Deadly Contact. Lara Lacombe

It wasn’t a question. Wilkins had received their information from another satisfied customer, a regular practice in his line of work. There was no way he hadn’t known the score when he’d picked up the phone that first time.

      “Well, yes.”

      “So why are you getting cold feet now?”

      “It doesn’t seem to be working,” Wilkins said, his voice taking on a whiny edge that made Caleb’s fillings ache. “Drug sales haven’t improved in the wake of the outbreaks. I thought you said people would be clamoring for our medication!”

      “I did say that,” Caleb replied, not liking the man’s petulant tone. “Do you remember what else I said?”

      There was a pause, as if Wilkins was trying to recall their conversation. “I don’t know.”

      “I told you to be patient. This isn’t going to happen overnight.”

      Undeterred, Wilkins tried another tack. “I thought we were just going to make people sick. I didn’t know people were going to die!”

      “Oh, please,” Caleb retorted. “Enough with the false concern for your fellow man. The only reason you’re upset is because dead people don’t buy antibiotics.”

      Wilkins sputtered at that, but Caleb ignored him. “You need to give this time to work. An outbreak here, an outbreak there—soon the authorities will piece it together and then it will be national news. People will be clamoring for your antibiotic, just like everyone stockpiled Cipro after the anthrax mailings.”

      “And you’re sure this won’t be traced back to me?”

      “As sure as I can be. It would help if you would follow my instructions and didn’t contact me again.”

      Wilkins ignored the warning. “How much longer? We need to start turning a profit quickly, or the company will have to fold. I can’t let that happen—my grandfather built this company, and I’ll be damned if I let it die on my watch. We’re the largest employer in town. If we have to close, the town will collapse.”

      Caleb sighed, his fingers itching to reach through the phone and strangle the old man. He was probably sitting in his mahogany-paneled office, swirling his fifty-year-old Chivas Regal and pondering how to spend his next bonus check. If the company did go under, there was no way he was going down with the ship, and his “concern for the employees” act was wearing a bit thin.

      “I’m putting the final pieces in place now,” Caleb said, his thoughts drifting back to Collins. “I can’t give you an exact schedule, but soon.”

      Wilkins harrumphed, evidently displeased with such a vague answer. That was just too bad. There was no way Caleb was going to share sensitive information, especially with someone as hotheaded as Wilkins.

      “Let me remind you that I am in charge of this operation,” he said coolly. “I am speaking to you now as a courtesy, but I do not report to you.”

      “You listen to me, you little snot,” Wilkins shot back, anger making him brave. “I paid for your services, and I want to know what’s going on. Do you know what I can do to you if you don’t cooperate with me?”

      Caleb laughed. “Nothing. You can do nothing to me.”

      Wilkins sputtered. “Now, see here—”

      “What would you do, Mr. Wilkins? Turn me in? I doubt it—you know if you did, I’d sell you out before the lock clicked into place on the cell door. Do you think you can kill me? You can try, but I should warn you, I’m very well connected. What does that leave you?”

      “You must have family,” Wilkins said, his voice now low and threatening.

      Caleb felt a dull throb in his chest at the mention of family, but he ignored it. “Sorry to disappoint, but they’re all dead.”

      “You’re not as untouchable as you think. I can come up with something.”

      “You’re welcome to try,” Caleb agreed. “In the meantime, let me do my job and stay out of my way.”

      Wilkins paused, clearly weighing his options. “Don’t try to double-cross me, boy.”

      Caleb ignored the insult, knowing a careless tone would get under the man’s skin more than any verbal retort. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Don’t call me again.”

      He hung up before Wilkins could respond, feeling a small, childish spurt of satisfaction at having gotten the last word. The man was a dinosaur, a throwback to the days of the three-martini lunch, when deals were sealed with cigars and handshakes. He was used to being in charge, accustomed to having his minions defer to his every word, but Caleb refused to play the game. Wilkins might be the customer, but that didn’t mean he was right.

      He leaned over and pulled a D.C. city map out of the glove compartment, unfolding it across the steering wheel. Time to pick out the next target....

      * * *

      “Reynolds!” Kevin Carmichael stood in the doorway of his office, his summons a loud bark that carried over the hum of activity in the room. James made eye contact and held up his hand, silently asking for a few minutes. Carmichael narrowed his eyes at the delay but nodded and turned back into his office, allowing James a chance to finish up his conversation.

      “Uh-huh. Yes. Well, I appreciate the call, and we will definitely keep an eye open....You, too. Have a nice day.” He hung up with a sigh and rubbed his eyes, taking a moment before heading into Carmichael’s office. It was only noon, and already the day was dragging.

      “Any new leads?” Thomas asked, looking up from some paperwork.

      James shook his head. “Mrs. Gerard was just telling me that she remembered a suspicious-looking young man hanging around by the salad bar that night and asked if we had checked him out yet. Based on her description, it sounds like she’s talking about the busboy who maintained the salad bar.”

      “And he’s already been cleared.”

      “Yeah.” James sighed. “The kid is a straight-arrow honor student, and there’s nothing to suggest he knew anything about the tampering. She’s just being a drama queen.”

      “Were the surveillance tapes helpful at all?” Thomas held out the dish of jelly beans on his desk, and James took a few, popping them into his mouth before answering. As far as lunches went, it wasn’t the greatest, but it would do in a pinch.

      He shook his head, swallowing the fruity glob of sugar and reaching for a few more. “No. Unfortunately, the angle of the camera didn’t cover all of the salad bar, so we can’t see the end with the cottage-cheese bin. No one remembers anything out of the ordinary or anyone behaving strangely, so we really don’t have any good leads.”

      “Sounds like these guys are pros.”

      “Well, they did their homework, that’s for sure.” James grabbed a notebook and pen and stood, knowing he couldn’t put off Carmichael’s summons any longer. “Thanks for lunch.”

      Thomas grinned up at him. “Anytime, man.”

      He wended his way through the maze of desks and rapped lightly on Carmichael’s partially closed door, then pushed it open after the other man beckoned him in.

      “Any news?”

      James sat in the metal-framed chair in front of Carmichael’s desk, stretching out his legs in a vain attempt to find a comfortable position. “Just Mrs. Gerard turning in the busboy.”

      “Sanders? Was that his name?” At James’s nod, Carmichael snorted. “That kid is as innocent as they come.”

      “I know, but in her mind, any young man who wears a hat indoors is clearly suspect.”

      “Doesn’t she know that’s part of the uniform?”

      James jerked his shoulder up in a shrug. “Probably not, and I wasn’t