Mysterious Circumstances. Rita Herron
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had a clue as to what Thornbird had planned or what was troubling him.”
“Check and see if he had any recent visitors, too,” Craig cut in. “I’ll talk to his co-workers at CIRP.”
Detective Black nodded and the men dispersed just as Agent Devlin approached him. “Did he give you any information about the research before he died?”
“No, but I’ll question his colleagues, find someone who understands his work and can pick up the thread where he left off,” Craig said. “Maybe his files will aid in the identification process.”
Devlin pocketed his cell phone and glanced at Olivia. “She going to be all right?”
Craig shrugged. “She’s in shock.”
Devlin nodded. “Don’t suppose she’ll be writing this one up.”
Craig grimaced. True, but callous. He supposed it went with the agent’s job. They’d both seen the darkest sides of life and survived. “She blames me for getting her old man involved.”
“Don’t go there, Horn. From what you told me, Thornbird volunteered to study this virus. I did some checking on the man. He was obsessed with his work. I think it had something to do with the way his wife died.”
Craig arched his brows. “She died in Egypt, right?”
“Right. By another strange, unknown illness.”
Craig picked up on Devlin’s silent insinuation. “Did they do an autopsy?”
Devlin shook his head. “If they did, the results were never revealed. Authorities were too worried about transmitting the virus and refused to transport her body back to the States. She was cremated.”
Craig swallowed hard. Maybe they were hiding something. “Must have been tough on the family.”
“After that, Thornbird’s reputation slid downhill. He lost a couple of grants and posts.”
Craig’s gaze swung to Olivia. Her face was so pale, her eyes listless, her arms wrapped around herself as if the muggy breeze blowing through the window might shatter her into pieces. He ordered himself to be impartial. This woman might be suffering now, but she’d been a pain in the butt wanting the scoop on his investigation. He couldn’t afford to let her get too close.
Especially now.
She had even more reason to want the truth about the virus, even more reason to detest him and his unwillingness to cooperate.
“Listen, Horn.” Devlin cleared his throat. “I received word this morning that two scientists have died in Germany. Their deaths sound remarkably similar to Thornbird’s and our other suicide victims.”
Craig frowned. The situation was desperate. They needed some answers fast. He hoped to hell Thornbird hadn’t taken whatever information he’d learned concerning the virus to his grave.
DARKNESS SETTLED OVER Olivia’s father’s kitchen, the hushed voices and officers milling around the house echoing in the distant recesses of her mind like a TV she’d forgotten to turn off. Olivia blocked them out, unable to process the truth that her father was dead.
In her mind, she could see him standing by the scarred beige counter pouring his fifth cup of coffee into his favorite orange mug, one her mother had gotten for him in Portugal on one of her trips.
Through the back window, she watched the tire swing she used to spend hours in sway back and forth in the breeze, and the now defunct sandbox she’d played in as a child was covered with leaves and debris. The basketball hoop where she’d spent nights tossing the ball, thinking through stories she’d write for the school paper, was rusted, the net torn and ragged. Once her parents had planted flowers in that backyard, had grown herbs and roots, saying they didn’t want her harmed by the processed foods and chemicals. They’d pushed Olivia in the swing, laughed as she’d run through the sprinkler, churned homemade ice cream on the patio while she’d learned to ride a bicycle.
Then her mother had died. And everything had changed.
There’d been no more laughing. No more homemade ice cream. No more herb garden.
Olivia had needed her father then. She’d begged him to let her crawl into his lap, but he’d pushed her away, as if he wished she’d died with her mother. Finally, she’d stopped trying to win his love.
But as a rebellious teenager she’d done other things to get his attention—misbehaved in school, gotten into scraps. She’d even ended up in jail for underage drinking and vandalizing. If her high school English teacher hadn’t taken an interest in her and assigned her to the school paper, she would have ended up in the headlines more. But writing had given her a goal; a byline gained her the attention she’d been lacking.
Her stomach churned, her hands were sweating and her throat was so clogged with tears she felt as if a golf-ball had been lodged inside. Forcing herself to think rationally, like a reporter and not a grief-stricken daughter, she scanned the kitchen for clues to her father’s mental state, searching for any changes in the room that might indicate what had brought him to the point of suicide.
Three coffee cups, a stack of used plates with dried bread crumbs and a half-eaten sandwich overflowed the sink. Cigarette ashes littered the top of a soda can, the fact that her father had partaken of both a testament to how much he’d changed.
Except for his work. That, he’d never ignored.
Not as he had her.
“Olivia?” Craig’s voice made her spring back into action. She stood and walked toward him. “Was there a suicide note?”
He hesitated, then shook his head.
“I want to see his things, especially his desk.”
The detective beside him cast Craig a warning look and strode toward another crime scene tech who was bagging the gun Olivia’s father had used to shoot himself.
“Olivia, the police and FBI are working this case. Let us do our job.”
She gripped his arm. “I have to know everything he was working on. He was obsessive-compulsive and would never have left a project unfinished.”
“We’ll find the answers,” Craig said through gritted teeth. “Just give us time.”
She narrowed her eyes, battling another onslaught of tears. She didn’t want sympathy, she wanted the truth. “He died because of the work he was doing for you, didn’t he? I saw you leaving his office—”
“Yes, he was helping us.” A muscle twitched in his jaw. “But that’s all I can say.”
“I saw the red welts on the other victims,” she said. “You think all the suicide victims had some kind of virus. What does it do—cause the infected people to go crazy?”
“I can’t disclose details that might jeopardize the case, Olivia. You have to understand that.”
She folded her arms, her anger rallying. “This isn’t just a case, Horn. It took my father’s life. And what about more innocent lives that might be lost if you cover this up?”
“Don’t you think I’m working my tail off to get to the truth so there won’t be any more victims?”
She bit her lip. “If my father did contract some rare virus, it wasn’t an accident. He was meticulous about safety precautions.”
Craig’s dark gray eyes met hers, silently acknowledging her declaration as he gestured around the den and kitchen. “Judging from the looks of his house, I might question that.”
“It’s usually not this bad. And he was much more precise and detailed about his work.”
“Everyone makes mistakes, Olivia. A punctured glove, a spill, if he was dealing with some unknown bacteria he didn’t recognize—”
“No,” Olivia snapped.