolling out of the chair to the floor even as her weapon came up and to the ready. I hit Larkin—hard—and the two of us went over the back of the couch. I landed on top of her, but the whoosh of the breath leaving her as my weight crushed down was drowned out by the muffled crack of gunfire and the tinkling of shattering glass.

  “Fuck!” Hernandez snapped. I’d ended up behind the couch so I couldn’t see her, but I heard her shuffling along the floor, presumably moving into a position with more cover. “You hit?” she asked.

  “Negative,” I replied.

  “Larkin?”

  I wasn’t sure. I looked down at the woman who, I re
alized, I was still lying on top of. Her eyes were wide in shock but I couldn’t see any blood. I rolled off her, doing my damnedest to stay below the line of the sectional. “You okay?” I asked.

  She was gasping a bit, like a landed fish. “Wind. Knocked. Out of. Me,” she gasped. But even as she struggled to find breath, she was running her hands over her body, looking for holes. Satisfied that there weren’t any, she went back to concentrating on breathing.

  “We’re okay,” I shouted back to Hernandez. “Situation?” As I asked the question, I struggled again with the nine-millimeter in my pocket, finally getting a good grip on it and yanking it out. I heard a tearing as the stitching gave way. Good. Stupid pocket, anyway.

  “No fucking idea,” was Hernandez’s reply.

  No more shots had come our way. I ran the scenarios in my head. If the shooter was using a laser, they were close. Too close. Probably within a house or two. Too many obstructed sightlines for anything else. They could be waiting, hoping for someone to pop a head up to present a nice, juicy target. Or they could be on their way in right now, alone or with a group of friends. Either way, this had just turned from an interrogation into a rescue mission.

  “Gotta be Walton,” I said.

  “Yup,” was Hernandez’s succinct reply. “You need to find a better spot, Campbell,” she said. “Looks like the shooter is somewhere west of us, but if there’s more than one, or if they move, you’ve got too damn many windows.”

  I glanced around. Behind me, the great room opened into a kitchen, where cabinets that I assumed were full of bullet-deflecting pots and pans offered the tantalizing promise of safety. The couch was in front of me, beyond which was a wall with a pair of large windows. To my left, another exterior wall of the house, this one opening to the back yard and boasting a broad sliding glass door that, at the moment, had a wonderful view of both me and Dr. Larkin. And probably Hernandez, too. To my right, the hallway we entered through extended, traveling in a nice straight line to the front door. I hadn’t gotten hit in the first spray of bullets, but any bad guys inbound would have a good time of it. Couldn’t have that.