Convergence Point (7 page)

Now she wished she'd brought Mac along. He'd have either glared Bradet into submission or made a not-­so-­subtle threat that would shut the idiot up. “Mr. Bradet, I really don't have time to indulge in your conspiracy theories. Can we talk about Mr. Troom now?”

“Okay.” Bradet leaned forward in his chair, elbows balanced on his knees. “How about tit-­for-­tat. I tell you everything I know about Henry, and you give me the exclusive interview with the only known clone in the bureau? How's that sound? Pretty stellar, right? Am I right? You know I'm right.”

What she knew was Bradet had had one too many cups of java this morning. “First, let me make this perfectly clear: I am not a clone. There is no conspiracy. There is nothing unusual about my birth or upbringing. Two, if you don't want to talk here, I can and will take you down to the holding cell and interrogate you there. That requires extra paperwork . . .”
and the sheriff's permission to borrow a holding cell
“ . . . and I hate paperwork. If you make me do extra paperwork, I will make it worth my while by not only asking about your roommate, but also putting you at the top of my suspect pool. How do you feel about a complete and thorough examination of your finances? Did you pay taxes for these lovely games donated to you?” Sam nodded and smiled. She tried to make it a sweet, nonthreatening sort of smile that she'd always used to make ­people want to agree with her.

She was pretty sure it looked more like a grimace.

Somehow, she'd lost the knack for smiling like that over the past year. Edwin once said it was something about the look in her eyes—­the one that threatened excessive amounts of imminent pain.

“Um, no. I mean, it's legal. The games and stuff I get to review because I'm paid to talk about them on air. The more ­people who listen to my station, the more ads we sell, the more freebies I get. That's it. Swear on my dad's grave.”

“Good. Then the bureau doesn't need to recommend you be arrested for tax fraud.” She flicked her tablet open. “But maybe it will need to look into obstruction of justice. Let's talk about your roommate, shall we?”

Bradet rubbed sweaty hands on his khaki shorts. “Oh, right. Um, Henry's a nice guy. Real quiet, pays his share of the bills on time, doesn't leave dishes in the sink. That's crucial to being a good roommate. He was the real deal, you know?”

“When did you last see Henry?”

He shook his head and squinted. “Sunday afternoon I guess? There was a beach volleyball game and barbecue I went to. Judged the bikini contest . . . and let me tell you we
all
won that day, if you know what I mean.” She remained impassive. “Uh, guess not. Then I went to work. I clock in around midnight, go over my script, record any ads or whatnot, check the news. My show comes on at six and I'm off air at eight. I usually leave by nine, and Henry left for work early.”

“Do you always work nights?”

“Yeah, I started with a midnight show. Liked to play some cool Indie stuff, music the college kids could relate to. I got popular enough, and they bumped me up to the morning show for weekends. I work Saturday, Sunday, Monday at the morning slot, then Tuesday and Thursday I do the midnight show. Go in to work and go on air first, do everything else after. Friday nights it's all about the clubs, you feel me?”

“Not really.” Spending her free time surrounded by sweaty, inebriated college students never appealed to her, not even when she was younger. “When you saw Henry on Sunday, did he seem upset at all? Worried? Distracted?”

“Nah. He did his thing like usual. Probably did breakfast before I woke up, I saw him when I had lunch, and I saw him making some noodles when I left for the beach. I asked if he wanted to come, but I knew he'd say no. Parties aren't his wiggle, you know?”

“Wiggle?” Sam tried not to say anything unprofessional, settling for, “I'm going to pretend that didn't come with a dance move. How long have you known Henry?”

“Three months or so? He got here just before the holidays. Knew an old buddy of mine who told him to look me up. I needed a roommate who could pay rent, he needed a place to crash, it seemed ideal.”

“Did he have any friends? Girlfriend? Boyfriend? Family? Anyone ever come over?” The questions were textbook, but they made her squirm. Someday an agent would ask
her
neighbors the same thing, and what would they say?

“Henry? Nah, man, no.” Bradet shook his head. “Henry never deviated from his schedule. He went to work, he came home, he went to his room, he came out for dinner at eight on the dot every day. Every day. Grocery shopping was Thursdays. I think he did laundry on the weekends. A man's shorts are none of my business, you know?”

“So, he didn't have any friends?”

“Maybe online?” Bradet guessed. “Once he was in his room, he'd turn on the computer, and that was it. No more communication from the Henry.”

“Can I see his room?”

“Can you pick locks?” Bradet asked. He stood up and led Sam down the left hall. “Henry's bathroom, and his fortress of solitude.” He batted at the combination padlock handing on Henry's door. “He was a very private man. But he paid his rent on time.”

“Your roommate padlocked his bedroom when he left, and you weren't the least bit concerned?” She'd lived with a pill addict and hadn't ever felt the need to padlock her room. Either Henry was scared of someone, or he was scared of someone's finding what he kept in his room. Neither thought gave her much comfort.

Bradet raised his hands in surrender to the cruel fates of roommatedom. “What do you want me to say? He paid his bills. He washed his dishes. He could have been drinking blood and sacrificing gerbils to the elder gods for all I cared. As long as the house didn't stink, and the air-­conditioning stayed on, I wasn't going to complain.”

“You have very low standards.”

He winked at her. “The lower the better, am I right, babe?”

“Don't,” Sam said, stepping away as he encroached on her personal space. “Just don't.”

He moved closer. “I'm just being friendly.”

“And I'm clearly stating I want my personal space without you in it. Are we clear?”

“Yeah,” Bradet said with a frown that said he clearly didn't understand why she wasn't thirsting after him.

She let it go. Bradet's insecurities weren't her problem. Besides—­she had no doubt she could handle this slacker if it came to that. “Do I have your permission to enter the house when I find a bolt cutter for Henry's lock?”

He scratched the back of his head. “I don't know. Some of the stuff here is kinda, you know, important.”

“Like what?”

“The games? My holoset? They're early models I get for working at the station, perks. I get them a ­couple months in advance. I'm really not allowed to have ­people around them unless I'm here. It's in my contract. I take most of my dates to hotels. And, you know, to respect my roommate's privacy.” He nodded, like taking girls to pay-­by-­the-­hour motels was an improvement. Then again, if the living room was any indication of the general state of Bradet's housekeeping, maybe it was a step up from his bedroom.

“When would be a good time for me to come back? Tonight? Tomorrow?” Next time she'd bring Edwin or Mac, some big, burly bureau shield who would make sure Bradet didn't try to climb into her pocket again.

“Friday afternoon would be best. I mean, you're cutting into my sleep time.” Bradet was giving her a beaten-­dog look as if he were the victim.

Sam raised an eyebrow. “You do realize your roommate is dead, and I'm trying to find out what happened to him, don't you?”

“Yeah, but it was an accident at the lab. I know. I read the police report at work. It's tragic—­he didn't pay money for April's rent yet—­but it's not a murder or anything. If you thought there was something important here, you'd have come by on Monday.”

“Henry's death was, we believe, accidental. I want to prevent future accidents. If Henry had notes about what he was working on or what he was planning to work on the day of the incident, it's important.”

“Friday,” Bradet said. “I'm usually up by four.”

“Fine,” Sam said. “I'll be here at four with some bolt cutters. In the meantime, if you think of anything, please don't hesitate to contact my office.”

Bradet leered at her.

“And if you think of anything along those lines, I'll use the bolt cutters on
you
when I return.”

M
ac sat back and enjoyed the scenery as Agent Edwin drove out of what the locals optimistically called a city, south to the Mosquito Lagoon. Edwin's beat-­up red Karoshi Legend rattled down a gravel road and stopped by a tree in an area not visibly different than the past ten miles of trackless gravel road they'd passed. “And this is?”

“The quickest way to the camp,” Edwin said. “They used to live up by Webster's Creek, but a developer bought the area a few years back. Don't ask about the creek at camp. They protested it, and if they think you'll listen, you'll get a blow-­by-­blow story of it from Connor Nu.”

“Connor Nu and Nealie Rho? Are those surnames real names?” Mac asked, as they climbed out of the truck.

Edwin grabbed two pairs of long plastic waders from the back of the truck and tossed a set to Mac. “One hundred percent invented. Nealie told me there's a society record, but I never got all the details out of him.”

“You sound like you spend a lot of time down here with them.”

Edwin shrugged. “Someone has to. The police don't care what they do. They're outside the city jurisdiction. Neither Volusia nor Brevard County wants to take responsibility for them if they get sick.”

“Do they get sick a lot?”

“Not too much. Although one time I told them there was dihydrogen monoxide in the water around here, and three of them went to the hospital for dehydration.” The younger agent flushed red with embarrassment. “Connor was on an anti-­chemical kick. Kept saying that we shouldn't eat anything with chemicals in it. Lectured me on how I was poisoning myself eating grocery store food and refusing their all-­natural fish and cattail biscuits. I got mad.”

“Hey—­it's not your fault they don't know basic chemistry.”

“Yeah, but I should have known better.”

“Better you play a trick on them than punch them in the face.”

“I'm too big to hit ­people,” Edwin said. “I played football my freshman year of high school. Knocked a guy out, and he quit playing because of the head trauma. I quit, too. I don't want to hurt ­people.”

Mac nodded. “I guess hitting with your words is the mature thing to do, then.” He pulled his waders on and looked at the dusty road. The humidity was near a hundred percent. Every breath was a gulp of hot steam. “How wet are we going to get?”

“In a mangal swamp? Don't bring anything that isn't waterproof.”

“Is my wallet okay in the car?”

“Oh, yeah. Nobody comes out here but me and sometimes the park ranger.”

Flattened grass and a faint tire imprint caught Mac's eye. “Any of your pirates have a car?”

“Not parked out here. I think a few of them have bikes at the marina. Mostly they get around on boats. All the waterways around here connect to Indian River Lagoon. You can take that all the way south to Sebastian Inlet. Or you go south of Mosquito Lagoon and hike everything across the A1A to the Atlantic. That's how they get most of their smuggled stuff in.”

“So, this was the park ranger?” Mac pointed to the flattened grass.

Edwin shook his head. “Sheila Bingara is the ranger on duty up here. She doesn't come out here unless she calls me first.”

“Are you two dating?”

Another blush. “I wish. Nah, she doesn't like being the only girl out here with a lot of what she calls bogans. I think it means hoodlums.”

“And you haven't been out here in over a week?”

“Right.”

“So let's get a picture of this tire mark and some measurements. This was probably Nealie's last ride.”

Equipped with the bureau's standard crime scene kit, they took pictures, measured everything, and started hiking into the jungle interior. Long grass and gravel quickly gave way to thick trees, vines, and mud.

“Mind the orb weavers,” Edwin said, pointing up. “They're usually not a problem, but you don't want to stretch in here.”

Mac glanced overhead and saw spiderwebs stretched from tree to tree. Something scuttled past.

“Here.” Edwin stopped. “This is what you're watching for.” On the tree trunk next to Edwin's head there was a fist-­sized yellow-­and-­black spider with strange horns on its carapace.

“Mutated?”

“Nah, orb weavers are spiky. Just watch for the little red-­and-­black ones. They like to make webs across the pathways. They're not poisonous, just pesky.”

“And ­people are willing to live out here?” Idaho had spiders, too, but they were the normal little brown ones or the occasional black widow. Spiky spiders were something out of a kid's cartoon.

­“People willingly live everywhere,” Edwin said. “Ready to head into the swamp?”

“We aren't there yet?”
How could it possibly get wetter?

“Oh, no, this is just the bike trail. We're in the swamp when you have water up to your knees.”

“Oh. Yipee,” Mac muttered. “There's so much to look forward to here.”

“Not quite Chicago, is it, sir?” Edwin asked with a laugh.

Mac looked at the trees, ancient, gnarled creatures that looked like primordial ooze that had just found a solid form rather than the more prim maples lining the lanes of Chicago. “This isn't quite a walk past the linden blossoms, but it's not bad.” Florida was less sterile. He took a deep breath, and the air soaked his lungs. “I could live with a little less humidity.”