Code tb-3 Read online

  “I’m not sure,” I admitted. “I wish Ben and Shelton had come.”

  Hi snorted. “Ben said this was a waste of time, remember?”

  “How could I forget?” That was so unlike him. “Ben usually loves this kind of stuff. For all we know, this ‘Game’ is deadly serious, and some homicidal lunatic actually intends to kill people. So I don’t get why—”

  The sound of the door opening interrupted my response. I turned to see Anders Sundberg poke his head into the room.

  “Hey you two.” Anders ambled in wearing a white lab coat over medical scrubs. “What’s going down? Anything I can help with?”

  “No thanks.” Trying not to smooth my hair. “I think we’ve got it covered.”

  Anders was too handsome for his own good. For anyone’s good.

  In my periphery, I saw Hi slip the Gamemaster’s letter into a drawer.

  Have to follow the rules.

  “We need a lab for a few hours,” I said. “Kit thought this room was free?”

  “Iglehart left for the day, so it’s available.” Anders grinned sheepishly. “And I’ll level with you. Kit sent me in here to spy.”

  Did he now? Perhaps my act hadn’t been as convincing as I’d thought. But maybe we could turn this to our advantage.

  “Hate to disappoint,” Hi said, “but it’s only schoolwork.”

  Anders glanced at the assortment on the counter. “Interesting project.”

  “Kind of.” Here goes. “We have to examine those objects for trace evidence.”

  “A forensic assignment?” Anders looked intrigued. “Sounds fun.”

  “You bet.” Hi adapted smoothly. “Something has been planted on one of these articles. We’re supposed to locate and identify it.”

  “I’m in.” Sundberg removed a box of latex gloves from a cabinet. “The first rule of a forensic examination is to avoid contaminating the objects yourself. You don’t want to introduce anything not already there.”

  I cringed. I’d been carrying this stuff loose in my backpack.

  Oh well. Done was done.

  “So what exactly should we look for?” Hi asked, snapping on gloves.

  “Anything, really. Trace evidence is any material that transfers when two objects come into contact.”

  Anders moved to the counter. “Often the transfer is facilitated by heat, in a process we call contact friction. A fingerprint, for example.” He carefully lifted the iPad. “This touch screen would be the perfect medium to capture one.”

  I glanced at Hi, who frowned sourly. We’d all handled the iPad. Whatever prints may have been present, that ship had sailed.

  “I don’t think that’s it,” I said. “We’ve used that as part of our assignment, so it must be covered with our own prints.”

  Sundberg shrugged and put it aside, then moved to the puzzle box. “What’s this?”

  “Himitsu-Bako.” Hi winked. “It’s Japanese, yo.”

  “Does it open?”

  “Hopefully.” Grasping its sides, I tried to mimic Shelton’s moves, but couldn’t recall the sequence. After three tries I gave up. Hi had no better luck.

  “We found some papers inside,” I said, hiding my frustration. “But I guess further inspection will have to wait.”

  “When you get it open,” Anders said, “look for things like hair, cosmetics, glass, or fibers.” He glanced at the ceiling, thinking. “Also soils and botanical materials. Pollen. Maybe paint chips. You get the idea. And use tape to lift them.”

  “What about this?”

  I tapped the cache from Castle Pinckney. Though scorched and smashed, the box was largely in one piece. I was pinning most of my hopes on it.

  “Okay, now we’re in business.” Sundberg studied a singed area along the box’s exterior. “An accelerant was used to make this burn. An oil perhaps, or some other fuel.”

  Hi edged in close. “How does that help?”

  “Because accelerants don’t burn completely clean. They leave a residue.” Anders held up one hand. “Now, for chemistry sticklers, true accelerants are only compounds and gases that promote fuel burning—like an oxygen-bearing gas—and not the fuel itself. That would exclude gasoline, acetone, kerosene, and so on. But in forensics, any chemical fuel that causes a fire to burn hotter, spread quicker, or be harder to extinguish is considered an accelerant.”

  “Identifying the residue will reveal the accelerant.” I’d caught on. “We’d know what caused the fire.”

  “And knowing that could lead to a suspect,” Hi finished. “If a bomb was laced with butane, we could start frisking smokers.”

  “Exactly.” Anders began pulling supplies from a drawer. “The best example is gunpowder residue. Even though it’s invisible, it stains the shooter’s trigger hand. Pretty useful when sorting out who shot whom.”

  “I hear ya, bro,” said Hi. “So what’s the next step?”

  Anders brought his eyes close to the cache. “Let’s have a go.” Wielding a long swab, he carefully swiped the singed area, darkening the cotton tip with a greasy film.

  “Bingo.” Anders looked pleased with himself. “Whatever that gunk is, it fueled the blaze that charred this container. That’s a trace evidence jackpot.”

  “Excellent.” My spirits rose. Maybe this would work. “How can we identify the substance?”

  “Run it through a mass spectrometer, or maybe a scanning electron microscope. Arson investigators might use a technique called headspace gas chromatography, which separates gas mixtures into their individual components. Or, if you had an idea what the accelerant was, you could try a chemical reaction test.”

  “Great!” I rubbed my hands together. “Which one first?”

  Anders’s eyebrows rose. “Tory, that’s a hefty request. Those machines are extremely expensive. We rarely log time on them for side projects.” He paused, lips pursed. “Your teacher couldn’t have reasonably expected you to conduct a full microscopic analysis. How would you? I think you’ll be okay with just the swab.”

  “Of course we will.” Hi elbow-jabbed my side. “Tory’s such a kidder. Let’s run the mass spectrometer.” He flashed a “get a load of this guy” face at Anders while aiming a thumb back at me. “What a joker!”

  “Yeah, you’re right.” I forced a laugh. “The residue sample should be plenty.”

  But how was I going to identify it?

  I nearly growled in frustration. And worry. The Gamemaster’s dire threats were looping inside my head. I couldn’t let on to Anders, but we needed those tests.

  Hi began repacking our evidence, talking the whole time. “I think we’ve made some real progress here. Dynamite stuff. First place in the … homework … contest should be ours for the taking. We’ll get matching jackets, maybe with a sweet periodic table arm patch …”

  I tuned him out.

  Chemical analysis was a tall order. Only one idea sprang to mind.

  Despite his über-wealthy background, as a young man Jason’s father had bucked Taylor family tradition and chosen to protect and serve. After years working as a homicide detective, he’d eventually been promoted to head the violent crimes unit for the Charleston Police Department.

  Should I try that angle? It didn’t go so well last time, and what story would Jason believe? When it came to odd requests, my credibility had grown suspect. Even with my own father.

  “Do you know who specializes in this type of analysis?” I asked casually.

  “The police,” Sundberg answered. “We’ve got better equipment, but they’ve got the expertise.” A strange look crossed his face. “Why do you ask?”

  “For the assignment. We’re supposed to … we’ve got a list of forensic questions to answer. I think we’re supposed to interview an expert.”

  “Oh, no problem.” Anders tapped his chin, thinking. “There’s a guy downtown at the CPD crime lab named Eric Marchant. Actually, Hudson knows him pretty well, if you can stomach talking to that guy. From what I’ve heard, Marchant is one of the city’s
go-to forensic experts. A ballistics ace.”

  Hmm. It’s a start.

  “Thanks so much for the help.” Hi chucked Anders’s shoulder, which seemed to startle him. “We’ll be sure to acknowledge you when our paper wins the Nobel Prize for Awesome Research. We’ll even drop you a footnote.”

  “You’re too kind.” Dryly. “Can I tell Kit that you’ve finished in here?”

  “Yep.” Hi swiveled to me. “Ready to rock, Tor?”

  I nodded. “Thanks, Anders.”

  “Always a pleasure.” He departed with a lazy wave.

  “At least we found something, right?” Hi recovered the Gamemaster’s letter and shoved it in his backpack. “Not a total waste.”

  “Not at all. Let’s get home and tell the others.”

  Heading for the door, I had a bit more pep in my step. No answers yet, but we had a place to start. Progress.

  For the first time since Coop was injured, I felt a measure of control. The humiliating feeling of being pushed around had lessened. It hadn’t disappeared—we still had to dance to the Gamemaster’s strings—but the bite wasn’t quite as strong.

  Watch your back, Gamemaster.

  I almost smiled as we waited for the elevator.

  You picked the wrong mark.

  CHAPTER 17

  SECURITY CHIEF HUDSON flipped on the lights.

  Halogens flared overhead, bathing Lab Two in surreal brightness. The radiance gleamed off his polished name tag and wristwatch.

  Hudson walked to the room’s center. Rotated a slow three-sixty. Stopped. Rubbed his closely shaved chin.

  This is pointless.

  But his instructions had been clear. Watch the Brennan girl. Track her movements on the island. Discover if she was poking into things she shouldn’t be.

  So here he stood, inspecting an empty laboratory. Grasping at straws.

  The girl doesn’t leave a magic vapor trail to follow.

  Hudson did a quick circuit, hoping for some clue to what Brennan and the fat kid had been doing. No luck. They’d cleaned up after themselves.

  Hudson had learned a few things. Brennan was working with Dr. Sundberg. His ID locator hadn’t budged from Lab Two while the girl was there.

  What was that connection?

  Hudson paced the room, idly running a finger along the metal counter bolted to the wall. Once more he scanned the cabinets, drawers, and jars, inspected the gadgets and machines. Looked for anything ajar, disturbed, used, or out of place.

  Nothing. Like they’d never been there.

  Perhaps the visit was harmless.

  The kid was always out here, her and those boys. Underfoot, traipsing around the island like those blasted monkeys. Some whispered they’d befriended the pack of wild dogs! Hudson couldn’t fathom why Director Howard allowed those animals to roam free.

  Or his daughter, for that matter.

  Hudson sighed. He’d simply report what he knew. Which, frankly, was zip. But a thin report was better than none. He couldn’t botch this one.

  One last glance, then Hudson slapped off the lights and headed out the door.

  CHAPTER 18

  THE MENU OFFERED sloppy joes with a diced vegetable medley.

  Even the best schools have terrible food days, and Bolton was no exception. Which is why I usually packed a lunch. That day, it was a cucumber-and-cream-cheese sandwich, SunChips, and Diet Coke. I never claimed to be a health nut.

  “I’m telling you, we don’t need him.” Ben wouldn’t let it go. “And he’s not going to help anyway.”

  We sat in our usual corner. Around us, the cafeteria echoed with clattering trays, clinking silverware, and gossiping students. I barely noticed. My focus was on the three sets of skeptical eyes across the table.

  “Jason’s dad is a detective.” Third time I’d repeated it. “We’re trying to contact a police expert. Why wouldn’t we use that connection?”

  “The Gamemaster’s rules.” Ben leaned closer, dropped his voice. “We’re not supposed to talk to anyone. People could get hurt.”

  Hi and Shelton flanked Ben. We’d arranged ourselves this way so Jason could sit next to me, but right now it felt like a firing squad.

  “Ben could be right.” Hi was shrugging off his inside-out jacket. “The rules don’t specifically mention this, but I doubt the Gamemaster would see it that way.”

  “We just need an introduction.” My patience was wearing thin. “Jason can get a message to this Marchant guy, and then we can give him the swab. Easy.”

  “What makes you think Marchant will help us?” Shelton asked. “We don’t know him. And I thought those labs couldn’t do side projects?”

  “That’s why we need Jason,” I said, exasperated. “He’s our in.”

  Hi glanced behind me. “He’s coming now.” Pause. “Ever notice how short Jason wears his ties? He looks like an insurance salesman. And learn a Windsor knot already.”

  Shelton snorted, covered it by shoveling vegetable medley into his mouth.

  Jason slid into the chair beside me. “Something funny?”

  Shelton expelled a few fake hacks. “Hiccups.”

  “Whatever.” Jason seemed in good spirits. “Sorry I’m late. I didn’t hit my locker until after third period, and just got your note. What’s up?”

  I smiled sweetly. I hoped. “We have a favor to ask.”

  “She has a favor to ask,” Ben interjected.

  Damn it, Ben! The last thing I needed.

  Jason, to his credit, ignored Ben’s clarification. “I live to serve. Name it.”

  “I need to reach someone at the CPD crime lab.” Acting like my request was the most normal thing in the world. “A forensics expert named Eric Marchant.”

  “And you’re hoping I can make that happen.” Jason flashed a droll grin. “What’d you do this time? Shoot somebody?”

  Ben sighed loudly. “Can you help Tory or not?”

  Jason’s cool slipped a notch. “If you don’t need anything, why are you here?”

  “I’m studying jerkoffs in the wild,” Ben answered dryly. “This seemed like a good chance to observe one up close.”

  Jason leaned forward. “You want up close? We can step outside for a better look.”

  Hi and Shelton placed hands on Ben’s shoulders.

  “Enough!” I barked. “Ben, quit screwing around. Apologize.”

  Ben’s gaze cut to me. Then he sat back and crossed his arms. “Sorry.” His tone could not have been less sincere.

  Jason gave Ben a level look. “Hey, no problem, pal. Misunderstandings happen.”

  Ben reddened, but held his tongue.

  “I’m working on something for my father’s birthday,” I said quickly. “A scientist out at LIRI said I should speak to Marchant.”

  “What’s the project?”

  “I can’t tell you.” Coy. “It’d spoil the surprise.”

  Jason pulled a face. “But the surprise isn’t for me.”

  The boys were right. This was a terrible cover story.

  Unfortunately, hard as I’d tried, I hadn’t come up with a single plausible reason why I’d need a CPD forensics expert. One that wouldn’t lead to more questions. Questions I couldn’t answer.

  So I forged ahead, hoping I didn’t sound as phony as I felt.

  “My dad’s way into history. Last week, I found this antique cash register in the old market that I knew he’d love.”

  Avoiding eye contact. Antique cash register?

  “It’s the bomb,” Hi added. “Buttons everywhere. Really good at totaling prices.”

  “The problem is,” I continued, “the gears need a specific type of oil to run properly. I don’t know which one, but was told Marchant could identify things like that if given a sample.”

  Jason looked at me askance. “You need a police forensics expert to identify oil for an antique cash register?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” I tried not to squirm. Sooo ridiculous.

  “You get into the weirdest things.”
r />   “You’ll help me out?” Thousand-watt smile.

  Jason shrugged. “Sure, why not. I can call over about Marchant.”

  “Thank you so much!” I removed the swab from my bag and handed it to Jason. “Here’s the sample.”

  Jason raised the swab like a baton. “One condition.”

  “Anything.”

  “I get to see this amazing cash register.”

  Crap.

  Shelton’s brows climbed his forehead. Hi winced. Ben’s attention snapped back to the table.

  Jason didn’t seem to notice. “You’ll have to show me this machine, one-on-one.”

  “‘One-on-one,’” Ben mimicked in a singsong voice. Then he got up and started for the door. “Jesus, this is painful to watch. I’m outta here.”

  Jason shot to his feet, nostrils flaring. Ben stopped dead.

  The cafeteria went still. Everyone watched the boys square off.

  “I’m not a violent person, Blue.” Jason bit off the words. “But I’ve had enough of your mouth. I’ll kick your ass right here.”

  Ben’s jaw tightened. “You think so, rich boy?”

  “You heard me.” A vein was bulging in Jason’s neck.

  Ben’s breathing quickened. The tiniest spark of gold flickered in his irises.

  My stomach backflipped.

  Oh my God! He’s going to flare!

  “Get him out of here!” I hissed at Shelton and Hi. “Hurry!”

  Recognizing the danger, Hi jumped to his feet, planted both hands on Ben’s chest and pushed him toward the door, whispering, “Use your head, use your head, use your head!”

  Ben tried to hold his ground, but Shelton joined the effort. “Get it together! People are watching. Don’t lose control!”

  Slowly, the duo managed to back Ben away, but his glare never strayed from Jason. At the exit, Ben shrugged free and stalked down the hall alone.

  I took my first breath since Jason stood.

  Crisis averted, but barely.

  Excited chatter filled the room. As classmates watched our table, hoping for more drama, Jason hastily retook his seat.

  “That was …” I struggled for words. “Jason, I’m so sorry. I don’t know why—”

  “You really don’t, do you?” Jason snapped. “Everyone else can figure it out.”