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CHAPTER 16

“W
hat now?” Shelton asked.

I had no answer. Chance’s last words echoed in my head.

“We keep these coins for ourselves,” Hi crowed. “
That’s
what now.”

We’d nearly reached the city marina. Ben texted his father, who was waiting to ferry us back to Morris Island. But I wasn’t ready to call it a day.

“I’m going to Loggerhead,” I said.

“Why?” Shelton frowned. “Something at LIRI?”

“We need to examine the second cache,” I replied, “but don’t have the equipment. Kit will lend me a lab if I make up a reasonable excuse.”

I wasn’t as sure as I sounded, but had no other ideas. Plus, investigating the scorched cache might take my mind off Chance.

Shelton spoiled the effort.

“We gonna talk about what Chance said?” he asked quietly. “That last crack about gold, and twinkling eyes . . . It hit a little too close to home.”

I couldn’t agree more. Chance’s parting shot seemed like a challenge. A taunt. Or worse: a warning of things to come.

How much did he know? Suspect? What did he remember?

We descended to the waterfront. Tom Blue waited on the dock,
Hugo
’s motor already purring.

“Let’s work one problem at a time,” I said. “LIRI. The cache fragments.”

“Not me,” Ben said firmly. “I have a ton of homework, and can’t follow a whim all the way to Loggerhead. Waste of time.”

Thanks.

“How are we supposed to get there without
Sewee
?” Hi asked. “Swim?”

“My dad heads to LIRI right after Morris. Ride out with him, then take the evening shuttle back.”

“I’m out too,” Shelton said. “Mom’s been on my case about cleaning my room lately. I’ve gotta knock that out before dinner.”

I raised a hopeful brow at Hi. “Pretty please? We all know you’re king of the lab.”

Hi rubbed his chin, as if in deep thought. “Why do I feel like I’m being played?” Then he shrugged. “Sure. Why not? But I get to run the machines.”

“Deal.”

Hi and I walked through the glass doors of Building One.

“Oh great,” I muttered. Security Chief Hudson was manning the desk.

Deep creases appeared on Hudson’s forehead. He rose, carefully straightening his immaculate powder-blue uniform.

“State your business.”

“To see my father.” A beat. “That’s usually going to be my business, FYI.”

Hudson didn’t smile. “Is Director Howard expecting you?”

Annoyed with this routine, I gambled. “More than expecting. We’re late.”

Hudson’s gaze slid to Hi. “Both of you?”

“Both,” Hi said quickly. “He’s our dodgeball coach, and we’re working out some new defensive maneuvers.”

Hudson’s eyes narrowed. “Dodgeball?”

“District champs.” Hi pounded his chest. “I’m a gunner. The key is to reach the balls first, and then throw with a
little
touch of spin, so that—”

“Should I log in?” Grabbing for the clipboard.

Hi couldn’t resist, but he was dancing on thin ice. The
last
thing I needed was for Robocop to call upstairs.

Hudson gave us a hard look, perhaps concerned we were al Qaeda operatives in disguise. “Sign. No stops.”

Minutes later we entered the fourth-floor director’s suite. The Dragon was absent, no doubt sucking down a Marlboro behind a shed somewhere. I beelined to Kit’s door and knocked.

“Come.”

Kit sat behind a carved wooden desk, phone pressed to one ear. Surprised at our appearance, he waved for us to sit while he finished the call.

“But I don’t
want
to cut the grant, Pete.” Kit rubbed his eyes. “The institute has always cosponsored the aquarium’s dolphin expert. I see no reason to change that.” Pause. “Yes, I understand it costs money. What I’m telling you is that LIRI is going to spend it.”

Kit covered the receiver. “One sec, guys. This bozo never stops talking.”

The office hadn’t changed much from Karsten’s era. A coat rack occupied the corner, stuck between two overstuffed bookshelves. Behind the desk, a large bay window overlooked the Atlantic. A credenza and pair of wooden filing cabinets sat beneath.

Kit’s main contribution had been a framed collection of antique veterinary diagrams on the walls. I had to admit, they looked pretty cool.

The desk was clear except for a laptop and two pictures. One was of Kit and me eating lunch on our roof deck. The other showed Kit and Whitney splitting an ice cream sundae.

“Holy crap.” Hi nodded to the second photo. “Your dad’s a huge dork, huh?”

I shrugged. “The evidence is fairly damning.”

Kit hung up with a loud sigh. “These suits only think about money. Budgeting. Revenues versus costs. Don’t they understand we’re a
non
profit? That the animals come first?”

I nodded sympathetically. “Keep fighting the good fight.”

“Will do. And, happily, LIRI has the resources.” Kit smiled. “Thanks again for that.”

“No problem.” Hiram and I, in unison.

“Now, what can I do for you two? Why are you here?”

Time to snow old dad. Again.

“School project,” I said. “We’re supposed to run some tests for AP chemistry. We were hoping you could spare a lab for a few hours.”

Kit’s expression grew wary. “School project, eh? Heard that one before.”

“Seriously! We have to examine an object for trace evidence. It’s totes legit. We just want to kick it up a notch.”

Hi kept quiet, nodding with a plastic grin. I don’t think it helped our cause.

“You can use Lab Two if it’s open.” Kit leaned forward. “But if you’re up to something, know that I’m ready. The days of Kit the Clueless are over. I’m watching you guys, like a . . . like a . . . like a
really
good watcher of things.” He cocked his head. “An owl, maybe?”

“‘Up to something’?” I flapped a breezy hand. “
Pshh.
Relax.”

“Kit’s not so good with similes,” I said, wiping down a steel counter. “I would’ve gone with a hawk, or maybe the Hubble telescope. I guess owl works.”

We were setting up in Lab Two. Smallest in the main building, and tucked away on the third floor, the cozy workspace was perfect for avoiding attention. Thankfully, we had the room to ourselves.

“He tends to lose focus,” Hi agreed. “It’s more his delivery than anything.”

“True.”

As we spoke, Hi methodically set out the evidence: iPad. Puzzle box. Letter from Loggerhead. Scorched container from Castle Pinckney. Not much, but all we had. When finished, he clasped his hands together. “Now what?”

“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “I wish Ben and Shelton had come.”

Hi snorted. “Ben said this was a waste of time, remember?”

“How could I forget?” That was so unlike him. “Ben usually
loves
this kind of stuff. For all we know, this ‘Game’ is deadly serious, and some homicidal lunatic actually intends to
kill
people. So I don’t get why—”

The sound of the door opening interrupted my response. I turned to see Anders Sundberg poke his head into the room.

“Hey you two.” Anders ambled in wearing a white lab coat over medical scrubs. “What’s going down? Anything I can help with?”

“No thanks.” Trying not to smooth my hair. “I think we’ve got it covered.”

Anders was too handsome for his own good. For anyone’s good.

In my periphery, I saw Hi slip the Gamemaster’s letter into a drawer.

Have to follow the rules.

“We need a lab for a few hours,” I said. “Kit thought this room was free?”

“Iglehart left for the day, so it’s available.” Anders grinned sheepishly. “And I’ll level with you. Kit sent me in here to spy.”

Did he now?
Perhaps my act hadn’t been as convincing as I’d thought. But maybe we could turn this to our advantage.

“Hate to disappoint,” Hi said, “but it’s only schoolwork.”

Anders glanced at the assortment on the counter. “Interesting project.”

“Kind of.”
Here goes.
“We have to examine those objects for trace evidence.”

“A forensic assignment?” Anders looked intrigued. “Sounds fun.”

“You bet.” Hi adapted smoothly. “Something has been planted on one of these articles. We’re supposed to locate and identify it.”

“I’m in.” Sundberg removed a box of latex gloves from a cabinet. “The first rule of a forensic examination is to avoid contaminating the objects yourself. You don’t want to introduce anything not already there.”

I cringed. I’d been carrying this stuff loose in my backpack.

Oh well. Done was done.

“So what exactly should we look for?” Hi asked, snapping on gloves.

“Anything, really. Trace evidence is any material that transfers when two objects come into contact.”

Anders moved to the counter. “Often the transfer is facilitated by heat, in a process we call contact friction. A fingerprint, for example.” He carefully lifted the iPad. “This touch screen would be the perfect medium to capture one.”

I glanced at Hi, who frowned sourly. We’d all handled the iPad. Whatever prints may have been present, that ship had sailed.

“I don’t think that’s it,” I said. “We’ve used that as part of our assignment, so it must be covered with our own prints.”

Sundberg shrugged and put it aside, then moved to the puzzle box. “What’s this?”

“Himitsu-Bako.”
Hi winked. “It’s Japanese, yo.”

“Does it open?”

“Hopefully.” Grasping its sides, I tried to mimic Shelton’s moves, but couldn’t recall the sequence. After three tries I gave up. Hi had no better luck.

“We found some papers inside,” I said, hiding my frustration. “But I guess further inspection will have to wait.”

“When you get it open,” Anders said, “look for things like hair, cosmetics, glass, or fibers.” He glanced at the ceiling, thinking. “Also soils and botanical materials. Pollen. Maybe paint chips. You get the idea. And use tape to lift them.”

“What about this?”

I tapped the cache from Castle Pinckney. Though scorched and smashed, the box was largely in one piece. I was pi
nning most of my hopes on it.

“Okay,
now
we’re in business.” Sundberg studied a singed area along the box’s exterior. “An accelerant was used to make this burn. An oil perhaps, or some other fuel.”

Hi edged in close. “How does that help?”

“Because accelerants don’t burn completely clean. They leave a residue.” Anders held up one hand. “Now, for chemistry sticklers, true accelerants are only compounds and gases that
promote
fuel burning—like an oxygen-bearing gas—and
not
the fuel itself. That would exclude gasoline, acetone, kerosene, and so on. But in forensics, any chemical fuel that causes a fire to burn hotter, spread quicker, or be harder to extinguish is considered an accelerant.”

“Identifying the residue will reveal the accelerant.” I’d caught on. “We’d know what caused the fire.”

“And knowing
that
could lead to a suspect,” Hi finished. “If a bomb was laced with butane, we could start frisking smokers.”

“Exactly.” Anders began pulling supplies from a drawer. “The best example is gunpowder residue. Even though it’s invisible, it stains the shooter’s trigger hand. Pretty useful when sorting out who shot whom.”

“I hear ya, bro,” said Hi. “So what’s the next step?”

Anders brought his eyes close to the cache. “Let’s have a go.” Wielding a long swab, he carefully swiped the singed area, darkening the cotton tip with a greasy film.

“Bingo.” Anders looked pleased with himself. “Whatever that gunk is, it fueled the blaze that charred this container. That’s a trace evidence jackpot.”

“Excellent.” My spirits rose. Maybe this
would
work. “How can we identify the substance?”

“Run it through a mass spectrometer, or maybe a scanning electron microscope. Arson investigators might use a technique called headspace gas chromatography, which separates gas mixtures into their individual components. Or, if you had an idea what the accelerant was, you could try a chemical reaction test.”

“Great!” I rubbed my hands together. “Which one first?”

Anders’s eyebrows rose. “Tory, that’s a hefty request. Those machines are extremely expensive. We rarely log time on them for side projects.” He paused, lips pursed. “Your teacher couldn’t have reasonably expected you to conduct a full microscopic analysis. How would you? I think you’ll be okay with just the swab.”