Chimera (33 page)

“No, I didn’t” Renwick admitted as they walked down the hallway toward the criminalistics exam room.
 
“Sounds like an expensive option.
 
The Service makes us rent compact cars with no frills.
 
God knows what we’d have to do if we lost our keys.
 
Probably have to walk.”

“Exactly,” Bulatt said, nodding.
 
“Which reminds me, do you remember that big case that one of our special ops agents — Henry Lightstone — worked last year?
 
The one where we asked you to track back on the country and population source of a bunch of hairy-legged critters?”

“I think it’s safe to say the entire lab is aware of that case,” Renwick said, “mostly due to reoccurring nightmares.”

“You guys ever get the genetics worked out?”

“I don’t think so.
 
Too many other higher priority issues; although I’ll bet if you took a vote amongst the lab staff —”

“So they’re still here?”

“Every one of the damned things; in their own tanks, and locked securely in the bug room.
 
Or at least we assume they’re all there.
 
I seriously doubt that anyone’s gone back there to take a count, except for the university kid we hired to do the feeding.”
 
Renwick gave Bulatt a questioning look.
 
“Why, are you thinking about taking them with you?”

“Yeah,” Bulatt said.
 
“That’s exactly what I was thinking about.”

*
   
*
   
*

Conference Room, National Fish & Wildlife Forensics Lab

Twenty minutes later, when Bulatt walked back into the lab conference room with a large cardboard box in his hand, he found Donn Renwick, Steve Hager, Juliana Ferreira, Linda Reston and her twin sons waiting for him.
 
The boys were now sitting extremely close to Achara at the far end of the table, and pointing out something on a computer screen.

“Things are about to get interesting,” Bulatt said as he carefully placed the box on the floor and then sat down in the one empty chair.

“You mean more interesting than assaulting federal agents, and stuffing them in the back of a SUV?” Reston inquired.

“I think so,” Bulatt said, nodding.

“Before you tell us why that might be the case, maybe we should fill you in on a few things first,” Renwick suggested.

“Sure,” Bulatt said agreeably.
 
“Go ahead.”

“I’ll start,” Ferreira said.
 
“The tissue under the jacketing of that bullet is definitely from a Clouded Leopard.
 
I confirmed that with the mass-spec a few minutes ago.
 
I don’t know if it’s been genetically altered, like the other two; but I should know more about that by tomorrow afternoon.”

“And we’ve gotten three hits out of NIBIN on the cartridge casing,” Renwick said.
 
“one out of Russia, one out of Alaska, and one out of South Africa; all within the last two years.
 
No suspects, but a lot of scene evidence that we can try to link up.”

“Any hits on the bullet?” Bulatt asked.

“No, just the casing, so far.”

“Okay, that still fits the wealthy international hunting pattern,” Bulatt said, nodding.
 
“Anything else?”

“Just one minor thing,” Hager said. “We got a match on the print.”

“You — what?!”
 
Bulatt’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“Michael Hateley.
 
Fifty-five year old Caucasian male, CEO of a major defense industry subcontracting firm in Denver, busted for drunk-and-disorderly and assaulting a police officer in Anchorage thirty-four years ago,” Hager said, reading from his notes.
 
“That’s where the computer found a set of his prints.
 
Based on his reported blood alcohol level, he probably didn’t even remember having his prints taken.”

“Are you absolutely sure about the match?” Bulatt said in a hushed voice.

“Ninety-eight percent confirmation by the system, which is as high as the software is programmed to go.
 
I’ll have a copy of the original prints faxed to us tomorrow morning, so I can make the final confirmation under a glass; but, yeah, odds are extremely high that he’s the guy who put his thumb on that two-four-three casing.
 
Unfortunately, I don’t think that solves your problem.”

Bulatt blinked in sudden realization.

“Shit, you can’t match the casing to the bullet with the Clouded Leopard tissue, can you?”

“No, we can’t,” Renwick said.
 
‘We would have some arguable degree of probability if there were bullets collected from those Russia, Alaska and South African scenes; but the only thing they submitted were cartridge cases.”

“But you can still link those cartridges — and therefore the scenes — to Hateley’s rifle, can’t you?” Bulatt asked hesitantly.

“Very possibly,” Renwick agreed, “assuming he didn’t buy it from some other internationally-traveling hunter, which is exactly what his lawyer is going to claim.”

“And even if we can prove he bought the rifle two years ago, and didn’t lend it to anyone, he still could have been hunting at each of those locations the week — or month — before; which is something else his lawyer is likely to claim,” Hager added.

“And you can’t tell when those cartridges were fired?” Bulatt asked.

The two forensic scientists shook their heads.

“Shit,” Bulatt muttered to himself.
 
He stared down at the table, lost in thought for a few seconds.
 
Then his head suddenly snapped back up.

“Can we get a copy of Hateley’s mug shot from that Anchorage arrest; or, ideally, an updated photo,” Bulatt asked.

“We’re already working on it,” Achara said, looking up from the computer.
 
“The boys are digging into his Corporate website right now.
 
If they can find something —”

“Not ‘if’ — we
will
find something,” one of the identical twins said.
 
“No doubt about it.”

“Yeah, absolutely no doubt,” the other confirmed.

“You two just be careful where you dig; you know your limits,” Linda Reston warned her sons, and received a quick pair of “yes, moms.”

“Limits?” Bulatt asked quizzically.

“There are some relevant federal rules about hacking firewalls and private databases; and, contrary to my son’s opinions, the computers they’re using can be traced,” Reston said.
 
“Being the responsible parent, I’d like to keep them out of federal prison for a few more years.”

“Perfectly understandable,” Bulatt said absentmindedly as he looked around the conference room, grabbed a pad of paper, and began writing furiously.
 
After a minute or so, he tore the top sheet off the pad and handed it to Reston.
 
“Can you do any or all of that?” he asked.

Reston examined the block-printed notes.
 
“Satellite Security?”

“The window sticker on the rental car I smacked into claims it’s protected by their full system,” Bulatt explained.
 
“Why rent something like that for one car and not the others?”

Reston shrugged.
 
“I can check.
 
When do you need it?”

Bulatt looked at his watch.
 
“Is a half-hour asking too much?”

“Yes, it is, but I’m starting to enjoy this; so I’ll see what I can do,” Reston said after a moment’s hesitation.
 
Then she looked over at her twins.
 
“Can you keep an eye on those two while I try to get some work done?” she asked Achara, very much aware that the hormones of her sons were finally kicking into high gear.

“As long as I can stay awake, sure, no problem,” Achara said with a tired yawn, generating a pair of wide grins among her two charges.

“Actually,” Bulatt said, “I think I’m going to need Achara for a while; but I guess I could take the boys along too,” he offered.

“Absolutely not, they get enough free-wheeling inspiration from their father as it is,” Reston said emphatically.
 
“I’ll keep an eye on them; they can help me on the car registrations.”

The twins started to protest, but Bulatt cut in: “after that, Achara and I will be happy to take them out for all the pizza they can eat; but only if they manage to track down those links.”

“Going out for pizza afterwards is fine, just as long as their computers stay right here,” Reston reminded.

The promise of all the pizza they could eat while in the presence of an exotic woman like Captain Achara Kulawnit was apparently too much for a pair of fourteen-year-old male minds to resist.
 
They followed their mother out of the room obediently.

Bulatt turned to Renwick.
 
“Got another government rig we can borrow?” he asked.

“I think we’ve got a couple that are still in reasonable shape,” Renwick replied.
 
“Truck or van?”

Bulatt looked over at Achara.
 
“How do you feel about being in close proximity to a bunch of critters with hairy legs?”

“My father always said I was born to be a biologist, and my mother never liked to go in my room,” Achara said with a smile.
 
“Does that answer your question?”

“I think so,” Bulatt said as he tore the next page off the note pad, took out his wallet, pulled out five one-hundred-dollar bills and handed them over to Renwick along with the page of block-printed notes.
 
“The van will do just fine,” he said.
 
“You think you could arrange for all of those things to happen without identifying yourself as a federal government employee?”

“Yeah, sure, no problem,” Renwick said as he scanned through the notes.
 
Then he looked back up at Bulatt.
 
“
Two
large pizza’s?”

“Better make it three,” Bulatt said.
 
“I’m going to need those fourteen-year-old brains well fed.”
 

*
   
*
   
*

Rear Parking Lot, Windmill Inn, Ashland, Oregon

Bulatt drove the damaged dark blue SUV around to the rear parking lot of the Windmill Inn, ignoring the thrashing and muffled cursing from the man who was still jammed into the rear seat floor space.
 
He parked next to a trio of like vehicles — two similar SUVs and a new van — all of which sported identical warning stickers on the driver’s side windows.

“So much for covert tradecraft,” Bulatt muttered to himself as he waited for Achara to park next to his SUV.
 
Once she was parked, he got out and walked around to the driver’s side of the lab van.
 
As he did so, he thumbed a call number on his Blackberry.

“How did it go?” he asked Achara, looking past her shoulder at the array of fifty duct-taped glass aquariums that took up most of the floor space of the van’s cargo bay.

“Just fine,” she said, her brightly flashing eyes matching her dimpled smile.
 
“They’re actually very cute little fellows.”

“Maybe to their mothers, or born-to-be biologist,” Bulatt replied with a grin as he brought his Blackberry up to his ear.
 
“This is Ged,” he replied to the responding voice.
 
“I’m looking at two SUV’s and a van.”
 
He quickly read off the license plates, and then waited.

“Right now would be just fine,” he finally said, then disconnected the call, slipped the Blackberry back onto his belt and turned to Achara.
 
“Are you ready to go to work?”

*
   
*
   
*

The Ashland Springs Hotel, Ashland, Oregon

Two hours later, Bulatt opened the door to the top-floor, two-room suite that Renwick had paid cash for; stepped inside with a hole-punched cardboard file box in his hand; turned on the light; looked around briefly; and then moved aside to make room for Achara and the two Reston boys.

“Oh, wow,” the two boys whispered wide-eyed when they saw the contents of the living room.

In addition to the stuffed couch and chairs that had been moved against the walls near the suite door, the room contained three cloth-covered round tables with pairs of chairs at each.
 
The table furthest to the right held three large pizza boxes still nestled in warming pouch that was plugged into the nearby wall; six bottles of soda in an ice bucket; a plate holding a dozen chocolate chip cookies; and assorted plates and silverware.
 
The table in the middle of the room, pushed up against the far wall, held a single laptop computer that was connected to a small color printer, and to a grey electronic box that, in turn, was connected to the wall by a thick white cable.

 
“There are more sodas in the fridge.
 
The laptop, printer and firewall are mine, so your mother’s concerns are not an issue here,” Bulatt said as he closed the door, locked it, set the file box down, and then dragged the couch over so that it blocked the door.
 
“There’s only one computer, so you guys will have to share.”

“Who’s the software registered to?” one of the twins asked.

“The hardware and software are registered to a covert business I set up in Redmond to work fresh water mussel cases,” Bulatt said.
 
“According to your mother, the system’s connected up to the Ashland Fiber Network so that all routine tracking queries link back to Redmond.
 
As long as you don’t use any of your personal passwords to access programs and data, everything you do should track back to my dummy corporation.
 
I don’t understand how that happens, but I suppose you both do.”

“Oh sure,” the other boy who was eagerly pulling one of the pizza boxes out of the warmer said, “all you have to do is —”