I met Molly at a coffee shop in Printer’s Row called Stir. She was bundled into a short black coat, her hair a riot of red tucked under a knit cap. It was 6:00 a.m. We were their first customers. The coffee was fresh and wonderful.
“Have you slept at all?” Molly said.
“I had a busy night. How about you?”
“I have something.” She took a perfunctory sip from her mug, eyes never leaving my face.
“What’s that?” I said.
“A DNA profile from the cigarette butt you gave me.”
I looked out the shop’s front windows. Cold water beaded up and ran in broken rivers down the other side of the glass. Thick wrappings of morning fog floated off the lake and filled the crooked streets. A cop siren whooped once and was squelched. At the end of the block, three unmarked cars had blocked off the intersection. I watched, fascinated, as their blue lights pulsed like muffled heartbeats in the gloom.
“Did you hear me?” she said.
“I heard you. That was quick.”
“I ran it last night. Got a little lucky.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I pulled it from the filter.”
“Saliva?”
“Probably.” She reached down for a file in a leather case at her feet. The black grip of a gun was tucked neatly into her jeans at the small of her back. Scientists with guns. The latest thing, apparently.
“It’s a good profile,” Molly said. “Male. Sixteen distinct loci.”
“What are the chances of an ID?”
“Already on it. Homeland now requires that all employees and private contractors working in classified areas submit genetic samples to keep on file. I was able to run our profile through their database.”
“How did you manage that?”
“You’re probably better off not knowing.” Molly flipped open the file and pulled out a photo. The face looking back at me was maybe mid-forties. Long, thin nose and sharp chin, eyes of mixed color, and black hair, shiny with a shock of white running through it.
I took a sip of coffee. “Who is he?”
“He’s the guy from your photo.”
“You sure?”
“Take a look.” Molly laid the photo Vinny DeLuca’s men had snapped against the profile picture.
“Could be him,” I said.
“Well, he’s a match for the cigarette butt. Name’s Peter Gilmore. Former SEAL. Now in private practice. CIA started using him about ten years ago on some black ops. Strictly a pay-as-you-go thing.”
I picked through the file. Names, dates, operations.
“What else?” I said.
“He has expertise in the deployment of chemical and bioweapons.” Molly paused.
“Yes?”
“And he worked with Danielson. A little more than five years ago.”
I looked out the window again. My reflection looked back, carved out of smoky gray and cold, blowing rain.
“Michael.” Molly had slid a little closer. “You okay?”
My gaze moved across the line of her jaw and fine fuzz on her cheek.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“You don’t look so hot.”
“It’s nothing. Rodriguez got back a ballistics report. The bullet you took came from the same weapon as the slug I found in Lee’s cellar.”
“What does that tell us?”
“Maybe he was targeting you. Maybe me.”
“Why?”
“Don’t know.”
Molly tapped the photo. “So this is the guy.”
“Seems like it. Now we just have to find him.”
She pulled a slip of paper from her pocket and pushed it across the counter.
“What’s that?”
“I’ve got a friend inside the Agency. He gave me an address. Says Gilmore uses it sometimes when he’s in the city. At least he’s used it before.”
“And you think he’s there now?”
“It’s a long shot.”
I put the note in my pocket. “I’ll check it out.”
“I’m trying, Michael.”
“I know.” I smiled for the first time and took another sip of coffee.
Molly fidgeted in her seat.
“Is there something else?” I said.
“There is, but I need you to be straight with me.”
“What is it?”
“Ellen was able to slip out of the lab last night. Now she’s off the grid and isn’t picking up her cell.”
“And you want to know if we met?”
A nod.
“We had a drink. Talked for a bit. Then I put her in a cab.”
“We need her, Michael.”
“Why?”
“I told you. Ellen’s one of this generation’s brilliant minds.”
“Don’t sell yourself short.”
“I was number three in my class at CalTech, so that’s not a problem. I’m still not Ellen.”
“She was going to pick up her sister’s ashes. That’s all I know.”
Molly wasn’t buying it. I could feel her anger wedged into the small space between us and knew things were about to get worse.
“Now I’ve got a question,” I said.
“Great.”
“Could Minor Roar have escaped from your lab?”
Her eyes lashed onto mine. “What do you know about Minor Roar?”
“Ellen told me about it.”
“Goddamnit.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“How about none of your business?”
“How about answer the question, or I call Rita Alvarez with a story?”
“Enough.” There was iron in her voice now. Chicago steel. And I knew, for the first time, who had the grit to take CDA where it needed to go.
“If Minor Roar had escaped from our lab,” Molly said, “it would have presented itself in Chicago. There’s no evidence of that.”
“Ellen told me it shares an almost identical DNA signature with the released pathogen.”
“ ‘Almost’ is the key word. There are dozens of organisms that have a similar genetic structure to what we’re seeing on the West Side.”
“So it’s a coincidence?”
“Not a coincidence. Just a different branch on the same genetic tree. But definitely not Minor Roar. Or somehow sprung from Minor Roar.”
“Does Ellen agree with you?” I said.
“Of course she does. Now, where is she?”
“I don’t know. Ellen also told me she left you a possible vaccine. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“Then what are you waiting for? Hold your press conference and be a hero.”
“You think that’s what this is about?”
I didn’t respond.
Molly inched closer. “Is that what you think?”
“I try not to.”
“If Ellen contacts you, please let us know.” Molly pushed the folder on Gilmore an inch in my direction. “Meanwhile, there’s Mr. Gilmore.”
“Yes, there is.”
“Find him, Michael. And you’ll find the person behind the pathogen.”