Exposed (34 page)

Razzy’s
Pensacola, Florida

Rick Ragazzi couldn’t believe his luck. Just when the refrigerator repair job was finished—okay, $778—he got the call from his best waiter, telling him he couldn’t make it in tonight. Something about a Jet Ski accident and being in the emergency room at Baptist Hospital. Rick had heard sirens in the background.

Saturday night was the absolute worst to find a substitute, especially an hour before the shift began, which meant Rick had to fill in. And he was feeling like crap, full-blown flu symptoms—fever, headache, muscle ache and a nosebleed that stopped only long enough for him to take orders. As soon as he retreated to the kitchen, it started all over again.

Joey was giving him a hard time about it, calling him a cokehead because he knew it was safe. Rick was no closer to being a cokehead than Joey was to being an altar boy. It was funny until the fourth or fifth time and then his cousin grew concerned. He grabbed Rick’s arm at one point during the evening and took him aside.

“What’s going on, dude? Are you okay? You don’t look so good.”

“Just a bug,” Rick told him.

Then he realized he was probably inflicting his bad luck on every one of his customers. He’d need to be more careful, though he had already accidentally gotten a finger in someone’s soup. A little boy at table five kept sticking his French fries into Rick’s ear every time he leaned over to serve the rest of the boy’s family. Who knows what else? He didn’t feel good. It was difficult to pay attention. Toward the end of the evening it was difficult to care.

Joey pulled Rick aside again when the dessert crowd came. He made him drink a syrupy concoction that tasted like black licorice and coffee.

“My dad swears by this stuff,” Joey told him. “He claims it’ll cure anything from a hangover to anthrax. I can testify to the hangover. Fortunately, I have no idea about the anthrax.”

“What are you talking about? Uncle Vic’s never been drunk or sick a day in his life.”

“Yeah, right,” Joey said. “My mom says he was quite the party hound before his FBI days.”

Rick couldn’t help thinking that Joey actually sounded, if not proud, then somewhat pleased.

“We just know him as Mr. FBI man,” Joey told him. “Mr. Macho Shithead, Mr. My-Way-or-the-Highway.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“Nah. I’m not disappointed. I just wish he’d remember sometimes that he wasn’t always perfect.”

Rick watched Joey get back to his soufflé. And more than ever Rick realized that he’d never be able to tell his cousin about the thousand dollars his dad had sent.

Razzy’s
Pensacola, Florida

Rick Ragazzi couldn’t believe his luck. Just when the refrigerator repair job was finished—okay, $778—he got the call from his best waiter, telling him he couldn’t make it in tonight. Something about a Jet Ski accident and being in the emergency room at Baptist Hospital. Rick had heard sirens in the background.

Saturday night was the absolute worst to find a substitute, especially an hour before the shift began, which meant Rick had to fill in. And he was feeling like crap, full-blown flu symptoms—fever, headache, muscle ache and a nosebleed that stopped only long enough for him to take orders. As soon as he retreated to the kitchen, it started all over again.

Joey was giving him a hard time about it, calling him a cokehead because he knew it was safe. Rick was no closer to being a cokehead than Joey was to being an altar boy. It was funny until the fourth or fifth time and then his cousin grew concerned. He grabbed Rick’s arm at one point during the evening and took him aside.

“What’s going on, dude? Are you okay? You don’t look so good.”

“Just a bug,” Rick told him.

Then he realized he was probably inflicting his bad luck on every one of his customers. He’d need to be more careful, though he had already accidentally gotten a finger in someone’s soup. A little boy at table five kept sticking his French fries into Rick’s ear every time he leaned over to serve the rest of the boy’s family. Who knows what else? He didn’t feel good. It was difficult to pay attention. Toward the end of the evening it was difficult to care.

Joey pulled Rick aside again when the dessert crowd came. He made him drink a syrupy concoction that tasted like black licorice and coffee.

“My dad swears by this stuff,” Joey told him. “He claims it’ll cure anything from a hangover to anthrax. I can testify to the hangover. Fortunately, I have no idea about the anthrax.”

“What are you talking about? Uncle Vic’s never been drunk or sick a day in his life.”

“Yeah, right,” Joey said. “My mom says he was quite the party hound before his FBI days.”

Rick couldn’t help thinking that Joey actually sounded, if not proud, then somewhat pleased.

“We just know him as Mr. FBI man,” Joey told him. “Mr. Macho Shithead, Mr. My-Way-or-the-Highway.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“Nah. I’m not disappointed. I just wish he’d remember sometimes that he wasn’t always perfect.”

Rick watched Joey get back to his soufflé. And more than ever Rick realized that he’d never be able to tell his cousin about the thousand dollars his dad had sent.

Reston, Virginia

“For centerpieces they’re having pink and white calla lilies,” Emma was telling Gwen as Tully sat miserably across from them hoping for something, anything that would get his daughter to stop talking about his ex-wife’s upcoming nuptials. He’d even considered kicking her under the table. And Gwen was being polite, listening and nodding like Tully imagined she did with her patients, especially the severely narcissistic ones. But then who could be more narcissistic than a teenager?

It had taken Tully two slices of pizza—one piece of his favorite, supreme, and another of Emma’s favorite, pepperoni—for him to realize Gwen somehow knew what their favorites were. His, he could understand. They’d gone out for pizza, but had he ever mentioned Emma’s favorite? Was it coincidence that she had chosen pepperoni? After all, lots of people liked pepperoni pizza.

He watched Gwen smile at Emma. God, this woman had a great smile. It crinkled her nose a bit and showed off the tiny freckles. But there was something tight in the smile tonight. She said she had just come from seeing Maggie.

“How is she?” he’d asked.

“I’ll tell you later,” she had answered too quickly, obviously not wanting to discuss any of it before dinner and in front of Emma.

Now Gwen asked Emma about the sling-back shoes that the bridesmaids were wearing. Tully couldn’t help thinking she was a glutton for punishment, but somehow she managed to look interested.

That’s when Tully decided it was no coincidence that Gwen had brought both his and Emma’s favorite pizzas. She’s a psychologist, for God’s sake, of course, it was no coincidence. All of Emma’s questions earlier about him and her mom had stirred up a sense of nostalgia. Gwen bringing his favorite pizza reminded him that Caroline used to buy him his favorite flavored jelly beans. At the time he was never sure whether or not it was because she cared about him or she simply wanted to make her old boyfriend jealous. With Caroline there always seemed to be an ulterior motive to everything she did.

“They have over two hundred people invited,” Emma announced like it was a competition.

Tully thought Caroline hadn’t changed much. It sounded as if she was using even her wedding as a way to impress her friends and colleagues. He had wondered more than once or twice during their marriage if she regretted her choice of husband, especially when Tully settled into the FBI field office in Cleveland. After all, he wasn’t the D.C. hotshot making the evening news and busting up cases like the Unabomber or the Beltway Snipers or finding Eric Rudolph in the woods.

Even now with all of Caroline’s own successes—she still seemed to be looking for something or someone else to make her bigger and better. That wasn’t fair, Tully realized. Maybe she really loved this boy VP. And he realized that despite the feeling of nostalgia there was no longer that sense of loss that he had felt in the early days after the divorce. He couldn’t remember when it disappeared. Didn’t know that it had disappeared so completely until this very moment. It was gone and that was the important thing.

Emma had finally taken a breath long enough to let Gwen talk. When Tully tuned back into the conversation he couldn’t believe his ears. The two of them had gone from pink wedding dresses and sling-back shoes to Gwen telling Emma about a New York university that specialized in fashion design. And Emma was actually listening.

God, he loved this woman. Then his stomach did a pleasant flip. Evidently it was an evening for revelations, because he hadn’t realized before how much he did care about…perhaps even loved, Gwen Patterson.

Tully sat back, watching the two of them. Neither one appeared to remember he was in the same room, let alone at the same table. Harvey came over and laid his chin on Tully’s knee. He patted the big dog’s head, the two of them bonding after being ousted by their women. Except that Harvey really just wanted Tully’s pizza crust.

Emma’s cell phone interrupted and she grabbed for it, but stopped. “It’s Andrea. We’ve got that project for lit.”

Tully immediately knew it was really Emma’s safety net. She and Andrea had probably planned for the interruption or rather what Emma might consider an escape. But she was waiting for Tully to say it was okay. And she looked…apologetic, maybe even a bit regretful. His daughter had surprised herself and was enjoying Gwen Patterson.

“Go ahead.” He waved her away from the table.

“This won’t take long,” Emma told Gwen.

Tully waited until his daughter disappeared into her bedroom.

“She likes you.” He knew he sounded like he was about twelve.

“Does it matter?”

That wasn’t at all what he expected her to say. Of course, it mattered but he stopped himself. That obviously wasn’t what she wanted to hear.

“Is it wrong for me to want the two most important women in my life to like each other?”

“And if we didn’t?”

It was a good question. A legitimate question. One he hadn’t bothered to ask himself.

“I’m sorry,” she said before he had a chance to respond. She set her elbows on the table and placed her chin in her hands, looking suddenly exhausted. “They’re saying Maggie and Cunningham were exposed to a virus.”

“So it’s not anthrax or ricin?” He thought that should be a relief. Gwen looked anything but relieved.

“It’s Ebola.”

“Jesus! How is that possible? Where would he have gotten his hands on it? Ebola doesn’t just happen here in the States.”

Gwen shrugged. “There was an incident right here in Reston. Back in the eighties. The government kept it quiet. A private lab had gotten a shipment of monkeys. The monkeys started getting sick. Then they started dying. But that was 1989. Almost twenty years ago.”

Tully raised an eyebrow, wondering how she knew all this.

“I checked it out after I left Maggie,” Gwen said. “The virus was Ebola, but it didn’t jump to humans. Ebola Reston. That’s what they called it. They name the different strains by the region where it was first found.”

“Maggie and Cunningham. Is it Ebola Reston?”

“Ebola Zaire.”

“That’s a bad one?”

“It’s called the ‘slate wiper.’”

Tully winced. Gwen noticed and looked away. It was too late. He saw the fear in her eyes. He shoved around some pizza crumbs on his paper plate.

“That might help narrow down who this guy is. Unless he’s traveled to Africa in the last six months he’d have to get the virus from a research lab, maybe a government facility or a university. He couldn’t just special order it.”

Tully drummed the tabletop. This was worse than he thought. The guy was much more dangerous. He didn’t just have opportunity and motive. He had access.

“The anthrax killings in 2001,” Tully said and waited for Gwen’s eyes, for her attention. “Do you remember them?”

“Not in detail. I remember the letters looked quite ordinary and they were sent through the mail. One ended up in Tom Brokaw’s office. A couple of others were sent to congressmen. Right? It happened after 9/11. I remember being too numb to pay much attention.”

“Twenty-two incidents. Five dead. No one was charged or convicted.” This time Gwen raised her eyebrow. “George Sloane,” Tully explained. “The documents guy. He brought it up this morning. So I did some research.” He stopped drumming, scratched at his jaw and realized it was clenched.

“One of the few suspects was a scientist,” he continued. “A scientist who previously worked for USAMRIID. They accused him of sneaking out samples of anthrax from the lab at Fort Detrick.” Tully didn’t like what he was thinking. “I imagine USAMRIID has samples of Ebola, too.”

Reston, Virginia

“For centerpieces they’re having pink and white calla lilies,” Emma was telling Gwen as Tully sat miserably across from them hoping for something, anything that would get his daughter to stop talking about his ex-wife’s upcoming nuptials. He’d even considered kicking her under the table. And Gwen was being polite, listening and nodding like Tully imagined she did with her patients, especially the severely narcissistic ones. But then who could be more narcissistic than a teenager?

It had taken Tully two slices of pizza—one piece of his favorite, supreme, and another of Emma’s favorite, pepperoni—for him to realize Gwen somehow knew what their favorites were. His, he could understand. They’d gone out for pizza, but had he ever mentioned Emma’s favorite? Was it coincidence that she had chosen pepperoni? After all, lots of people liked pepperoni pizza.

He watched Gwen smile at Emma. God, this woman had a great smile. It crinkled her nose a bit and showed off the tiny freckles. But there was something tight in the smile tonight. She said she had just come from seeing Maggie.

“How is she?” he’d asked.

“I’ll tell you later,” she had answered too quickly, obviously not wanting to discuss any of it before dinner and in front of Emma.

Now Gwen asked Emma about the sling-back shoes that the bridesmaids were wearing. Tully couldn’t help thinking she was a glutton for punishment, but somehow she managed to look interested.

That’s when Tully decided it was no coincidence that Gwen had brought both his and Emma’s favorite pizzas. She’s a psychologist, for God’s sake, of course, it was no coincidence. All of Emma’s questions earlier about him and her mom had stirred up a sense of nostalgia. Gwen bringing his favorite pizza reminded him that Caroline used to buy him his favorite flavored jelly beans. At the time he was never sure whether or not it was because she cared about him or she simply wanted to make her old boyfriend jealous. With Caroline there always seemed to be an ulterior motive to everything she did.

“They have over two hundred people invited,” Emma announced like it was a competition.

Tully thought Caroline hadn’t changed much. It sounded as if she was using even her wedding as a way to impress her friends and colleagues. He had wondered more than once or twice during their marriage if she regretted her choice of husband, especially when Tully settled into the FBI field office in Cleveland. After all, he wasn’t the D.C. hotshot making the evening news and busting up cases like the Unabomber or the Beltway Snipers or finding Eric Rudolph in the woods.

Even now with all of Caroline’s own successes—she still seemed to be looking for something or someone else to make her bigger and better. That wasn’t fair, Tully realized. Maybe she really loved this boy VP. And he realized that despite the feeling of nostalgia there was no longer that sense of loss that he had felt in the early days after the divorce. He couldn’t remember when it disappeared. Didn’t know that it had disappeared so completely until this very moment. It was gone and that was the important thing.

Emma had finally taken a breath long enough to let Gwen talk. When Tully tuned back into the conversation he couldn’t believe his ears. The two of them had gone from pink wedding dresses and sling-back shoes to Gwen telling Emma about a New York university that specialized in fashion design. And Emma was actually listening.

God, he loved this woman. Then his stomach did a pleasant flip. Evidently it was an evening for revelations, because he hadn’t realized before how much he did care about…perhaps even loved, Gwen Patterson.

Tully sat back, watching the two of them. Neither one appeared to remember he was in the same room, let alone at the same table. Harvey came over and laid his chin on Tully’s knee. He patted the big dog’s head, the two of them bonding after being ousted by their women. Except that Harvey really just wanted Tully’s pizza crust.

Emma’s cell phone interrupted and she grabbed for it, but stopped. “It’s Andrea. We’ve got that project for lit.”

Tully immediately knew it was really Emma’s safety net. She and Andrea had probably planned for the interruption or rather what Emma might consider an escape. But she was waiting for Tully to say it was okay. And she looked…apologetic, maybe even a bit regretful. His daughter had surprised herself and was enjoying Gwen Patterson.

“Go ahead.” He waved her away from the table.

“This won’t take long,” Emma told Gwen.

Tully waited until his daughter disappeared into her bedroom.

“She likes you.” He knew he sounded like he was about twelve.

“Does it matter?”

That wasn’t at all what he expected her to say. Of course, it mattered but he stopped himself. That obviously wasn’t what she wanted to hear.

“Is it wrong for me to want the two most important women in my life to like each other?”

“And if we didn’t?”

It was a good question. A legitimate question. One he hadn’t bothered to ask himself.

“I’m sorry,” she said before he had a chance to respond. She set her elbows on the table and placed her chin in her hands, looking suddenly exhausted. “They’re saying Maggie and Cunningham were exposed to a virus.”

“So it’s not anthrax or ricin?” He thought that should be a relief. Gwen looked anything but relieved.

“It’s Ebola.”

“Jesus! How is that possible? Where would he have gotten his hands on it? Ebola doesn’t just happen here in the States.”

Gwen shrugged. “There was an incident right here in Reston. Back in the eighties. The government kept it quiet. A private lab had gotten a shipment of monkeys. The monkeys started getting sick. Then they started dying. But that was 1989. Almost twenty years ago.”

Tully raised an eyebrow, wondering how she knew all this.

“I checked it out after I left Maggie,” Gwen said. “The virus was Ebola, but it didn’t jump to humans. Ebola Reston. That’s what they called it. They name the different strains by the region where it was first found.”

“Maggie and Cunningham. Is it Ebola Reston?”

“Ebola Zaire.”

“That’s a bad one?”

“It’s called the ‘slate wiper.’”

Tully winced. Gwen noticed and looked away. It was too late. He saw the fear in her eyes. He shoved around some pizza crumbs on his paper plate.

“That might help narrow down who this guy is. Unless he’s traveled to Africa in the last six months he’d have to get the virus from a research lab, maybe a government facility or a university. He couldn’t just special order it.”

Tully drummed the tabletop. This was worse than he thought. The guy was much more dangerous. He didn’t just have opportunity and motive. He had access.

“The anthrax killings in 2001,” Tully said and waited for Gwen’s eyes, for her attention. “Do you remember them?”

“Not in detail. I remember the letters looked quite ordinary and they were sent through the mail. One ended up in Tom Brokaw’s office. A couple of others were sent to congressmen. Right? It happened after 9/11. I remember being too numb to pay much attention.”

“Twenty-two incidents. Five dead. No one was charged or convicted.” This time Gwen raised her eyebrow. “George Sloane,” Tully explained. “The documents guy. He brought it up this morning. So I did some research.” He stopped drumming, scratched at his jaw and realized it was clenched.

“One of the few suspects was a scientist,” he continued. “A scientist who previously worked for USAMRIID. They accused him of sneaking out samples of anthrax from the lab at Fort Detrick.” Tully didn’t like what he was thinking. “I imagine USAMRIID has samples of Ebola, too.”