Gary Walker had been right, Don decided. The newly created widow of George Remini still looked damn good at fifty plus years old and crying her eyes out. The hair had been cut by somebody expensive, and the strands all fell in the right places even though she probably hadn't brushed it since learning that someone had offed her husband. The mascara had smeared but it was a light colored one that tended to fade away pretty quickly, and Don was willing to put it down to poor lighting. Her body was one of those curvaceous types that made beauty pageant runways light up, even after a couple of decades and a couple of kids.

Lynn Remini, remarkably, kept her voice steady. "Have you found out who did it?"

No need to ask what 'it' was. "Not yet," Don said. He put away his shield. "Don Eppes, FBI. I'm sorry for your loss, Mrs. Remini, and I'm here to see that whoever did it won't get away with it. Right now, I need to ask you some questions."

"Anything." Mrs. Remini was shaking, but determined—and controlled. She would do her part and Don Eppes knew on the spot that this woman wasn't a suspect. There would be additional research to prove it, but if he came up with something significant he'd be turning in his badge for completely misreading a suspect.

Waiting wouldn't make the subject any easier. "Did your husband have any enemies?"

"George?" Mrs. Remini sniffed. "George was a major executive in a chemical industrial company. Of course he had enemies. But none who would want to kill him," she added, dabbing at a traitorous tear that leaked out.

"Can you name them?" Walker asked.

"Some. His administrative assistant could do a better job."

Don nodded. "We'll ask. How about social acquaintances, circles that you and he ran in outside of business?"

Lynn Remini shook her head. "George had very few acquaintances outside of business. He worked ten hour days, six days a week, and worked out in the gym in the basement on the seventh. We rarely saw him."

Don kept his face expressionless. "Doesn't sound like much of a life. For him, or for you."

Lynn agreed. "I'd been after him to cut back, and he did, for a while. Then it crept back in. I was getting ready to confront him. Again."

"How about your kids? Two, right?"

She laughed hollowly. "George stopped being a father a long time ago, Agent Eppes. Didn't help with homework growing up, didn't throw a ball with George, Jr., wasn't even there when the limousine picked up Annette for her senior prom." Another tear leaked out. "He wasn't much of a husband or father, but we still loved him. He tried; he just got distracted by his job." Lynn Remini sighed, all energy gone. "Please give us some closure with this, Agent Eppes."

"Okay, what'cha got?" Charlie pulled Kate over to the small table in his office, the better to share the view of her computer screen.

Kate pulled her computer bag around from where it was hanging off the back of her wheelchair, dumping it onto the table and sliding the laptop out. "Professor Eppes, this stuff is hard! It's not the math, but figuring out the parameters is crazy."

"Didn't I tell you?" he grinned. "Show me what you have so far."

Kate waited for the initial boot up process to finish and the computer screen to light up. "I decided to limit my parameters to people who actually live in the town of Chadford. I think there are a bunch more who are affected by this, but I had to set the limits in order to properly study the population. Good decision?"

"Absolutely," Charlie agreed. "You can always expand your study later, if it seems like the right thing to do, but first you need to limit your population. You can't go studying the entire world, not at this stage. What's your hypothesis?"

"What?" Kate looked confused.

"Your hypothesis," Charlie pushed. "When you're performing a study such as this, you're looking to either prove or disprove a statement. That's the concept behind research; that's how we test theories. What are you looking to prove?"

"That Chadford people are getting osteoporosis because of the chemical dump two miles outside of town," Kate replied promptly.

Charlie shook his head. "Too broad."

"What do you mean? It's happening; I just need to prove it."

"Exactly," Charlie said triumphantly. "You need to prove it. How are you going to do that?"

"I figured I'd maybe send out a survey. I've already talked to the mayor, and he's all for it…"

"Not good enough," Charlie told her. "Start from the beginning. How do you know that osteoporosis is a problem for Chadford? Maybe people have it because a certain percentage of people normally come down with it."

"But it is—" Kate stopped herself. "Scientific method. I can't prove that the chemical dump is responsible until I prove that there's a problem in Chadford, that more people are getting sick than usual. And I can't do that until I figure out how to determine whether or not people have osteoporosis."

"Right." Charlie loved this part, where he could practically see the light bulb flashing over his student's head. "You've decided on osteoporosis as the indicator of your study. How are you going to define osteoporosis?"

A determined look came over Kate. "That's the easy part. Osteoporosis is when calcium gets leached out of your bones. The bone gets brittle and breaks. Usually it happens to older women, especially those of Northern European or Asian descent."

It sounded as though Kate knew a lot about this particular illness. Charlie kept it clinical. "Okay, what percentage of the population gets it? What percentage of women get it?"

She saw where he was going. "I have to figure out what's normal, because if I don't know that, then I can't say for certain whether or not Chadford has more people with osteoporosis than normal."

"Right. Next question: what causes it?"

"Nothing. Some people get it, and some people don't. Part of it's in your genes, and the other part is stuff like what you eat, and if you exercise, and if you're menopausal—"

"Whoa, TMI," Charlie protested. "Too much information. You said that you wanted to prove a cause and effect from the chemical dump. How are you going to prove that the chemical dump did it?"

"It's the only thing—"

"Are you sure?" Charlie interrupted. "What about medicines? What about diseases that might cause it?"

"Infections don't cause…" Kate trailed off. "But some medicines can. I have to show that the osteoporosis wasn't caused by something else." She paused, lost in thought.

Charlie gave her several moments before his curiosity became too great. "You sound like you know a lot about osteoporosis."

Her good humor fled. "Yeah."

Charlie didn't need to push. The information was there, waiting to come out. "I take it osteoporosis is very close to you."

The lower lip tightened. "You might say that." It took another moment, but Kate finally summoned the courage to look up at him. "I'll bet you thought this wheelchair was from a car accident, maybe a diving accident, right?"

"The thought crossed my mind." Actually, it hadn't. Talking about numbers to this bright young student had pushed out every other subject. Not for the first time, Charlie wondered if he was missing some very basic pieces of the world. What the hey; we're talking about numbers, here. I can think about the world later.

"It's not," Kate said.

Charlie allowed her another moment. "You have osteoporosis." It didn't take a genius to figure that one out. "I thought you said it affected older women. Northern European and Asian heritage."

"Yeah, well, there's a juvenile type, too." She laughed bitterly. "I've got it, and my sister did, too."

"Did?" That sounded ominous.

"She died. She broke her hip—again—and she got pneumonia. She never got better." Kate looked away. "She broke a few ribs, too. That's what gave her pneumonia. Her ribs just broke. They had no calcium in them, to keep them strong. They crumbled into little bits."

"I'm sorry." Charlie was. It was clear that the student sitting next to him was facing far more demons than worrying about her next exam.

Kate pulled herself together. "So you can see why this project is important to me." Her eyes dared Charlie to object.

He didn't. "All the more reason to do this right. If you don't," he warned, "your detractors will tell the world that you skewed the data because of your own illness. You're going to have to guard against that. It's one thing to do this as a school project; mistakes only result in a poor grade. If you're going to do this for real, for the world stage, you're going to be held to a higher standard." He paused. "So I'll ask you again: how will you define the disease of osteoporosis?"

Kate cocked her head. "I think I'll do some more research, find out what tests are around that doctors use. I know about a Dexa scan; maybe there are others…" She trailed off, lost in thought.

Charlie grinned. He knew that look; had worn it himself plenty of times. "Come on back tomorrow, when you have more stuff to talk over." He grinned again. "This is fun!"

"I think the wife and kids are a dead end, Eppes," Walker said. He said it to the team leader, but it was aimed at the entire crew of them. "Them kids were away at school when it went down, and neither one of 'em knew how to use a rifle, let alone one with a fancy-ass sniper scope. Besides, Daddy was paying for school; no way they were gonna mess that up."

"Same for the wife," Don agreed. "I was able to get into the family finances, and she was sitting on a pretty chunk of change. Probably why she never filed for divorce. They divorced a long time ago emotionally, but never made it legal."

Walker agreed. "She divorces him, her own finances take a tumble."

"Any funky stuff in their accounts?" Colby wanted to know. "Large sums of money changing hands? Insurance policies?"

Don shook his head. "Not a cent out of place. He's got policies, but nothing more than you'd expect for a guy like him. If the wife is dirty, she's hiding it well. What have you two come up with?"

"From the sound of it, better than you," David said. He flicked on the plasma screen in the conference room. "We checked out three different protest groups. The first two were busts, just kids pretending to be something more than they were."

"But the third—?" Don prompted.

David grinned without humor. "Much more interesting. It's called the Association for Mother Earth, and it's in the process of disintegrating under pressure."

"Pressure?" Walker perked up his ears. "Pressure from whom?"

"Wouldn't we all like to know? Somebody very high up with some connections sent out the word to squeeze the volunteers; IRS audits, building inspections, that sort of thing. I verified that: it could be coincidence, but each volunteer got some government worker breathing down their necks. It's a coincidence I don't like."

Don gave a whistle. "So we've got a lead, and a direction. But does it lead back to Remini?"

David shook his head. "Good question, and I don't have a good answer. But I do have another question: where is the leader of this group? He disappeared two days ago, according to Susan Whitehold, second in command of the vanishing Association."

That struck a chord. "Two days ago? That would tie in with the timeline," Don mused. "Let's say this guy—what's his name?"

"Vince Zelakis."

"—this Vince Zelakis sets up his nest across the street. He waits until the moment is right and then bam! Exit one executive that Zelakis holds a grudge against."

"That would explain the old and new scratches on the windowsill," Colby agreed.

"Works for me, Eppes," Walker allowed. "You want I should put out an APB on the guy?"

"Yeah, you do that," Don agreed. "David, I want to know everything about this guy, where he lives, where he gets his money, how often he brushes his teeth, the works."

"On it, Don."

Colby leaned back in his seat, not at all dismayed at not being assigned the task of digging out the background on Zelakis. "You got something for me, Don?"

"Yeah. Let's you and me rattle this SW Chemical place and see what drops out."

"I've figured some of this out," Kate announced to Charlie, even before she'd finishing rolling herself into his office. She coughed into her sleeve, and grabbed her notes. "I'm limiting my survey population to the population of Chadford, men and women over the age of twelve. I don't think there's any kids younger than twelve in town who have osteoporosis."

Charlie agreed. "If there are, the numbers will likely be so small that it won't skew the data. Do you have norms? What the general population has?"

"Still working on those. I'm getting a whole bunch of different numbers from different studies."

"Do a search of the literature over the last three years, then see how close the numbers are to each other," Charlie advised. "Keep a record of your sources; you'll need those to back up your assumptions if you decide to publish."

"If?" Kate looked at the professor in astonishment. She coughed again. "What do you mean, if? I've got to publish! How do I fix things if I don't make the world aware of stuff? They've got to pay for what they've done!"

Charlie leaned back in his seat, watching her indignation and hiding his amusement. Had he ever been like that? Only when someone wasn't understanding what the numbers were saying; never over a topic that directly affected the world. He supposed it was fairly similar, his numbers and her disease. She reminded Charlie of his father, protesting the war in Viet Nam. Maybe I should have paid more attention to you, Dad… "What if the data doesn't support your hypothesis?"

"Huh?"

Charlie folded his arms. It was 'professor' time. "What if you can't prove you're right?"

"Of course I'm right!"

He was hitting close to a nerve; that was crystal clear. "What if the data doesn't back up what you're saying?"

Kate clenched her fists. "That just means that I've done something wrong, that I didn't use the right numbers. I'll try again."

"Ah, ah." Charlie wagged his finger at her. "That's poor math, and poor technique. You can't demand that the data support your hypothesis; you have to go where the data leads. That's science. The reverse is politics."

An angry wave of her hand pushed away that objection. "That's not going to be a problem. It's obvious that Chadford is the victim, here."

"Fine. Keep at it, then." Charlie wasn't going to get anywhere with that line of approach; at least, not yet. "Just keep your math pure, if you want to be taken seriously."

"I will." For all of her anger, Kate was equally as determined. To her credit, she added, "You make me, Professor Eppes!"

Colby Granger, Don reflected, could run down a fleeing suspect doing the hundred yard dash, could tackle a bull of a bodyguard, and still come up grinning. None of those attributes were needed here at SW Chemicals, but Colby demonstrated that he had more than sheer athleticism to bring to the job. He had charm.

He was using that charm right now, on three of the administrative assistants that sat outside of the corridor leading to the offices of the upper management types. One of those offices had belonged to George Remini, and the yellow tape was still sealing it off from the rest of the company, much to management's dismay.

Don and Colby were waiting for Jules Vorgen and Norman Hathaway to find a moment or two to meet with the investigative team from the FBI. Herr Dr. Vorgen, one of the assistants had let them know, was in a meeting with Mr. Hathaway and the vice presidents trying to figure out just exactly what damage control needed to happen in order to minimize the effect of yesterday's distressing event. Don had never heard of a murder being described as a 'distressing event'—in his experience, the violent death of a fellow human being rated more than a mere 'distressing'—but Don wasn't particularly unhappy. The information that Colby was gathering at the moment would be just as valuable as anything they'd obtain from Dr. Vorgen and Mr. Hathaway.

"Somebody else interviewed the guy's wife," Colby idly shared with the blonde looking up at him with a come-hither look in her eyes, making conversation. Colby neglected to tell any of the three that the man who'd interviewed Lynn Remini was standing right next to him. "Damn shame." Casually: "did you ever meet Mrs. Remini?"

"What, her?" The striking brunette demanded Colby's attention, sending out her own take me to bed signals. "Honey, George didn't care two figs for that frigid bitch. He only stayed with her for the kids. And because she'd take all of his money if he ever tried to leave her."

Hah. Not the impression that I got from Mrs. Remini when we interviewed her. Wonder if she knew?

Colby shifted his attention to the brunette. "He paying any extra attention to anyone in the office?"

"He'd flit from flower to flower, working his way up and down the floors," she told him dryly.

"Including you, Amy," the blonde put in.

She smirked. "Yeah. I dumped him."

"Right." Blondie didn't believe a word of it, and it was a conversation they'd had before.

"Just because he didn't go after you—"

"Don't mind them," the Twiggy-look-alike, the third of the trio advised Colby. "They're just jealous. George Remini had a new flame, somebody from the outside. A customer; at least, that was what everyone said. Frankly, I've never heard of the company she was with."

"What company was that?" Colby was so awesomely calm that Don wanted to clap his hands in appreciation of the performance.

"I think I've got her name and number right here." Twiggy-like let her fingers dance on the computer keyboard to pull up the contact information. "Here it is. Serena Stevens. The Montgomery Corporation. Never heard of them," she repeated, handing over the sheet of paper that she'd printed out. "Certainly not a company that we've done business with in the past."

"Thanks." Colby accepted the paper without appearing to look at the name, tucking it into the pocket inside his jacket, dismissing it without a further thought. "What's scuttlebutt saying about who did it?"

Blondie had the answer to that one. "It's someone in that protester group, the people who were picketing outside two weeks ago. It was one of them. They're crazy, all of them, you know."

"Yeah? Any one of 'em in particular?"

"Short dark hair," Brunette offered. "The woman, the one with the loud voice and the obnoxious sign. She tried to hit me when I walked through her little picket line."

Oh, yeah? Why didn't you file charges?

Colby nodded slowly. "Yeah, I've heard of her. Anybody else? Unhappy customer, maybe?"

Blondie looked around, and lowered her voice. "It wasn't a customer!" she hissed.

Now we're getting somewhere. You're getting the good dirt, Colby.

"Not a customer?" Colby carefully raised his eyebrows.

"I heard that we're sending things somewhere in the Middle East!" Blondie sat back in her chair, confident that this would be of concern.

Colby didn't disappoint her. "Which country?"

Blondie tried to think. "More than one," she offered coyly. "I think I saw Kuwait on one contract, maybe Yemen. Maybe you'd like to come back with a warrant, maybe search the place?" Maybe search me, behind closed doors?

Don stifled all expression, swallowing hard. Uh, we've got friends in the Middle East. Not everyone is the enemy. And if we come back with a warrant, I'm leaving Colby behind and bringing a bevy of female officers.

The buzzer sounded, interrupting Colby's casual interrogation AKA a three way seduction of a Federal Agent. Brunette cast her come-hither gaze at Colby, beneath hooded eyes. "You can go in now," she purred, and come right back…

Norman Hathaway looked like the type of corporate director to have three administrative assistants giggling outside of his door. He was tall, taller than Colby, but with a narrow build and a trim waistline to match. Muscles, too, and worked out regularly; Don noted the ease with which the man reached to put down a file, toned muscles flexing underneath the high end Egyptian linen white shirt that he wore. He didn't get up to greet the two FBI agents; no, nothing like that. FBI agents were simply a necessary evil to get through, rather like a weekly obligatory phone call to one's demented and unlamented mother in an expensive private nursing home.

The other man in the room, Herr Dr. Jules Vorgen, was Hathaway's polar opposite. Where Hathaway was tall, Vorgen barely reached Don's shoulder and reminded the FBI agent of a short, stout fire hydrant. There was a similarity, however: both men were smarter than the average bear. Don was going to have to be careful with what he said and what he did, and what sorts of things were implied. Vorgen, too, had decided that the best way to deal with a couple of FBI agents was to ignore them and hope that they'd get the message. Vorgen rustled some papers hopefully.

Don could handle that. He'd been ignored by some of the best, and neither Norm Hathaway nor Jules Vorgen came close to the best. If Hathaway wasn't going to offer his hand, Don wasn't going to pout. He flashed his identification. "Eppes, FBI. Granger."

Vorgen narrowed his eyes.

"Are you making progress?" Hathaway wanted to know, much as if he were requesting a report from an underling on the verge of involuntary termination.

Don had a technique for that, too. "Yes," he replied, nothing so overt as insolence in his voice, and let the topic drop dead onto the thick pile carpet. He segued smoothly into his own interrogation. "We have some questions. What was Remini working on? Who did he have contact with in the last few weeks?"

Hathaway exchanged glances with Vorgen, and chose to answer the first question. "He was working on several projects."

"Name them." It was going to be one of those times, when everything had to be pulled out like rotting teeth.

Annoyed, Hathaway ticked them off on his fingers. "The Delaware Trust account. Piscatary Pharmaceuticals. Davis Pharmaceuticals, the one in England, not this country. TV Fine Chemicals, in Louisiana. They're working on the Gulf oil spill. Shall I go on?"

"Either that, or give me a written list."

"I'll instruct Amy to give you a list." There. Will you please leave now?

Oh, I haven't even begun to be annoying. "Any of them not going particularly well?"

"They're never going well, not until the contract is signed, and sometimes not even then."

"I'll need the files." Don kept his gaze level, daring Hathaway to make him say his next line, something in the nature of obtaining a warrant. Vorgen tightened his lips.

Hathaway didn't take the bait. "You may access them from Legal."

Like they needed his permission. Don didn't bother with that baited line. "Who didn't like Remini?"

"George was well-liked—"

"Well-liked enough for someone to kill him," Don interrupted. Enough with playing nice. "We'll be taking all of the files on Remini's desk, his contacts, his acquaintances. His computer."

Hathaway only pressed his lips into a line. Objections wouldn't work, not at this stage. Behind him, Don could see the wheels turning in Vorgen's head, and now he placed the man: Vorgen was Hathaway's corporate boss, from the parent company. Not a good time to make a visit. Right, Herr Vorgen? Guess Hathaway's chances of climbing the next rung of the ladder are sliding away.

Don pushed. "What was your relationship with Remini, Mr. Hathaway?"

"I played racquetball with him every Monday and Thursday morning."

Why was Don not surprised? It would be nice if he and his team could take time out of their schedules to play racquetball twice weekly, and make Hathaway's salary into the bargain. "What about the rest of his colleagues? Anyone like him, dislike him?"

Hathaway used a cold, dead stare that he'd undoubtedly perfected over the bargaining table. "We all get along fine. We don't have to like each other to do that."

True. Don himself had worked with plenty of FBI agents with the proverbial bees up their—ahem. This did sound as though everything wasn't peaches and cream at SW Chemicals, and that would give Don and team an avenue to explore. Hathaway, however, was going to make this tough to look good in front of his boss, and Don wasn't in the mood to haul out any additional information. He'd drag his tail with Remini's papers and his office, not let Hathaway and SW Chemicals near them, until Hathaway was begging to give the FBI the data they needed. That would work, and be a better use of Don's time.

Don turned to the other player in the room. "How about you, Mr. Vorgen? Did you know Mr. Remini?"

Vorgen had been through this before. "Not well," he replied, with a bit of an accent.

Not German. Swedish? Maybe. Or Dutch. Don couldn't tell, and at the moment it really didn't matter.

Vorgen wasn't finished. "I spoke with Mr. Remini in the board room on a few occasions, as we were determining appropriate business strategies. I met him in person yesterday, for the first time."

"Any impressions?"

"A bright man. Knew his territory and his business. He will be missed."

That was all Don was going to get out of Herr Vorgen at the moment; pushing would only result in protestations of lack of acquaintanceship, and proving otherwise would be a waste of resources for the FBI. Don stood up and, as Hathaway had done at the beginning of the interview, declined to offer his hand. "That's all for now," he announced. "The FBI will be examining the evidence. Don't leave town; not you or any of the other people in the room at the time of the sniping."

"But—" Vorgen closed his lips. He took a deep breath. "That will not be possible, Agent Eppes."

Hah. You really were listening when I introduced myself. "Oh? Why not?" And do you really think I'm giving you a choice?

"My flight leaves tonight, for Dusseldorf."

"Change it," Don ordered curtly. Like you don't change flights all the time? I'll bet you fly first class all the way. "And you, Mr. Hathaway?"

"Mr. Hood, Ms. Stafford, and I are scheduled to attend a business conference in Las Vegas tomorrow."

Translation: Stafford, also known as Blondie at the desk outside your door, is going with you to have fun at company expense. You're sending Hood to do the actual work. Don put on his most sanctimonious air. "I should think, Mr. Hathaway, that the murder of one of your most valuable employees would warrant a little more concern on your part." He leaned forward. "Besides, what if the sniper decides that he isn't satisfied with just Remini? What if he comes after you?"

Flash of fear in those cold eyes; Hathaway hadn't considered that angle. He paled, and Don could practically see the deflation of the pumped up muscles underneath the man's starched and pressed shirt. "I'll…consider your request, Agent Eppes."

That wasn't a request. Don pushed the point home. "I'll have my people looking at Remini's papers shortly. Keep yourselves available for questions, gentlemen. That way we can both put this case to rest." Then I won't have to put up with you, and you with me. Capish?

Colby couldn't help but wink at Blondie and the others on the way out.