Burke was looking wary again. “Why? Is it a secret?”

  “It’s not exactly something we want to broadcast across the greater Bay Area,” Delgado said. “How did you find out?”

  Burke made a face. “Ramon told us Friday morning,” he said reluctantly. “After the prototype demo, after you shooed all of us out of the lab.”

  “How did he find out?”

  “I don’t know,” Burke growled. “Why don’t you ask him?”

  “I will,” Delgado said, getting to his feet. “Thanks for your time.”

  “Sure,” Burke said sourly. “Don’t slam the door on your way out.”

  ~

  Kingsley was jogging toward a corner convenience store when Talbot caught up with him. “Mr. Kingsley,” he called through the open window of his car, slowing down to pace the other. “I wonder if I could have a few words with you.”

  “It’s Sunday, friend,” Kingsley puffed, not breaking stride as he pulled off his headphones and draped them around his neck. “A day of rest the world over.”

  “Not for the crooks it isn’t,” Talbot said. “Therefore, not for the cops, either.”

  “You guys need a better union,” Kingsley said, slapping the door of an archaic-looking phone booth at the side of the store as he passed it. “Here’s a phone. Why don’t you call in sick or something?”

  “Thanks, but I need the overtime,” Talbot said. “You going to be ready for a break soon?”

  “Serious runners never need a break,” Kingsley said, pointing toward a bus stop bench two blocks ahead. “But if you insist. There at the bench.”

  Talbot had parked the car and was sitting on one end of the bench by the time Kingsley reached him. “I thought running was passé these days,” he commented as the other collapsed onto the other end of the bench. “Health clubs and celebrity workouts are the in thing.”

  “Can’t stand them,” Kingsley panted, wiping his forehead on his sleeve and pulling a garishly decorated water bottle from its belt loop. “Too crowded. Give me an early-morning sidewalk any day.”

  “You do this every morning?”

  “When I can,” he said, taking a long drink. “Lately I’ve been lucky if I could manage three times a week. What can I do for you?”

  “We’re looking for Angie Chandler,” Talbot told him. “Thought you might have some idea where to start.”

  Kingsley sniffed. “Have you tried the Chinese consulate?”

  “So far we haven’t found any evidence of Chinese involvement,” Talbot said. “Besides, she appears to have been kidnapped.” He cocked his head. “You did know that, right?”

  “Yeah, I heard rumors,” Kingsley said. “If you ask me, that whole thing was staged to cover her vanishing act. For my money, she’s either in the consulate or a hundred miles outside U.S. waters.”

  “Could be,” Talbot said, keeping his voice neutral. “Any other suggestions where we might look for her?”

  Kingsley shrugged. “She’s got parents in Monterey. You could check there. Aside from that, I haven’t the foggiest.”

  “Okay,” Talbot said, standing up. “Thanks.”

  “Is that it?” Kingsley asked, frowning up at him. “You came all the way out here just to ask me that?”

  “That’s it,” Talbot assured him. “Unless, of course, you want to tell me about your relationship with Mrs. Chandler. The off-hours one, I mean.”

  Kingsley snorted. “I wish. Sorry, Talbot, but if you’re looking for scandal, you’re out of luck. Not that I couldn’t have pressed the matter. I’m pretty sure her husband was fooling around with our lovely and talented Dr. Underwood.”

  “Really,” Talbot said. “What makes you think that?”

  “A guy can tell when a woman’s getting regular service,” Kingsley said, his tone an odd mixture of sage wisdom and locker-room crudeness. “Barbara had that look. Angie didn’t. It’s that simple.”

  “And you’re sure it was Dr. Chandler who was servicing her?”

  Kingsley made a face. “Go check our work schedule. You tell me if she had time to see anyone on the outside.”

  “There were other men on the inside,” Talbot reminded him. “You, for instance.”

  “Yeah, well, it wasn’t for lack of trying,” Kingsley said ruefully. “But that lady came equipped with a three-foot speed bump as far as I was concerned. I guess she was one of those one-man women. One man at a time, anyway.”

  “Could it have been one of the other techs?”

  Kingsley shook his head. “Not a chance. Jack was too young for her, and too pure and noble to touch a married woman anyway. Ramon was too Hispanic, if you know what I mean. No, it had to be Dr. Chandler.”

  “How about Dr. Tarlington?”

  Kingsley gave him an odd look. “What do you do, work for the Enquirer on the side? What does this have to do with anything?”

  “Jealousy and betrayal are two of the classic motives for murder,” Talbot pointed out.

  “You want to talk jealousy, you should talk to Jack Burke,” Kingsley said. “He’s the one who’s big on that theory. Besides, I thought you’d already decided that stealing the Cloaks was the motive.”

  “Nothing says a crime can’t have two motives,” Talbot said. “Especially when there’s more than one person involved, as there is here. Sometimes these things get pretty twisted.”

  “I suppose,” Kingsley said, with the air of a debater conceding a point. “My money’s still on Angie. Though that’s not to say she wasn’t forced into it.”

  “Of course not,” Talbot agreed. “Speaking of her, did you happen to notice whether or not she went near the coffee pot that evening?”

  Kingsley frowned in concentration. “She didn’t while I was there,” he said slowly. “But I left the lab before she did, when I went out to get the semi. You’d have to ask one of the others what she did after that.”

  “I’ll do that,” Talbot said. “Thanks for your time.”

  “Yeah, no problem,” Kingsley said, getting to his feet and swinging his arms experimentally. “And you really should get a better union.”

  “Have a good run,” Talbot said.

  He returned to his car as Kingsley jogged off. Fiddling with his keys and his notebook, he managed to postpone starting the engine until Kingsley had turned a corner and disappeared. Then, making a U-turn, he headed back the way he’d come, coasting to a halt beside the convenience store they’d passed earlier.

  For a moment he sat in his car gazing through the window at the muted security lights in the back. The name spelled out in neon tubing in the front window was similar to one of the national chains but not an exact match. That, plus the small house connected in back, indicated a mom-and-pop operation.

  A conclusion further bolstered by the hours card he finally spotted on the angled window beside the door. No twenty-four-hour operation here—the place was open seven to seven on weekdays, eight to ten on Saturdays, and eleven to seven on Sundays. If Kingsley ever wanted a drink on his early morning runs, he concluded, he’d better make sure his water bottle was already filled.

  He looked at his watch, estimating driving times. Delgado should be nearly to Esteban’s place by now. Once he finished there, the two of them would be getting together to compare notes. Copies of Swenson’s impressive collection of data were on Lyman’s and Garcia’s desks. Swenson herself, unfortunately, had politely but firmly put herself on an early-morning plane for Washington.

  Shifting back into drive, Talbot pulled away from the curb and headed toward the coffee shop where he was to meet Delgado. Things were starting to come together, though how exactly the pieces would wind up fitting was still up in the air. Especially as one of the biggest pieces steadfastly refused to surface.

  Where the hell was Angie Chandler?

  ~

  Esteban shook his head as he shoved a last corner of cinnamon toast nervously into his mouth. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” he said, the words punctuated by crunching. “I have no idea where Angie might have gone. I just hope she’s okay.”

  “That goes for all of us,” Delgado said.

  “All except whoever was shooting at her,” Esteban said. “You any closer to figuring out who those guys were?”

  “Afraid not,” Delgado conceded. “We also haven’t been able to dig up anything on this Adam Ross character she left with.”

  “It makes you wonder,” Esteban murmured, turning to look out his kitchen window. “If they’re after her, maybe they’re after us, too.”

  “I don’t think so,” Delgado said. “Right now the three of you are more valuable to them alive.”

  Esteban shivered. “You mean they might kidnap us?”

  “I doubt it,” Delgado soothed. “If that’s what they wanted, they could have taken you the night of the murders, when no one was expecting trouble. No, you’re useful mostly because keeping you alive means there’s only a one in five chance that any of you is the poisoner. Criminals like having crowds to hide in.”

  “Wait a minute,” Esteban said, frowning a little harder. “Three of us techs; but you said one in five. Who are the other two?”

  “Angie Chandler’s one,” Delgado said. “Your colleagues seem convinced she’s involved.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Esteban said, an edge of contempt in his voice. “Jack thinks it was jealous rage. Scott’s convinced she’s a mole for the Chinese.”

  “Motives come in all shapes and sizes,” Delgado said. “The problem with Mrs. Chandler—one of them—is that no one saw her go near the coffee pot the night of the murders.” Delgado lifted his eyebrows. “Unless you happened to notice something?”

  Esteban grimaced. “Actually . . . yes, I did,” he said reluctantly. “On her way out she went the long way around the tables we’d pushed together into the middle of the room. Going that direction, she had to pass by the table with the pizza and soda and coffee.”

  Delgado felt himself straightening a bit. “Did she pause there?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady. If she had in fact had opportunity . . . “Or did her hand get anywhere near the pot?”

  Esteban shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “I was working on Mama Bear at the time and just happened to glance up and see her walking that direction. But then I looked back down again. I know she didn’t change direction and circle around behind me the other way, but that’s all.”

  “Was there anyone near you who might have seen more?”

  Esteban gave him a bitter smile. “Sure. Doctors Fowler and Underwood. Big help, huh?”

  “There’s a lot of that in this business,” Delgado said philosophically. “I understand you’re the one who told your fellow techs that Mrs. Chandler had gone missing. Mind telling me how you knew?”

  Esteban lowered his eyes guiltily. “I guess I eavesdropped. A little.”

  “You guess?”

  He winced. “I mean, I did. Eavesdrop. While you and Garcia and Talbot were waiting for us to get the Cloak demo ready. I was pulling one of the notebooks from a cabinet near the office, and I overheard you telling the gate people what had happened at the mall and the kind of car she was in.”

  “So having heard all that, you naturally trotted off and spilled the beans to your friends?”

  “It wasn’t like that,” Esteban protested, managing to look both shocked and offended. “I wouldn’t have said anything, except that Jack caught me listening and wanted to know what was going on. I shushed him and said I’d tell him later.”

  “Later being when?”

  “After we all left, while you and the others were still in the office,” Esteban said. “He hit me up as soon as we were in the elevator. And of course Scott wasn’t about to be kept out of it, either.”

  “So you told them,” Delgado said, letting his voice harden a bit.

  Esteban winced. “I guess I shouldn’t have, should I?”

  “No, you shouldn’t,” Delgado said. “Next time you overhear something that wasn’t meant for you, we’d all appreciate it if you’d keep it to yourself.”

  “Yes, sir, I will,” Esteban said humbly.

  “And if you hear something that should be passed on to us, we’d be just as grateful if you’d do so at once,” Delgado continued.

  “I haven’t heard anything,” Esteban insisted quickly. “Really.”

  “I wasn’t implying you had,” Delgado said. “I’m not keeping you, by the way, am I? You look like you’re ready to go out.”

  “No, I’m all right,” Esteban assured him. “I’m just meeting my parents and sister for lunch. After that—” His mouth compressed briefly. “We’re going to see my brother.”

  “The one in San Quentin?”

  Esteban nodded. “You know all about that, I suppose.”

  “Yes,” Delgado said. “How’s he doing?”

  Esteban shrugged. “How well does anyone do in prison? All right, I suppose.”

  “It’s pretty rough, isn’t it?”

  “It’s hell,” Esteban said bluntly. “I could have been in there, too, you know, if I hadn’t gotten my head squared up. It’s a scary thought.”

  “So I gather,” Delgado said. “I suppose you’d do about anything to get him out, eh?”

  “If there was anything I could do—” Esteban broke off, his face going rigid. “No,” he said through suddenly stiff lips. “Not what you’re thinking.”

  “What am I thinking?”

  “Don’t you put words in my mouth,” Esteban snapped, his dark face darkening a little more. “I didn’t kill them.”

  “Okay,” Delgado said, keeping his voice calm. “Wasn’t implying you did.”

  “Yeah, right,” Esteban muttered, clearly not mollified. “Are we done yet?”

  “Just one more question,” Delgado said. “You seemed rather nervous when you answered the door. Any particular reason for that?”

  “You mean aside from the obvious?” Esteban retorted. “A cop knocking on your door two days after a murder?”

  “Aside from the obvious, yes,” Delgado said. “Like for example, maybe Burke called to warn you he’d spilled the beans about your eavesdropping in the lab?”

  Esteban exhaled between his teeth. “You’ve got us pretty well figured, haven’t you?”

  “Part of my job,” Delgado said. “I’ve dealt with tight-knit groups like yours before. You tend to keep close tabs on each other, especially when you’re under stress.”

  He gestured at Esteban. “Same pattern as you telling them about Mrs. Chandler’s abductor. Which you knew perfectly well you shouldn’t.”

  “I know.” Esteban made an attempt at a smile. “Don’t worry, I’ve learned my lesson.”

  “I’ll hold you to that,” Delgado warned, moving to the door. “Thanks for your time.”

  16

  Saturday night had gone a little better than the night before. But only a little, and McPherson was long past the age where he could easily bounce back from two nights in a row of clocking less than four hours of sleep. Sunday morning had come all too quickly, and now as he sat in Cohn’s office it was rather like reliving that mother of all hangovers during his sophomore year of college that had finally driven him to permanently swear off alcohol.

  Cohn, to his certain knowledge, had had even less sleep than he had. Despite that, and despite the man’s seven extra years and thirty extra pounds, he looked a lot better than McPherson felt. That was the really irritating part.

  But at least the preliminary report from the Rabah Jamila was beginning to hammer this thing into some kind of sense.

  Maybe.

  “So it looks like North Korea,” he commented, looking through the papers Cohn had given him.

  “Yes,” Cohn said. “It does, doesn’t it.”

  McPherson frowned. Cohn’s face wasn’t visible as he stood at the window gazing out at the dirty clouds that hung over the equally dirty snow below. But there had been something in his voice . . . “You’re not happy with that?”

  The other shrugged. “The evidence seems conclusive,” he conceded, turning from the window to the coffee pot on the table beside it. “It was like Little Pyongyang in those containers: North Korean cots, North Korean field rations, North Korean clothing—”

  “Yes, I saw the list,” McPherson said. “So the conclusion is that the nuke is heading to North Korea. May actually be there by now, in fact.”

  “Possibly,” Cohn said, refilling his mug. “On the other hand, Admiral Eskin is doing a good job of surveillance and interdiction of ship traffic heading that direction. The other possible vector, the Zhardi CitationJet, still hasn’t moved from Chongqing.”

  “Though the nuke could have gone overland from there,” McPherson pointed out. “Either all the way to North Korea or to another waiting plane.”

  “That’s possible, too,” Cohn said, coming back to his desk and hitching himself up onto a corner facing McPherson. “We’re sifting through Chinese air traffic records, but so far there’s no clear vector for the nuke to have taken.”

  “What about those three other freighters the Navy tagged? I didn’t see any references here.”

  “Two of them have allowed us to board, but the searches aren’t finished,” Cohn said. “The third—the Indonesian one—is still refusing. I understand the President’s still talking to Jakarta.”

  “We’re sure those three were the only ships close enough for the stowaways to have transferred to during that forty-six-minute window?”

  Cohn shrugged. “So it would appear.”

  McPherson eyed him. “You know, you don’t seem very enthusiastic about this. What’s the problem?”

  “Basically, that I can’t make it hold together.” Cohn waved a hand in invitation. “Why don’t you reconstruct it for me? Maybe I’m missing something obvious.”

  “The stowaways came aboard the Rabah Jamila at Da Nang,” McPherson said slowly, thinking through each word as he watched for the logical quicksand Cohn obviously thought was in there somewhere. “The captain, crew, and manifest all agree that’s where those two containers were loaded. They were surprised by pirates in the Taiwan Strait, blew them away, and convinced Syed they were South Koreans with a mission. Any problems so far?”