Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (137 page)

“Good idea.”

“We got lucky this time, guys—we might have caught it before the main event. But you'd better find the people behind this before they try it again.”

“We think we know who's behind it,” Macy said.

“Who?”

“A Russian named Yuri Semchenko. The State Department's been keeping an eye on him for some time now. He's one of the richest men in the world and the largest landholder in Russia. He's a corn farmer, Nick—he's determined to make Russia the world's leading exporter of corn, and we think this is how he's been planning to do it.”

“Can you prove Semchenko's behind it?”

“Not yet. That could be very difficult.”

“He must have had people working for him here in the States,” Nick said. “If you can find them, they might implicate their boss.”

“We think we might know one of them,” Donovan said.

“Who?”

“Pasha Semenov.”

“
What?
”

“We just got word about Semenov through the Legat in Moscow. Semchenko doesn't have any children, but it turns out he has a godson—a kid he took off the streets and raised himself. He let the kid keep his own last name—that's why we didn't know about him right away. He was probably trying to protect him; a man as powerful as Semchenko has a few enemies. The Legat couldn't find any public records on Semenov—no birth record, no employment history, no military service. The Legat thinks Semchenko might have pulled the records to keep the kid invisible. We thought we'd hit a dead end, but then I remembered that tattoo you mentioned—a blue rose, you said. I thought it sounded like a prison tattoo, so I asked them to go back and check criminal records. I was right. Russian prison gangs are very big on tattoos—it's sort of an initiation ritual and roses are very common. They burn the heel of a shoe to make soot and they mix it with urine—then they inject it with a sharpened guitar string attached to an electric razor. Sounds real sanitary, doesn't it?”

“Donovan, are you sure about all this?”

“We know that Semenov was convicted for aggravated assault on his girlfriend and sentenced to three years in a prison called the White Swan. We also know that Semchenko pulled some strings to get him out because Semchenko's name was on the release papers. Semchenko and Semenov are basically family—if Semchenko had anything to do with this corn toxin thing, his godson might be able to tell us. Semenov might have even been involved personally—we won't know until we pick him up and talk to him. I'm heading back to NC State now.”

Nick was silent—his mind was racing.

“Nick—you still there?”

“Grab Semenov,” Nick said. “Don't let him get away, Donovan. He's the guy—he's been behind all of this.”

“How do you know?”

“That zip gun,” Nick said. “Prisoners use them too.”

43

N
ick dropped the phone in the passenger seat. Now it all made sense; it was all dropping into place like the final pieces of a puzzle.
Pasha Semenov was the man who killed Michael Severenson—Semenov or someone who worked for him. He was the supplier. Maybe Severenson contacted him when he received the moldy marijuana—maybe he wanted his money back. Semenov probably visited him at his farm just to recover the marijuana—just to see how the hornworms held up in shipping.But it was too late—Severenson had already thrown the moldy marijuana into his field, and Pasha had no way to retrieve his specimens. There was a conflict. Maybe Pasha got angry when he realized what Severenson had done, or maybe he just realized that Severenson was emotionally unstable and there was no telling what he might do next—so he chased him into his tomato fields and put two bullets in his back. That's why Pasha asked if I'd teach him about forensic entomology—he heard me mention the murder at the grad student reception. He adjusted the temperature on the rearing chamber to purposely throw off the PMI—to make sure the police would never consider him a suspect. Nice work, Nick—all this time looking for a killer and he's been right under your nose.

Nick caught a glimpse of a green-and-white highway sign as it shot by: next exit 7 miles. He had a couple of minutes; he grabbed the phone and tried Kathryn's number again.

Still no signal.

He tried Alena's number and the call went through.

The voice that answered sounded hollow and strained and Nick could hear gusts of wind buffeting the phone. “Nick—is that you?”

“Alena, where are you?”

“I'm standing in the middle of a godforsaken tomato field. Did you really have to ask?”

“What are you doing out there? It's almost dark and there's a storm coming.”

“Hey, thanks for the weather report. You'd be a handy guy to have around—if you ever were around, which you're not.”

“I need to talk to Kathryn.”

“What?”

“Her phone doesn't work—I have to tell her something.”

“I thought you weren't allowed to talk to her.”

“Things have changed. Is she there?”

“Let me get this straight: You don't call me for days at a time—you leave me standing in the middle of a tomato field tying up vines and picking off suckers because I ran out of things to do a week ago—and then when you finally do call it's only to pass a message on to your other girlfriend?”

“I'd rather speak to her in person. Can you give her the phone?”

“Nick, I swear I'm going to kill you.”

“You can kill me later—first I have to talk to Kathryn.”

“Well, you can't—she's not here.”

“Where is she?”

“She's out having fun—something I should be doing instead of waiting for a stupid bug man to turn into a human being.”

“Would you stop whining and tell me where she is?”

“She's on a date, okay? I'm watching Callie for her.”

“A
date
?”

“Yeah, it's a custom we humans have. I guess they don't do that in your world.”

“A date with who?”

“I don't know. Some guy named Stefan—he stopped by a few days ago. He was hot—I wonder what he's doing tomorrow night?”

“What do you mean he ‘stopped by'? What was he doing there?”

“Hey, wait a minute—are you jealous?”

“I just want to know where she went, that's all. I need to talk to her.”

“Why, that sneaky little . . . She's doing the same thing she told me to do! She went out with another guy to make you jealous and she stuck me with babysitting her daughter to help her do it. Of all the nerve!”

“Alena—where did they go?”

“How would I know? Some restaurant—hopefully someplace where they don't serve tomatoes.”

“I have to reach her. I know who killed her husband.”

Nick heard a click and a buzzing sound. “Alena—are you there?”

There was no response. He looked at the cell phone's LCD—it said no signal. He tried the number again.

Nothing.

He saw the exit approaching and pulled over. He was less than fifteen minutes from Sampson County and he was dying to tell Kathryn the news—but the most important thing right now was to make sure the FBI took Pasha Semenov into custody.

He crossed the overpass, turned left, and headed back toward NC State.

44

W
hen the thunder rumbled, the wall sconces flickered and went out. The only light left in the restaurant was from the glowing orange candles at each of the white-draped tables.

“There goes the power again,” Kathryn said. “That's the third time. Maybe we should go—I didn't think the storm would come in this fast.”

“It isn't even raining yet,” Pasha said. “Never mind the power. You look lovely by candlelight, and I look better in the dark.”

Kathryn forced a smile.

“You have a very nice smile,” Pasha said. “It lights up the room.”

“Then you'd better keep entertaining me,” Kathryn said. “We might need the light.”

“I'll do my best. Now then—you were telling me about your childhood.”

“No more about me,” she said. “What about you?”

Pasha shrugged. “There isn't much to tell. As I said, I was born and raised in Romania.”

“Do you think you'll go back someday?”

“I hope to—with my beautiful American wife.”

“How's that going for you?”

He smiled. “I'm making progress.”

“You know, your English is very good.”

“Thank you. I attended university here in the States.”

“I'm glad you haven't lost your accent yet. It sounds kind of . . . mysterious.”

“You find my accent mysterious?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Then I will stop working on my English.”

A powerful gust of wind rocked the restaurant, rattling the front windows in their frames. The lights flickered on for a few seconds and then the room went dark again.

“That reminds me,” Kathryn said. “I need to ask you a business question.”

“Oh?”

“Those bugs you put out in my fields—what did you call them again?”

“
Trichogramma pretiosum
—a species of parasitic wasp.”

“Well, the wind seems to be blowing them everywhere. Is that okay?”

Pasha smiled. “That is what I expected.”

“I guess I'm still not clear on how this whole thing works.”

“It's simple really. Our wasps lay their eggs inside the eggs of other insects.”

“Like my tobacco hornworms.”

“Yes. When the wasp egg hatches the larva feeds on the hornworm egg—that kills the harmful hornworm. After eight to ten days an adult wasp emerges from the hornworm egg. The wasp then mates and begins to search for other hornworm eggs and the cycle begins again. At my insectary we breed Mediterranean flour moths—what you might call a simple ‘pantry moth.' We gather their eggs and expose them to our adult wasps. The
Trichogramma
lay their eggs inside the moth eggs, and we place the moth eggs in your fields.”

“Some of the wasps are blowing over into my neighbor's cornfields. Will that be a problem?”

“His corn has insect pests as well—corn borers, for example. The wasps will be attracted to them and kill them. He should thank you.”

“That's not likely.”

“Not to worry. We expect the wasps to be carried by the wind—that's why we place so many.”

“How did you ever end up in the insect business, Stefan?”

“
End up
—you make it sound so final.”

“This isn't your career then?”

“I hope to do many things in my lifetime. What about you?”

“I have a farm and a daughter,” she said. “I have a feeling I've settled down.”

“You're much too young. Tell me, do you enjoy travel?”

“I wouldn't know—I've never been out of North Carolina. I think I'd love it.”

“What prevents you?”

“Money. Time. Responsibilities.”

“These things can all be remedied.”

“Easier said than done.”

“What you need is a travel companion. Someone with time and money—someone to share the world with.”

“Sounds terrific. When do we leave?”

“December would work for me. I have a month before the spring term.”

Kathryn stopped. “Stefan—I was only kidding.”

“I wasn't. I have time and money—and I would like very much to have someone to share the world with.”

“Look—I told you about my husband.”

“Yes, and another man as well—a boyfriend.”

She looked at him. “Did I say I have a boyfriend?”

He paused. “How else would I know?”

“I don't remember mentioning that.”

“A woman as beautiful as you—I just assumed.”

The thunder boomed again and shook the restaurant. Kathryn looked out the window. The sky was black now, and flashes of lightning made the rolling clouds look like X-ray images.

“Stefan—I wonder if you'd mind taking me home.”

“I've offended you.”

“No, that's not it. My daughter doesn't like storms—the thunder really frightens her, and I should get back.”

“I will take you home on one condition,” he said.

“What's that?”

“Since our evening has been cut short, you must invite me in for a drink. It's only fair.”