Prescription: Makeover. Jessica Andersen
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photos of the three men. On the right she’d pulled up a series of records for Dr. Paul Berryville, including his supposedly classified FDA background check. But it was the center screen that commanded William’s attention with a photograph of smoldering wreckage and the headline Eight top scientists killed in Catskills crash.
Ike didn’t turn to look at him, but her body was tense beneath the black leather biker jacket she wore because they still had the heat turned off. Her voice held dull horror when she said, “A charter jet flying a bunch of scientists to a private retreat lost power and crashed in upstate New York last night. The men we saw yesterday are dead, along with three other prominent scientists and their drivers. Odin wasn’t taking any chances that they’d lead us to him.”
“Christ.” William let out a breath, sickened by the realization that the leader of The Nine had killed his own people to make sure they wouldn’t talk. Worse, given that Grosskill had ignored the evidence after Forsythe’s arrest, there was little chance the FBI would believe that the mythical leader of an imaginary group of scientific bogeymen was responsible for a charter plane crash.
“He killed his own people,” Ike repeated, voice shaking.
“I’d like to believe this means the end of The Nine,” William said after a long moment. “But I’m afraid I’m not that optimistic.”
Ike nodded. “He’ll recruit and rebuild The Nine, maybe even stronger than before.” She clicked on one photograph after the other, erasing the men from her screens. When she was done, all she had left was a blank monitor, which seemed to sum up their investigation. They had suspicions but no official backup, bodies but no suspects.
“You got any ideas?” William asked her, their personal differences seeming less important all of a sudden.
“Maybe. Yes, I think so.” She hit three computer keys in quick succession, bringing up a new screen on the middle monitor. “I found Lukas Kupfer and the press conference they were talking about. Kupfer is a PhD at the Markham Institute near UMass Amherst. His lab is working on a treatment for a disease called Duchenne muscular dystrophy, and they’ve got a big announcement planned for this Friday. Something about a new gene therapy protocol for Duchenne.”
William stared at Kupfer’s file photo, which showed a bespectacled fortysomething man whose face held both laugh lines and sadness. “They said Odin was going to handle it personally. That means we need to get someone inside Kupfer’s lab, pronto.”
Ike tapped a few keys and brought up the Markham Institute’s collaborators list. She indicated a pair of names. “I know these two from Boston General. If I get Zach Cage involved, we could put together a decent cover story, maybe invent a visiting scientist at BoGen who wants to get a look at Kupfer’s research. He’d probably buy it.”
William grimaced and shook his head. “Unfortunately I don’t know enough science to pull off a cover story in an academic lab.”
“Maybe not,” Ike said. She glanced up at him. “But I do.”
Chapter Four
Ike started the mental countdown after making her suggestion. Five…four…three…
“No way in hell!” William snapped. “No way, no how. Not happening.”
“What’s not happening?” Max stuck his head through the doorway. He was still wearing his leather jacket and wool cap, suggesting he’d arrived just in time to hear William’s bellow.
William glared at Ike as he recapped the situation and her solution, finishing with, “Since that’s clearly out of the question, we’ll have to think of an alternative.”
“Like what?” Ike asked, trying not to watch him as he paced the length of the small office, trying not to notice how his muscles bunched and flowed beneath the worn jeans and three-quarter cutoff sweatshirt he’d apparently considered Saturday-at the-office attire.
Unaccountably she imagined herself tugging at the ragged hem of his sweatshirt and touching the warm skin beneath.
Down, woman, she told herself sternly. He likes girlie girls, remember?
Max shook his head. “Sorry, Ike, but I’m going to have to side with William on this one. You’re not trained for undercover work, and these men are ruthless.”
“More importantly, they know you,” William said, continuing to pace. “Odin must’ve figured out you’re back on the case by now, and he’ll be gunning for you, big-time. Face it, the safest place for you is back in Boston, locked in the BoGen secure apartment until we get this guy.”
“I’m not going to the apartment,” Ike said flatly, dull panic flaring at the thought of being trapped in there again.
“He’s right,” Max said, though his eyes were gentle with apology. “We’re not shutting you out of the investigation, but you’ll have to run the data from a distance. You’re in too much danger here.”
Ike saw a flare of triumph in William’s eyes and cursed them both for being right. She looked away and pressed her lips together. “Fine.”
William tossed her a set of keys. “Take the rental. There’s no reason for Odin to associate you with the car. And wear a hat or something on the way out. You’re too recognizable.”
“Not much of a disguise,” she muttered, but she took the keys and started packing up her computers. “I’ll call you when I get to the apartment,” she said, meaning Max, not the big man who took up too much of the air inside the roomy office.
“You do that,” William said. Then his voice went dry. “And we’ll be checking the caller ID, so don’t try anything funny.”
Ike nodded, stifling a quick spurt of rebellion. “I’ll behave.” But as Max helped her carry her stuff to the rental car, she couldn’t stop thinking how easy it would be to reroute a phone call so it would look as if she was in Boston when she was really someplace else.
BY MONDAY MORNING William felt as though he’d already worked a full sixty-hour week. He was pulling out all the stops, trying to figure out how they could gain access to Lukas Kupfer’s lab without actually involving a certain someone with lab credentials and research bona fides.
Unfortunately he hadn’t been able to come up with a better idea. Granted, the Kupfer link wasn’t a slam dunk—they were going on an overheard snippet of conversation and betting that Odin’s interest in the lab hadn’t changed. As far as William was concerned, that was a hell of a stretch. But as Ike had pointed out the day before by telelink from Boston, the slim lead was a hell of a lot better than nothing, and the deadline to Kupfer’s press conference was down to four days. If Odin was planning something, it’d happen soon.
William had been forced to agree with her, though it had grated him. The more time he spent interacting with Ike Rombout, the more infuriating he found her, from the tips of her too-short hair to the soles of her Matrix-wannabe boots.
And to top off his irritation, a ten-o’clock appointment had somehow snuck onto his schedule when he wasn’t looking.
“Damn it, Max.” William glared at the red highlighted Outlook reminder on his computer screen. “Don’t I have enough to do right now without you booking me for a consult?”
Problem was, he didn’t have enough to do. Not of the paying client variety, anyway. Odin had seen to that.
At the thought, he checked his e-mail. As promised, Ike had sent him a boatload of information on Dr. Lukas Kupfer and Duchenne muscular dystrophy.
“Now that’s more like it,” he said, almost willing to admit that she was a solid addition to the team as long as she was several hundred miles away. In person, she was entirely too much. Too tall, too thin, too angular, too in-your-face. Almost as though she was doing it on purpose.
“Okay,” he muttered, trying to tamp down a stir of interest. “She’s