Chapter 20 Jo
Jo
A man with rust-colored hair was sitting in the chair by her desk.
He was clean cut and wore a blue suit jacket, and his gaze was so fixed on his cell phone that he didn’t seem to notice when Jo walked into the building.
That suit jacket put her on guard. It shouted Official business, trouble ahead, and she paused just inside the door, wondering what new problem was about to be dropped in her lap.
Before she could approach the visitor, Officer Mike Batchelder snagged her by the arm and pulled her aside.
“I was about to call you,” he whispered.
“Who’s the guy?”
“Special Agent Something or Other. Says he’s trying to locate a few people, and he wants to talk to you about them. Do you know what’s going on?”
Ingrid Slocum was her first thought. It made sense that the FBI would be looking for her too.
The Martini Club had snared Jo into doing them a small favor, had made her pledge to remain silent, and now this was the consequence.
She had to make a choice. Should she stay silent, as she’d promised Maggie and company, or should she tell this federal agent what she knew—that Ingrid Slocum had suddenly and suspiciously fled aboard a private plane?
As she approached the visitor, she was still debating what to say, what to do.
Even before she opened her mouth, she was at a disadvantage, wary of making a mistake.
“I understand you want to talk to me,” she said. “I’m Jo Thibodeau. Chief of police.”
He looked up at her with bloodshot eyes.
He was in his early forties, with a freckled face typical of redheads.
Fatigue had deepened the hollows in his face, and he rose slowly to his feet, as though it took all the effort he could muster just to get up from the chair.
“Special Agent Tanner Minnihan,” he said, presenting his ID.
They shook hands, and his grip was cool to the touch, lackluster.
The handshake of a man who was just going through the motions out of politeness, without any need or desire to establish dominance.
This was not the broad-shouldered, intimidating image that came to mind when she heard the words special agent.
“So how can I help you?” she asked.
“I’m trying to locate someone, and no one seems to know where this person is.”
Here it comes, she thought. She managed to keep a smile on her face as she asked: “Who would this be?”
“Dr. Cornell Stamoran. Are you familiar with him?”
She felt the tension whoosh out of her. This was not about Ingrid after all. This question she could truthfully answer.
“Wasn’t he one of the speakers at the Stone Coast Conference? I saw his name on the conference brochure. Some expert on viruses. Why are you looking for him?”
“For various reasons.” Meaning: I’m not going to tell you. “He checked out of his hotel two days ago.”
“That’s not surprising. The conference is over.”
“We tried calling him, and it goes to voicemail. His secretary said Dr. Stamoran talked about going camping in Maine. Any idea where that could refer to?”
She laughed. “Take a look around you, Agent Minnihan. We’re surrounded by campgrounds. People come here from all over the world to enjoy the outdoors. You should get out there yourself.”
“Hay fever. Plus, I’m not a fan of bugs and snakes.”
“Our snakes aren’t poisonous.”
“Okay. Good to know. So you don’t know which campground.”
“It could explain why he’s not answering his phone. Cell service can be spotty in the woods. Why are you trying to find him?”
“Our team is talking to everyone. He was on my assigned list.”
“And that’s the only reason? He’s just a name on your list?”
He regarded her in silence for a moment, as if taken aback by her query.
As if she, a mere small-town cop, had no business delving into a federal investigation.
“Dr. Stamoran,” he finally said, “was the first to insist on Ebola precautions. He’s the reason the medical team stayed focused on viral illnesses. To the exclusion of other diagnoses.”
“Is that surprising? He’s a specialist in infectious disease. To him, everything probably looks like a virus.”
“He also recently traveled to Budapest.”
Jo blinked. “So?”
“Ostensibly for vacation.”
“People don’t go to Budapest for vacation?”
“It’s just interesting.”
For reasons he wasn’t telling Jo. This Mr. Special Agent was giving her a small-town cop complex.
“Is he a suspect?” she asked.
“Everyone’s a suspect. Especially the attendees from out of town. Especially those who’ve recently traveled to Eastern Europe.”
“Where they could have picked up a vial of polonium, you mean.”
He said nothing, simply shrugged.
“If the stuff is so radioactive, wouldn’t it poison the killer as well? Why don’t you just look for anyone suffering from radiation poisoning?”
“Polonium-210 particles don’t travel far, only a few centimeters through the air.
And they can be contained even by something as thin as paper, so they’re easy to transport.
They only become deadly when ingested, which makes it a convenient poison.
And the symptoms—nausea, vomiting, diarrhea—can be caused by any number of other medical conditions, which makes it a tricky diagnosis.
That’s why it’s a favorite weapon for the Russians. It’s not apparent it’s murder.”
“You sound like you’ve seen a case before.”
“Not personally, but I’m familiar with polonium-210. My degree was in physics. It’s the reason they pulled me home from Brussels for this investigation.”
“You were working in Brussels?”
“For the last three years. I just got to town, and I’m pretty wobbly from jet lag.” He paused. “You wouldn’t happen to have coffee?”
“I’m sorry, I should have offered you some.” She rose from her chair. “Cream and sugar?”
“No cream. Three sugars, please.”
Three sugars. Something she didn’t expect from an FBI guy. Plus, he was a science nerd, something else she hadn’t expected. She poured him a cup from the station coffeepot and set it down in front of him.
“I’ve never met a federal agent who’s also a physicist,” she said.
“I wouldn’t call myself a physicist. I just have a master’s degree.” He inhaled the coffee’s aroma as if it were the sweetest perfume and took a gulp. “I’ve never met a woman chief of police.”
“Sounds like you need to get out more. Been to Maine before?”
“First time. Sorry to say, I probably won’t be seeing much of it.
Too much catching up to do. We’re coming into this late, and a lot of evidence is already gone.
Dr. Maslov’s hotel room was stripped days ago, and the linens and waste were incinerated.
We don’t know when or where he swallowed that polonium.
So we have to start by looking at all the conference attendees and hotel personnel.
Anyone with proximity to the victim.” He gulped down the rest of the coffee and set down the empty cup. “Now. Tell me about Andrei Petrov.”
She blinked at the sudden change of subject. “The waiter in the restaurant?”
“I read your interview notes. About his murdered housemate.”
“It’s all in my report.”
“Right, but before I interview him, I want to know your impression of him. Vibes, his gestalt. Did you pick up any sense at all that he wasn’t entirely truthful with you?”
She thought about her visit to the employee cottage on the morning that Karen O’Brien did not show up for work. She remembered Andrei’s sleep-tousled blond hair and shy smile, and how he had politely offered her a cup of tea.
“I thought he was a rather sweet boy,” she said.
“Boy? He’s twenty years old.”
“But he seemed younger.” She frowned at Minnihan. “Don’t tell me he’s a suspect?”
“We’re not ruling it out.”
“Because he’s from Belarus?”
“He served a meal to Dr. Maslov.”
“He did?”
“According to the restaurant receipts, Andrei waited on Dr. Maslov the evening before the man was found. Andrei brought him clam chowder and a pot of tea. Either of those could have been poisoned.”
Jo mulled over this new information. “Well, it does mean he had opportunity. But can you prove that’s how it happened?”
“We’re working on it. We’re looking at a number of possibilities. And people. Particularly those from out of the country.” He glanced down at his notebook. “One last question.”
“Yes?”
“Can you help me find someone named Ingrid Slocum?”
And here it is, thought Jo. The subject she didn’t want to address.
Minnihan looked up at her. “Do you know her?”
“I know she serves on the board of our local library. And she was a volunteer at the Stone Coast Conference.” All true. So far. “Why are you asking?”
“She booked the travel and lodging for all the conference speakers. She knew the details of Dr. Maslov’s flight and hotel reservations. And which room he’d be staying in.”
“Okay.”
“We can’t seem to locate her. Any idea where she is?”
Jo swallowed. “Have you tried knocking on her door?”
“She’s not at home. Neither is her husband. My calls go straight to her voicemail.”
She felt the whole truth bubbling up inside her, ready to spill out, but after her earlier evasiveness, she could hardly be forthright now. It would make Jo look even more deceptive, and to a federal agent, no less. Thanks a lot, Maggie and company.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I have no idea where she is.” That, at least, was the truth.
“How well do you know Mrs. Slocum?”
Jo felt her heart quicken. “We’re acquainted.”
“Wasn’t she with you when you found Karen O’Brien’s body?”
Jo felt her stomach drop. It was a gotcha moment. What else did he know?
“Ingrid was with me that morning, yes. We’d just run into each other in the hotel manager’s office. It’s a small town. Everyone knows everyone here.”
“Are you from Purity?”
“Born and raised.”
“Then you must have a back channel into local gossip. Maybe you can keep your ears open, let me know if you hear anything relevant to the investigation. Or if there’s anyone we should take a closer look at.”
“I’ll certainly try.”
To her relief, he stood up to leave. “Thank you for the coffee,” he said. He was halfway to the door when he stopped. Turned. “If you find Ingrid Slocum, can you let me know? I really do need to speak to her.”
So do we all.