Enhancement (Black Market DNA Book 1) Read online

  “It wasn’t just a mugging,” Chris said.

  Tracy grabbed Chris’s arms and tried to pull him away from the police. “Come on. Let’s go. Let them do their job.”

  He turned to her. “They think it’s just a mugging.” His face turning red, he spun back to the officers. “I’m telling you, there’s something else going on. They threatened Randy, asked him to deliver a specimen.” He frowned. “Probably thugs interested in stealing genies from our company. This could be a big case, and you can’t let these guys get away.”

  Officer Dellaporta glared at him, a stern expression across her face. “Mr. Morgan, the victim’s comm card is missing and he has no cash on him. We’re the officers, and, believe me, this is not uncommon. My condolences, but it appears as though your friend was a victim of an armed robbery gone wrong.”

  “Of course he doesn’t have cash on him. No one carries cash.” Chris threw up his hands, exasperated. Dellaporta’s partner took another step, his hands on the cuffs attached to his belt.

  “Chris.” Tracy yanked him away from the officers with surprising strength. Before Chris opened his mouth, she whispered to him. “You don’t want to get on their bad side. You’re not in a position to be telling the police what they should be doing.”

  “Randy’s dead,” Chris said. “And it’s my fault.”

  “Stop saying that. For one, it wasn’t your fault. And second, you don’t want them”—Tracy gestured to the officers—“to think you had anything to do with it. Especially spouting off things about genetic enhancements.”

  A cold rage swelled in him, but he knew that she was right. That logic did not assuage his anger. He sighed. “Fine, fine. You’re right. But I’m telling you, something about this isn’t right. They said I was the one. I was the guy.”

  Tracy cocked her head. “What are you talking about?”

  He looked away. He thought back to their earlier conversation regarding honesty. In the red and blue haze of emergency lights, surrounded by a growing presence of officers and crime scene investigation teams, Chris sighed again and closed his eyes. “You’re right. We should get out of here.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Guilt snaked through Chris’s mind and tightened around his heart. Each day he showed up to work and Randy’s office remained empty, he envisioned the businessman telling the two men to kill Randy. Eliminate anyone who knew of the mysterious benefactor’s connection with Chris.

  Randy had known about Chris’s stint in prison and why he had spent eight months there. But he had never asked Randy about his associations with the mysterious businessman. The man’s ties to his mysterious benefactor must have been more complex than he had realized.

  As far as he knew, Randy might have been the only person at Respondent who knew anything about the real reason why Chris got a job at the company. Maybe if he had refused the businessman’s offer, Randy would still be alive to tell jokes and buy drinks for the team.

  He tried to come up with a reason why anyone would want to kill Randy and then leave Chris alive. As he lay in bed wondering these things, he stared at the ceiling and listened to heated air rush through the vents.

  “You awake?” Tracy asked.

  He nodded.

  When he’d signed on at Respondent, had he also signed off on Randy’s death warrant? First the prison stabbings, then Randy.

  Death followed him now. He needed to find the businessman; he needed answers.

  Tracy rubbed his back. “How’s your neck?”

  “Fine.” He took a deep breath. “I’m not sure we should be together anymore.”

  Eyes wide, she sat up and pulled the sheets around her, her hair draped over her bare shoulders. “What the hell are you talking about?” Her mouth hung open. “I don’t understand.”

  Chris straightened himself up against the headboard. “I just don’t think it’s safe.”

  A quick flash of relief seemed to loosen the confused grimace on Tracy’s face. “It’s not your fault. You need to stop blaming yourself.”

  He frowned but didn’t protest.

  “Look, I’ll go make coffee. Let’s get out and forget about this for today.” She slipped out of bed. “And quit saying shit like that.”

  With one hand, he rubbed the scars on his side. “Sure.”

  ***

  In his closet, Chris grabbed a collared shirt that he knew would help hide the fading bruises around his neck. He rubbed the area, self-conscious about the discolored skin and the constant questions when people saw it. Without so much as a friendly greeting, he’d been asked, “What happened to your neck?” as if it had been everyone’s business at work.

  The smell of frying bacon lured him into the kitchen. Tracy toiled over the stovetop, and Chris kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you.”

  They avoided the topic of Randy’s death and the second round of interviews with the police that Chris had scheduled for later that day. Instead, their conversation wound toward a comparative listing of pets that they had kept as children. Tracy’s list consisted of one golden retriever.

  His contained a leopard gecko, turtles, salamanders, garter snake, baby ducks rescued after their mother had been killed by a feral cat, dwarf hamsters, rats, and two dogs. “Not all at once, of course.”

  She laughed. “Of course, that would just be ridiculous.”

  “Oh, and I can’t forget about the fish. Couple of different tanks throughout the years.”

  “It’s a wonder you didn’t become a veterinarian.”

  “I thought about it.”

  Chris took another bite of his scrambled eggs. The flavors of the cheese Tracy had sprinkled into the eggs sparked childhood memories of weekend breakfasts. Almost consistently, it would be a plate of scrambled eggs and cinnamon rolls. His mind’s eye gazed toward the old house his family had lived in, nestled on a two-acre corner lot purchased from a farmer who’d no longer wanted all that land. He glanced out the window to the street, where cars nudged against each other, bumper to bumper.

  “Why don’t you have any pets now?” Tracy asked.

  “If I’m being honest, I just figured I didn’t have time for any.”

  “No time for even a fish?”

  “I just don’t want something that depends on me. Don’t want the responsibilities.”

  “What about now? You’re back on your feet, fresh start. Why not just get a ten-gallon? Just start off with a couple of mollies or something. You know, a cute little breeding pair of spotted mollies. Make a lot of molly babies.”

  Chris smiled. “You know a bit more about fish than I thought. Didn’t you say you only had the dog?”

  “I tend to forget about the fish. They’re pretty, but they don’t cuddle with you like a dog, you know?”

  Reaching across the table, Chris lifted her hand in his. He caressed the top of hers with his thumb. “Why don’t we go visit the aquarium today?”

  “Sam’s Pets on Fourth?”

  He chuckled. “No, no. The National Aquarium at the Inner Harbor.”

  “Sounds perfect.” Tracy smiled.

  ***

  When they left their cab at the Inner Harbor, the Baltimore National Aquarium stood out against the blue-gray waters beyond it. The building appeared like the three white sails of a ship. Its unique architecture fit in with the rest of the skyline along the harbor, sucking in tourists and locals alike.

  Hand in hand, Chris and Tracy looked into the tanks to identify each of the inhabitants based on the interactive holodisplays outside the reconstructed habitats. They marveled like children at the luminescence of a moon jellyfish as its strange body contracted and expanded. Peering into a ten-gallon, they remarked on the vibrant colors of the peacock shrimp with its strange, globular eyes.

  Following a curling walkway, they took a glass tunnel through a display of blacktip reef sharks and whiptail rays. The sharks circled the reef, gliding through the water, their mouths in a permanent frown. Their tails curled back and forth as they passed under gree
n sea turtles and glowing tangs.

  Besides the animals, they were alone.

  Chris’s thoughts crept back to the night before as shadows of sharks and fish danced around them. A blue glow bathed the tunnel and undulated with the movement of the water’s surface.

  “If you want to stick around, I think there’s something else I should tell you,” Chris said.

  Tracy looked up and down the tunnel. “Right now? Right here?”

  “I feel safer here than I do in my own apartment. There’s no one around—or nothing around—that would overhear us. Maybe that comes across as a bit paranoid.”

  “Maybe.” She gripped Chris’s hand tighter. “But it makes sense given all the shit that happened last week.”

  “It’s not just that. There’s more to it.”

  As the sharks and rays glided above them, he recounted everything from the attacks in prison to his meeting with his mysterious benefactor. He told her about the job offer and about the ominous favor that the man had asked in return. Tracy listened, nodding but showing no emotion.

  “So you think that Randy’s murder has something to do with this associate of yours?”

  “He’s not my associate. I don’t have any relationship with the man except for this job.”

  “And whatever favor he wants from you.”

  Chris peered back into the tank. “I think I know what that favor might be. The men who attacked Randy asked about a specimen. I’m certain it has something to do with the delivery vectors or the genetic therapies we make.” He turned to her. “I meant it when I said they were probably involved in black-market enhancements.”

  “But how do you know that any of this connects to that businessman?”

  “When the one attacker tried to kill me, the other told him to stop. Said that I was the guy. How else would they have known who I was, unless they heard something from that businessman?” He breathed out and watched a stingray glide through the water. “Why else would they care?”

  For a moment, they both stared through the glass walls. Chris imagined all the sounds of fish eating, shrimp clicking and cleaning, bubbles rising to the surface and popping, air and water filters working tirelessly contained behind that clear barrier. The tunnel, in stark contrast, only carried the sound of air whispering through.

  “Why don’t you just tell the police about all of this?” Tracy asked.

  “If I do that, I can see two possibilities: One, I go back to prison and I get attacked again. Or two, the businessman puts out a hit on me or whatever. I die then, too.” He clenched his fists.

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I’ve got to find out who the hell that guy is and what he wants. And if I can, I’ll get out of all this before anyone else gets killed.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Detective Jackson sat across the table from Chris with a look of permanent skepticism in his furrowed brow. “Are you sure you didn’t recognize the two men that attacked Randall Nee?”

  “No, I’d never seen them before that night,” Chris said. Agitated, he folded his arms across his chest.

  Next to Jackson, Officer Dellaporta sat with an equally skeptical expression. However, she didn’t speak with the same accusatory tone that saturated Jackson’s questions. “You understand why we’re asking you, right? It’s natural to assume, based on your history and your statements last Thursday night, that you were familiar with these men.”

  “I’d never seen them before in my life,” Chris said.

  Jackson nodded but appeared unconvinced. “Have you heard about them from when you peddled your crap? Maybe a description? A name?”

  Frustrated, Chris turned away. The apparent witness interview felt more and more like the interrogation of a person of interest. His parole officer would be following this investigation, too. The thought of any of the officers misinterpreting his statements or his role in Randy’s murder sent a shudder down his spine.

  “You seem nervous,” Dellaporta said. “Is there anything you aren’t telling us? If we find out you’re hiding something, you’ll end up back in Fulton.”

  “No. I’ve told you everything I know. I walked outside, the men seemed to be threatening Randy for something. I couldn’t hear what they wanted. I got choked, they stopped and ran away. Then you both showed up. That’s all there is to it.”

  Jackson stood up and leaned against the wall of the small room. Beside him was a one-way mirror, which signaled they might have more interest in him than a simple bystander witness to a brutal crime.

  Chris straightened. “Can I ask you a question?”

  Dellaporta gave a slight nod.

  “Is this the first time you’ve heard about guys like this randomly attacking people? It seems to me that two men their size—you saw them yourselves—would be fairly prominent. I mean, if there’s a string of violent muggings like this, I couldn’t have been the only one to see those two thugs.”

  Jackson walked toward the table again. “Truth is, besides intergang crime, most armed robberies and muggings don’t end up with someone dead. Most of those crimes involve either a desperate junky or a gang of jacked-up kids looking to beat the shit out of someone.”

  Frowning, Dellaporta shot Jackson a piercing look and turned back to Chris. “So, what we’re saying is that two large, well-dressed men committing armed robbery is pretty damned unusual. Plus, you come babbling to us about illegal genetic enhancements. We search into your background and see the shit you pulled...things seem fishy, Mr. Morgan.”

  There seemed to be nothing he could say to convince the officers that he wasn’t hiding anything. Well, he hid something, but he’d be damned if he told them. If he told them why he thought those thugs had murdered Randy, if he told them about people breaking into his apartment or Lash saving him from a shanking, he would end up either back in prison or, more likely, lying in an empty alley like Randy. “Officers, am I free to go now? I would like to be presentable at my friend’s funeral.”

  Jackson acquiesced and waved for Chris to leave.

  As he walked through the door, Dellaporta stopped him, her hand on his shoulder. “Please, Mr. Morgan. We just want you to help us understand what happened. We were ready to write the whole thing off as a poorly executed armed robbery, but you seemed to insinuate something else. If you can help us catch these men, we might be onto something bigger. You can prevent someone else from ending up like your buddy. We’d like to talk to you again.”

  “Should I bring a lawyer next time?”

  Dellaporta shrugged. “Your call.”

  Scowling, Chris turned and strode out the door.

  ***

  The late Friday afternoon turned gray over Western Cemetery. Tombstones, many pitted and marred, others shining slabs of granite, rose up from the grass. A nearby stream splashed, overflowing with that morning’s rain. Accompanying its gurgling, a couple of ducks called out to each other, their calls piercing the priest’s words as the coffin was lowered into the ground.

  Tracy pulled Chris close to her. Her eyes were wet, though no tears rolled down her cheek.

  The priest spoke a final blessing. The portly man’s black cassock billowed in the chilling wind as he made the sign of the cross.

  “I can’t believe he’s gone,” Kristina said. Paul hugged her close against his body.

  Chris watched the priest walk away from the fresh grave. Guilt surged through him as he replayed Randy’s death again. He had felt helpless, useless, as he had watched the thugs threaten and kill his boss.

  You might be able to detect and treat cancer or prevent the slow decay of multiple sclerosis. You could buy nanotreatments that would destroy clots and plaques in your arteries, preventing a heart attack or stroke.

  But you couldn’t buy a medicine to prevent murder.

  Tracy grasped Kristina’s arm in a reassuring gesture. “Neither can I. But you know he would want us to go have a drink on his behalf.”

  Paul half smiled. “Yeah, yeah. ‘Work hard,
play hard.’ What do you say, Chris?”

  Chris had known these people for a couple of months. They knew practically nothing about him. How could he contribute anything in a conversation about a man he’d let die? “Sounds about right.”

  As the four departed from the crowd, back toward Paul’s car, Chris scanned the other attendees. He could not help but wonder who the woman with the red hair was or how the gangly, tall man knew Randy. Family, friends? He took a glance at another man with sunglasses. The shades stood out on such a dreary day, but several others at the funeral wore sunglasses, ostensibly to mask their crying eyes.

  This man, though, obscured his identity. It had been months since Chris had seen him, but he knew the yellow-gray eyes hiding behind those opaque aviators.

  He tugged on Tracy’s coat sleeve and leaned into her ear. “That’s him. With the shades.”

  She cocked her head. “Who?”

  “The man that got me the job. The man that made me make that promise.”

  Tracy’s eyes widened as she stared at the businessman in his trim black overcoat.

  The doors to Paul’s car unlocked with an audible click as they neared it. Chris held up a hand. “I’m sorry, you guys. I need to go talk to someone real quick.” He set off toward the businessman.

  The man’s Lincoln turned on as he grabbed its door handle.

  “Wait! Wait!”

  Several people, walking to their own cars with somber expressions, eyed Chris suspiciously. He ignored them and broke out into a sprint.

  As the man ducked into his car, Chris yanked his shoulder. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Chris thought he could see the man’s eyes light up in red anger even behind the opaque sunglasses.

  “You have the nerve to ask me? I have known that man far longer than you. The least I could offer is my presence at his funeral.”

  The man stabbed his finger into Chris’s chest. Chris could not confirm it, but he felt the man’s eyes exploring his neck. Self-conscious, he tried to obscure the bruises with a hand. “It’s your fault that he’s dead, isn’t it?”

  “No, Mr. Morgan. It most certainly isn’t.” He shook his head. “It most certainly isn’t.”