“The doors were made of pressed wood that splintered,” I reminded everyone. “There might be shavings stuck to the implement. Or maybe broken glass. Even dust could be significant. Go slowly, and be careful.”
Six workstations lined the wall. Each had a massive, freestanding toolbox labeled by name in black marker on dirty masking tape.
Hi took the first station and began opening and closing drawers. “Hello, Lionel Alonso. Are you a dirty, stinking thief?”
“Simon Rome.” Ben began rifling the second workstation. “Let’s check you out.”
Shelton looked a question at me.
“You take . . . Kenny Hall.” I gestured to the next station in line. “I’ll check out . . . Frank Glasnapp.”
I searched the tool chest systematically, inspecting the top drawers first, even though they seemed too small. My hypothesis was correct. Screws. Hinges. Bolts. Nails. Nothing suitable for B and E.
I switched to the lower section. These drawers were wider and deeper, and held more promising items. Hammers. Screwdrivers. A socket wrench set.
But my careful inspection came up empty.
If Glasnapp was our guy, he didn’t keep his instrument of choice in here.
The boys also struck out. We double-checked an ax Ben discovered, and two crowbars owned by Mr. Hall. None showed signs of recent use.
“Though we can’t be a hundred percent sure,” I grumbled. “If the crook wiped the tool down, we’d never know.”
“Two more to go,” Shelton said. “Double up?”
Hi nodded. “Shelton and I will take . . . John Johnson? Hey, great name, guy.”
I moved to the last workstation. “Ben and I will check this one. Trey Terry.”
Terry’s tool chest had larger compartments than the first I’d checked. We found a pair of hedge clippers, a rotating circular saw, a portable air compressor, and a collection of hatchets.
“This guy must work in the woods,” Ben guessed. “These things are probably used to clear brush from around the feeders.”
“But everything’s clean,” I muttered. “No shavings, no embedded plastic, nada.”
“We got nothing, too.” Shelton closed the last of Johnson’s drawers. “Weak sauce.”
“So we struck out on this one.” Ben casually spun a hatchet in one hand. “But we found the loot, and Kit can follow Hi’s plan to ID the crook. Still a win in my book.”
Ben attempted a second twirl, but missed the catch. The hatchet crashed to the floor.
“Easy, circus freak!” Hi hopped backward. “I like my toes where they are.”
“Sorry.” Ben chuckled. “In my defense, the handle is slick.”
Two neurons fired in my brain. Synapse.
“The handle,” I murmured. Then, “The handle!”
Ben reached for the hatchet, but Shelton scooped it first. “Not a chance, you. No more blade juggling on my watch.”
My hand shot out. “Gimme that.” I knew my voice sounded odd.
“Okeydokey.” Shelton passed it over with a quizzical look.
“Don’t you get all choppy-stabby on us, Tor,” Hi warned. “That’s no way to deal with frustration.”
“If I do, you’re getting hacked first.” But I focused on the object in my hands.
I flipped the hatchet upside down and held it by the blade. The handle was made of wood, stained dark brown. Its surface scratched and pitted by a lifetime of hard use.
And there was a lovely little chip at the base of the handle.
I felt a charge of adrenaline.
I snatched the splinter from my pocket and pressed it into the gap on the handle. All three boys straightened.
But my hopes were immediately dashed.
The splinter didn’t match. Not in size, color, or grain.
Ben dove for the tool chest. “There are five more of those in here.”
He grabbed two of the hatchets and handed them to Shelton and Hi.
“Not this one,” Hi said. “No gash on the handle.”
“Same story here,” Shelton said.
Three more came out in quick succession.
There.
I seized the last implement from Ben’s fingers. This one was larger, more a small ax than a true hatchet. Its handle was a foot long, worn, and stained dark brown.
With a one-inch, triangular notch at the bottom of the haft.
Heart pounding, I inspected the notch closely. The damage seemed fresh, with pale yellow wood still visible in the center of the breach. Inhaling deeply, I detected the faintest whiff of monkey chow.
My hands trembled with excitement.
Willing myself calm, I placed the splinter from Lab Three into the fissure.
Perfect fit.
Color. Shape. Grain. All a flawless match.
“Gotcha.”
“Trey Terry.” Shelton triple-jabbed his index finger. “You. Are. Busted.”
“We’re gonna be studs,” Hi crowed. “Maybe there’s a cash reward? How should we tell everybody?” He stroked his chin. “Should we be all like, ‘Hey Kit, come check out this awesome garden hose we found,’ and then BAM, we’re holding microscopes over our heads? Or should we play it ultra-cool, like cracking this case is no biggie. I’m torn.”
I looked at him strangely. “Hi, we’re not taking credit for this.”
“Do what now?” Hi’s forehead creased. “I don’t think I heard you right.”
“Are you taking stupid pills?” Shelton snapped. “We can’t draw that kind of attention to ourselves. Any attention. You should know that by now, Stolowitski.”
“We’re still Viral,” Ben said quietly. “We’re only one mistake away from being caged like lab rats. Always. The best thing we can do is go unnoticed. Period.”
I nodded. “For us, there’s no such thing as good publicity.”
“Oh, come on!” Hi actually stamped his foot. “We can explain this one! Step by step! The world won’t suddenly suspect we’ve got superpowers, they’ll just think we’re awesome and brilliant. And I, for one, like that idea!”
Hi searched faces, hunting for an ally. Found none.
Go easy. You’re the one who wanted to impress Aunt Tempe.
“Hey, I know you’re awesomely brilliant.” I offered a high five. “What more do you need?”
“Fame. Glory. A book deal.”
“I’ll buy you a Twix.”
Hi buried his face in his hands. A beat, then, “I do love those.”
He sighed. “Fine. Deal.” Slapping my palm with his. “But I want the full candy bar. None of that mini, Halloween-sized crap.”
Shelton was tugging his earlobe again. “But how do we put it together for a dope like Hudson without tipping our involvement?”
I grinned.
“That’s the fun part.”
Fire hazard?
I read the email a third time.
To: LIRI Director Christopher Howard.
Re: Fire Suppression Alert, Vehicle Depot A.
Subject: WARNING
The automated sprinkler system at LOGGERHEAD ISLAND, LIRI COMPOUND, VEHICLE DEPOT A has been disengaged. This constitutes a preventable fire hazard under the terms of LIRI’s property insurance agreement. Immediate remedial action is required.
Note: This message is part of the automated warning system. Do not reply.
I rubbed my eyes with both palms. Pinched the bridge of my nose.
What a day.
I’d been director for weeks, but this was a first.
Frankly, I wasn’t sure what to do.
This job is going to kill me.
But I knew I had to investigate. We’d already been robbed. I didn’t need a fire.
Frustr
ated, I stood and strode from my office. Being Sunday, the rest of the director’s suite was empty. The rooms still made me uncomfortable—I still thought of this area as belonging to my predecessor. Probably always would.
“One thing after another,” I said aloud.
I took the elevator to the ground floor and crossed to the security desk.
Carl was on duty, not Chief Hudson.
Why am I relieved? I hired the guy.
“Any word on my daughter, Carl?”
The portly guard shot to his feet. “No sir, Dr. Howard. Director Howard.”
He snatched off his cap and began spinning it in his hands.
I suppressed a sigh. Carl and I used to swap jokes.
“Relax, Carl. And, please, call me Kit. It’s no big deal, I was just curious. The kids show up without warning, then they drop off the grid.”
This only made Carl fidget more. “Should I look for them, sir? I mean, Director. Er, Kit.”
“Forget I asked.” I waved the guard back to his seat. “If anyone needs me, I’m heading over to Depot A for a sec.”
“Yes, sir, Director Howard.” Carl winced. “Doctor. Kit.”
I slipped through the glass doors, shaking my head. Things would never be the same. The price you pay for being in charge, I guess.
A part of me missed how things used to be.
Sometimes, I felt like fraud. A little boy, sneaking around in Karsten’s impossibly large shoes. I worried the other LIRI veterans thought the same about me.
At times like this, I missed being plain old Dr. Howard, the nerdy marine biologist who obsessed over loggerhead turtles. People liked that guy. They didn’t stammer, or grow quiet when he approached the water cooler.
Those days were gone. But if the cost of saving LIRI was being forced to manage it, I was willing to pay.
Plus, let’s be honest. Being the boss does have its perks.
Once outside, I followed the path to Vehicle Depot A. I tried my key, but a shrill beeping erupted the moment I touched the knob.
Hudson has the system back online. Thanks for the heads-up.
Moving to the keypad, I punched in a seven-digit code and swiped my card. There was a hum, then a flash as the sensor took my photograph. The door swung open.
I entered a narrow corridor. To my left was a door leading to the garage. To my right was a row of employee lockers, a pair of offices, and a storage closet. My objective was straight ahead: a maintenance room housing the sprinkler controls.
I didn’t bother with the lights, and soon regretted it. Halfway down the hallway something snagged my pants.
Rip.
“What the heck?” I retreated a step and fumbled for a switch.
The halogens sputtered to life, revealing a long black cable jutting from one of the lockers. The casing had been cut, exposing the copper wire within.
The cable had snared me.
Dang it. I just bought these Dockers.
Extricating myself, I shoved the cord back inside the locker.
Unsafe. I’d need to have a word with . . . Glasnapp? Johnson?
Mental note: Find out who runs this department.
I proceeded to the maintenance room and opened a sleek black panel.
At least I know where the sprinkler controls are, right?
A message was blinking in red: Water supply manually disengaged.
I frowned. The shutoff valve was in the main garage.
I closed the panel, retraced my steps, and entered the mechanics’ bay. The water pipes were in the corner, beside several large bins that stored monkey feed.
The problem was immediately apparent—the emergency handle had been turned perpendicular to the pipe. Which meant the valve was closed, shutting off the system’s water supply. A tiny red sensor was flashing like a railroad signal.
Why had the flow been disengaged? When? By whom?
This makes no sense.
Was someone goofing around in there?
My mind leapt to Tory and her friends. I wouldn’t put anything past those four.
Don’t get me wrong, they’re great kids. Bright, energetic, polite. Tory especially—with my daughter, every day was a learning experience. I no longer doubted her IQ was higher than mine, and I hold two PhDs.
But honestly, I couldn’t believe the things they got into.
After a moment’s reflection, I dismissed my suspicion.
Even with security down, they’d have had no way of getting in here.
Baffled, I stretched to my tiptoes, grabbed the handle, and repositioned it parallel to the pipe. The sensor blinked twice, then stopped altogether.
One issue solved.
I’d taken two steps toward the door when I saw it.
Black cable. Hanging from the corner feed bin.
Like that cable in the locker.
Curious, I climbed to the bin’s opening and tugged the handle. And nearly toppled off the steps as the entire door came free in my hand. It dropped to the floor with a reverberating clatter.
Irritated now, I peered inside.
My head nearly exploded.
Stolen lab equipment nearly filled the space.
What are the odds . . .
Then a second thunderbolt struck home.
I hurried out to the lockers and found the one that attacked me.
My hand froze an inch from the handle. Could I legally open it?
Did I need a warrant? Probable cause? A witness?
Screw it. I’m responsible for this facility.
I engaged the latch, was surprised when the locker opened easily.
Inside were three lengths of cable, a LIRI laptop, and a router.
“You are so busted!” I shouted at no one, angrier than I’d realized.
Slamming the door, I scanned the locker’s face.
Found a name.
Trey Terry.
I was sorting email when Kit burst into the guest office I was using.
“Can you help me with something, Tempe?” Brusque. “Outside?”
“Sure, Kit.” Intrigued. “Should I bring a weapon?”
“No, nothing like that.” Kit’s jaw tightened. I could tell he was barely keeping his agitation in check. “I think I solved our break-in. Looks like an inside job, but I need to be certain.”
“Really?” My interest piqued. “That was quick work.”
“Dumb luck, mostly. But I put the pieces together on my way up here.”
“Let’s talk while we walk.” Logging off Gmail. “I’m all ears.”
“I need you to compare some wires down at the vehicle depot.” Kit shook his head in exasperation. “My prime suspect appears to be both deviously clever and a complete idiot.”
“Wouldn’t be the first criminal to fit that mold.”
We descended to the ground floor, exited Building One, and turned left.
The September sun felt warm on my face. It would be cold in Montreal by now, maybe even frost at night. Even Charlotte could get chilly this time of year. But not Charleston—summer still lingered down here by the coast. I had no complaints.
Kit gestured vaguely up the flowered-lined path. “The garage is two buildings down.”
“You said something about dumb luck?”
In clipped tones my nephew explained what he’d discovered and outlined his theory. “Terry must’ve planned to sneak the stuff out during a feeder run.” Kit’s frown deepened. “Scary thing is, I think it would’ve worked.”
“Makes sense. A crafty scheme, actually. Except for jamming incriminating evidence inside his locker. And leaving more hanging from the hidey-hole.”
Kit’s brows shot up. “That’s the part I don’t get. How can you be that cu
nning and then botch the whole thing with such foolish mistakes? If he’d kept everything tucked inside the bin, I’d never have found it.”
“These dolts get sloppy all the time.” Don’t I know it. “Wipe down a steering wheel, but forget the turn signal. Buy quicklime to dissolve a body, but pay with a credit card. It’s the little details that sink them.”
Still, what Kit was describing was odd.
Such basic mistakes. The skeptical part of my brain rose and stretched.
We reached the depot and made our way to the vehicle bay. A spectacularly round security guard was stacking equipment in the center of the room. Chief Hudson hovered behind him, cataloging and photographing each item.
Two piles of short black cables sat on opposite sides of the gear.
I didn’t need instruction.
I knelt beside the first pile. “These came from the locker?”
Kit nodded.
Scanning the garage, I spotted a circular magnifying lamp attached to a workbench. I lifted a single cable from the first pile, then snagged another from the second. I carried both pieces to the workbench.
Thumbing on the light, I brought the cables into focus under the lens.
It took only seconds. “We have a match.”
“You’re positive?” Kit asked, crossing to me.
“See how the plastic casing is scored in the exact same fashion?” I moved so Kit could see. “And there was an irregularity in the cutting edge—the encased wired is frayed identically. That’s practically a signature. I can check the other samples, but I have no doubt. These two cables were clipped by the same blade.”
“Thank you, Aunt Tempe.” Kit jammed a hand into his pocket. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some calls to make.”
Kit hurried off, already punching his cell. “Detective Hansen, please. It’s Kit Howard from LIRI . . .”
When Kit had gone, out of habit, I let my eyes rove the “scene.”
Something caught my attention in the feed bin corner.
The floor. An unnatural reflection of light off the concrete.
“Chief Hudson?” I called out.
He glanced up from his clipboard. “Yes, Dr. Brennan?”