Tomasini?”
Brady Tomasini, with six years on the squad under his belt, was thirty years old, tall, dark and handsome—a point rabidly contradicted by some fellow officers who resented their wives’ reaction to him—but he was definitely a man who had seen it all. Wilthauer’s glare was impressive, considering the broad shoulders, expanding waistline and sagging jowls for which he was so aptly nicknamed, but Brady did not back down. He was tired and irritable. He’d been up most of the night with his dog, Sarah, a twelve-year-old shepherd-Labrador mix he had picked up as a pup somewhere on the street when he was a rookie. The canine had rewarded him with unconditional love in the time since, and he had dropped her off at the vet’s office at seven that morning with instructions to do whatever was necessary, short of euthanasia, to make the old girl feel good again. He had arrived at his desk to face his heavy workload weary, unshaven, and depressed at the thought of what might be waiting for him when he returned to the vet’s office that evening. He had been hoping for a few minutes to gather his thoughts on the brutal homicide that had been plaguing his partner and him for the past week, but he had known he was in for trouble the second Wilthauer left his office and turned toward him with a file in his hand. He had remained silent when Wilthauer threw the file down on his desk and started to talk. He was only too keenly aware that with every word Wilthauer spoke, a few more detectives at surrounding desks in the crowded squad room had quietly vacated the premises.
For good reason. He was pissed.
Brady glanced at his partner, Joe Stansky. True to form, Joe had reacted to Wilthauer’s discourse by leaning back in his desk chair and listening in silence.
Brady met Wilthauer’s glare with one of his own. He knew what this was all about. The media had given a lot of play to the Winslow barbecue incident and the city’s failure to make progress on the cause of the deaths. Receiving notification from the CDC in Atlanta that the deaths were suspected homicides was a nightmare for the squad, and for Wilthauer in particular, who had had the case dumped in his lap. Wilthauer had explained that the findings of the CDC lab were being contested, and he was turning the file over to Brady just in case the findings were verified.
Just in case.
He’d heard that before.
Brady glanced again at his partner. Joe maintained his silence, clasped his hands behind his head and leaned farther back in his desk chair. He should have expected as much. His own outspoken manner and Joe’s laid-back personality were as different as night and day, so much so that they were referred to in the department as the odd couple—a joking reference no one dared make to Brady’s face.
Brady silently acknowledged that the dark hair, strong features, and powerful stature he had inherited from his father contrasted sharply with Joe’s light coloring and slight build. He also knew that his reputation as a ladies’ man—whether deserved or not—was as great a contrast with Joe’s successful twelve-year marriage as their personalities. What a casual observer would not take into consideration, however, was that the thoroughness and determination with which both men tackled every case was mutual, and that although their differences in style and personality were strong, their commonsense method of deduction and the core values that were the greatest influence on their stability as partners were in perfect step, making them the most formidable homicide team in the squad.
Unfortunately, Wilthauer was not the “casual observer.” A twenty-year veteran of the force, he knew how to make the best use of the talent under his command.
Aware that he was wasting his time, Brady protested, “Take it easy? You’re not fooling me, Captain. This Winslow case is a hot potato, and you’re dumping it in our laps like it was dumped in yours.”
“It’s not a homicide case, yet. The reports we’ve heard might turn out to be nothing more than smoke and mirrors.”
“Meaning?”
“Like I told you, the CDC in Atlanta notified the British lab that developed Candoxine of their suspicions. The British lab said the claim was preposterous, because the use of Candoxine was confined exclusively to research purposes in their lab. The Brits readily supplied the testing equipment that was supposed to prove Candoxine wasn’t involved in the deaths. When the test came up positive at the CDC with the use of the Brits’ equipment, the Brits protested again and demanded that the specimens be retested at one of our labs and by one of our technicians here in the city.”
“So?”
“So the specimens are going to be retested in the NYC Health Department lab, and the CDC in Atlanta is sending its expert here to observe.”
“The CDC expert? And who might that be?”
“The lab tech at the CDC who identified Candoxine in the specimens.”
“Right. That should go over big at our lab here.”
“But if the test turns out negative this time—”
“Sure. You know as well as I do what the chances are of that happening, especially if the CDC has any say in it.”
“Whatever happens, the case is all yours and Joe’s.”
“You know how heavy our caseload is, Captain.”
“So?”
Silent for a few moments, Brady said abruptly, “When’s this testing supposed to take place?”
“The CDC expert arrived in the city this morning. The test is set for sometime after lunch.”
“Great.”
“It might be a good idea if you and Stansky went to the lab to watch.”
“No, thanks.”
“You’d be doing yourself a favor. You could save yourself some time by finding out more about this Candoxine drug from an expert.”
Brady looked at him coldly. “Which will be totally unnecessary if the test for the presence of the drug turns out negative.”
“Right.”
“But there’s not a chance in hell of that happening, is there, Captain?”
“What happens, happens, Tomasini. Just make sure you or Joe keep me informed so I can keep the media happy.”
“Thanks.”
“Needless to say, everything else goes on the back burner if the test turns out positive. The Candoxine case would be first priority.”
“Thanks again.”
Wilthauer shrugged his beefy shoulders and snickered as he turned back toward his office, but Brady wasn’t laughing. Instead he looked at his partner as Wilthauer’s office door closed, shook his head, and said, “We’re screwed.”
NATALIE WALKED DOWN the hallway of the NYC Public Health Department, her briefcase in hand. It seemed to her that the hallways of all public institutions looked alike: paint of a nondescript color; marks on the walls and floors that were reminders of the steady traffic filing through the corridors daily; occasional chairs and end tables sporting tattered magazines in welcome areas that weren’t welcoming and in waiting areas that provided little help in passing the time. Yet the familiarity of the scene did little to settle her discomfort.
Natalie
