Monday 2:30 p.m.
Peter walked through Boston's airport eagerly. The leaves were just changing color and the air had an edge to it, so that every breath was exhilarating. He loved Boston at that time of year, and particularly loved being on Harvard's campus when the leaves changed. He could remember going there with his mother to meet his father for lunch or pick him up after work. She'd let him run around in the quad, playing games that were only in his head. When he got a little older, some of the students would invite him to play Frisbee or hacky-sac. People were excited in fall – when he was a kid there was the start of school, and Halloween, and then Thanks Giving and eventually even Christmas to look forward to. Now, as an adult, there was no school, he didn't care about Halloween, he barely noticed thanksgiving, and almost dreaded Christmas. Still, the feelings were imbedded in him. When the temperature dropped and the leaves started to turn, Peter wanted to be outside. He wanted to recapture the rush.
However, as soon as he exited the terminal, he realized that the joys of a Fall day in New England were not to be his.
"Welcome home," Olivia said with a genuinely welcoming smile.
"I get off a plane and find two FBI agents waiting for me," Peter said, glancing between Olivia and Charlie. "I used to have nightmares like this."
"You're father needs you in the lab," Olivia said. "We'll have the airport deliver your luggage to the hotel."
"This is all I have," Peter said, shrugging his shoulder to draw attention to the duffle bag he was carrying.
"Then we should get going," Olivia said.
"So, how was the trip?" Charlie asked conversationally as they walked through the airport towards the parking structure.
"Not bad," Peter said. "A lot of sun, some time on the beach."
"And the Miami nightlife," Charlie prompted.
"We didn't actually get to any clubs," Peter admitted.
"Ah, break a guys heart," Charlie said with a sigh.
"Charlie," Olivia scolded. "Why do you care if Peter went to a night club?"
"Us married men have to live vicariously through our bachelor friends," Charlie said. "And, Peter, you let me down."
"I didn't realize it was so important to you," Peter said good-naturedly. "Next time I go to Miami, I'll be sure to indulge in some debauchery on your behalf.
"Thank you," Charlie said as he opened the door that lead to the parking structure. "I'd appreciate it."
Peter noticed Olivia roll her eyes.
It was colder in the structure then it had been in the airport. Peter wished he had a jacket to ward off the late September air. Still he took as deep a breath as he dared, savoring the naturally cool and dry air. It was very good, almost ridiculously good, to be home.
"There's the car," Olivia said, pointing to the sleek black SUV.
"So, what's so important that the FBI sends its two best agents to pick me up from the airport?" Peter asked as he threw his bag into the back seat and climbed in.
"We received an anonymous tip," Olivia said. "Someone planted an explosive device on the Stanton Island ferry. We managed to close the ferry itself and get all the people off the boat, but the device, whatever it was, went off."
"I take it the boat didn't do anything normal, like explode, or burst into flames."
"It turned into ice," Charlie said, "and sake to the bottom of the harbor."
"Unexpected," Peter replied. "Especially since ice floats."
"Technically," Olivia said. "Every liquid molecule in the boat turned into a solid molecule. The temperature never dropped, and a day later the boat hasn't thawed."
"Really?" Peter asked, his interest piqued. "Does Walter have any theories?"
"Probably," Olivia said. "But, mostly, he's complained about not being able to bring the entire ferry to the lab, and he's expounded at length about his worries that you will not use enough sunscreen and get cancer."
"I'm guessing your tan won't help ease that fear," Charlie said.
"So you need me to get him to focus," Peter said.
"Please and thank you," Olivia replied.
"It's good to be home," Peter said.
~B~R~E~A~K~
Thursday 4:00 p.m.
Walter was overjoyed to see his son, and far too consumed with his own thoughts and theories about the frozen ferry to notice Peter's tan. For three days they worked in the lab almost nonstop trying to reconstruct a process that would turn liquid into solid without using cold or pressure while Olivia and Charlie perused the human elements of the case – who planted the bomb, who called in the tip.
"So, this is your suspect?" Peter asked, looking at the printout of a Massive Dynamic employee profile. "Juan Jalisco Parnas."
"He didn't show up for work the day of the attack, and hasn't been seen since," Olivia said. "And, he's been working with advanced vibration technology."
"But it says here his research had to do with quickly separating the minerals in dirt," Astrid pointed out. "What does that have to do with a vibration that turns liquids into solids?"
"Research, even directed research, often results in serendipitous discoveries," Walter interjected from the other side of the lab, where he was wiring a device that he claimed would be able to imitate the ferry bomb. "Leo Hendrik Baekeland discovered plastic when trying to come up with a replacement for shellac. When Wilson Greatbatch accidently attached a 1-megaohm resistor to complete his circuit, he discovered the key to the pacemaker. William Perkin created the first synthetic dyes while trying to cure malaria, and he was only 18."
"I guess Pasteur was right when he said, 'chance favors the prepared mind,'" Astrid noted.
"I don't think my mind will ever be prepared enough," Olivia said.
"So we think that Parnas stumbled across the frequency that turns liquids permanently into solids while he was doing research for Massive Dynamic. But then what? Why create a bomb? And why sink the ferry?"
"Less security on the ferry than other types of mass transit," Olivia said. "But the news splash would be just as big."
"No pun intended," Peter said.
"But no terrorist organization has claimed credit," Astrid pointed out.
"Which makes it just like every other event in the pattern," Olivia said.
"And what did Nina Sharp have to say about all this?" Peter asked.
"Well," Olivia said with a frustrated sigh. "She gave me the employee profile, but little else. Parnas was a good employee, came in on time, showed progress in his research, but didn't really mix with any of the other employees. His direct manager, a Linda Kish, thought that he probably had trouble adjusting to American culture."
"What culture was he from?" Peter asked.
"He was born in Peru," Olivia said. "Came over years ago with a Fulbright scholarship to UCLA, managed to turn his student visa into a green card and, eventually, citizenship."
As Olivia spoke, a shadow of apprehension crossed Peter's face. His engaged expression shifted to introspection, and worry filled his eyes as he looked down at the file-photo of their suspect.
"Peter, what is it?" Olivia asked.
"I know a guy," Peter said after a moment, looking back up at Olivia. His expression was once more open and engaging. He looked normal, which was to say, eager to help.
"Is this a guy I can know?" Olivia asked.
"As it turns out, it is," Peter said. "How do you like Octopus?"
"Compared to other cephalopods?"
"Compared to other entrées," Peter said with a smile.
"It's ready!" Walter exclaimed from the other side of the room. The group shifted their attention to him, and the large device he'd constructed, apparently out of an old overhead projector.
"Now, Arrow, dear," Walter said. "If you would be willing to put this poster on the easel over there."
Astrid did as she was told, unfolding the old movie poster and propping it up on an easel Walter had put about three feet away from his contraption.
"Where did you find a poster for Cruel Intentions?" Astrid asked.
"Cruel Intentions?" Peter said with a laugh. "That movie's got to be like, ten years old?"
"Eleven, actually," Astrid corrected.
Peter and Olivia looked at her quizzically, compelling her to explain, "My roommate and I loved that movie in grad school. It was mindless and the boys were cute. We must have watched it fifty times."
"It was in the little bedroom, at home," Walter said. "You remember the one painted pink."
"I never go in that room," Peter said.
"I do not either," Walter said. "But one night I was . . . well, let's say, confused, and I wandered in, expecting to find a bathroom."
"I don't like where this story is going," Peter muttered.
"No worries, son," Walter continued brightly. "I did find the bathroom eventually, but not before I realized that the room had belonged to a young woman of, apparently, similar tastes to Agent Farnsworth here. Or, perhaps I should say a young woman who had grown out of such tastes, as she did not choose to take the poster and other similar wall adornments with her when she moved.
"But, all for the better, for my purposes. As you may surmise, this poster is made of paper. Dry, but perfectly flexible, paper."
"I think we are all familiar with paper," Peter said.
"Behold!" Walter said dramatically, flipping the switch on the overhead projector and the room was suddenly filled with a painfully high-pitched screech.
"Walter, what is that?" Peter yelled as he pressed the palms of his hands against his ears, trying to block out the dreadful sound. Olivia and Astrid did the same.
"Noise!" Walter replied. Perhaps the old man's hearing was going, or perhaps he didn't mind the earsplitting shriek. "Vibration and noise are one and the same. And, that should do it."
Walter flipped the switch again, and the shrill wail stopped.
"My ears are still ringing," Astrid commented.
"No one reported hearing anything like that at the dock," Olivia pointed out.
"Mr. Parmas clearly found a way to muffle the superfluous audio vibrations," Walter said dismissively. "What is important is what happened to the poster."
"Nothing happened to the poster," Peter said as he rubbed his ears, as if that would get the echoes of the sound out.
"I beg to differ," Walter said, walking up to the poster and tapping it with a pencil. There was a distinct cracking noise and the poster shattered, as if it had been a thin sheet of ice.
"Wow," Astrid said.
"Flexibility, as it were, allows for life. It lets our lungs breath in and breath out, and our hearts beat," Walter said. "Without liquids, flexibility is impossible."
"So," Olivia said, restating the obvious. "This is one scary weapon."
"Yes, my dear," Walter nodded. "It is indeed."
~B~R~E~A~K~
Thursday 6:00 p.m.
"Cezar, the son, lived across the hall from me in this dive I moved into after I dropped out of MIT," Peter said as he drove Olivia through the strip mall lined through fairs of Boston's outer suburbs. "We were both doing odd jobs just to get by, to prove to ourselves that we didn't need our parents. Turns out, in the end, he did."
"Need his parents?"
"He got a girl pregnant," Peter said. "Good–or well, guilt-ridden—Catholic boy that he was, he insisted they keep the baby and get married. They both moved in with his folks and he started working at the family restaurant. He used to give me the night's leftovers if I stopped by at 11:30 and helped with the dishes. There was a time I did that a lot."
"Ok," Olivia said, waiting for the story to lead to something, anything that would connect to Juan Parmas.
"His mother adored me," Peter said as he pulled into a strip mall and quickly found a parking place in front of what appeared to be a Mexican restaurant. "Let's hope she still does."
When Peter and Olivia walked in, she quickly realized that she was not in a run-of-the-mill taquería. The smells were richer, deeper than what she associated with 'Mexican' and the art on the walls, while clearly Native American, did not feature the bright colors and jagged edges that she associated with their neighbor to the south.
"Is this a Peruvian restaurant?" Olivia asked as the waited patiently for the host, who was nowhere to be seen.
"Yeah," Peter said. "Carla's – named for Cezar's mom. Best Peruvian food on the eastern seaboard, and a touchstone for the Peruvian-American community. If Parmas was connected with other ex-pats, Piero and Carla should know him."
"But he was in New York," Olivia said. "There must be a community there."
"It's a small world, Olivia," Peter told her. "People know people."
"As you continually prove," Olivia commented.
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the hostess, who quickly seated them in at a small table in a dim corner of the restaurant next to a large fountain made to look like a waterfall. The hostess probably put them there thinking that the table was romantic – perfect for a pair of lovers. Peter liked the seating because he could see that the noise of the fountain would drown out the noise of their conversation in case anyone chose to eavesdrop.
"Here are the menus," the hostess said, handing them the heavy, faux-leather booklets. "And the specials tonight are . . ."
"Hold up a sec," Peter told her. Turning to Olivia he said, "Do you trust me?"
"Does this have anything to do with octopuses?" she asked with exaggerated suspicion.
Peter smiled, "Answer my question and I'll answer yours."
"I trust you," she said with a smile.
"We'll have a double order of the Arroz a la Merinera," Peter said. "And tell Piero or Carla that Peter Bishop is here with someone he'd like them to meet."
"Arroz a la Merinera," the hostess repeated. "I'll give Carla your message."
"So," Olivia asked, her voice sounding just a little excited. "What will I be eating?"
"It's this amazing seafood stew," Peter said. "Served over rice. Did you know the Incas had a system to get fresh seafood from the coast to their capitol in the mountains?"
"I did not know that," Olivia said.
"You clearly need to watch more History Chanel."
"The amount of time I spend at home, I don't even bother paying for cable," Olivia said.
Their small talk didn't get any further than that before a large woman of Native American heritage came up to their table. "Pedro!" she said affectionately, with a thick Spanish accent. "It has been so long!"
"Mrs. Vilca," Peter said, standing up and hugging the older woman. "It's very good to see you."
"Oh, if Cezar knew you were coming he would have been here," the woman said. "You know, he was telling Marc just the other day about the time you two went sledding down the overpass during the blizzard."
"Sledding down the overpass?" Olivia asked.
"Next to the overpass," Peter clarified. "And Cezar should know better than to tell his son stories like that. No kid should do the stupid things we did."
"You should see Marc," Carla purred. "He's just turned sixteen, can you believe it?"
"Did he now?" Peter said. He seemed genuinely surprised that the baby he knew was now practically an adult.
"I have a picture here," the proud grandmother said, pulling a dog-eared photo covered with a thin plastic sleeve out of her apron pocket. It was of a dark skinned young man in a soccer uniform. He was standing on a soccer field, holding a ball, and smiling brilliantly. "They think he'll get a scholarship," Carla continued. "He's very good at the back field – all American. And his grades are not so shabby. You know, he has not missed a day of school in his life!"
"They should give him a scholarship just for that," Peter said, then turning to Olivia, he handed her the picture. "Good lookin' kid, isn't he?"
"Yes, very," Olivia said, knowing full well that praising a grandchild was the quickest way to win any grandmother's affection and cooperation.
"Mrs. Vilca," Peter said. "Allow me to introduce Olivia Dunham."
"Yes, I saw you had a lady with you," the old woman said, smiling knowingly at Peter before turning her affectionate gaze at Olivia. "You are a lucky young lady. Peter is a good boy – and there are so few now days."
"I hate to disappoint you," Peter said. "But Agent Dunham is not my girlfriend. She's my colleague. I've been working with the FBI as a consultant for the past year or so, and we've got a problem we think you might be able to help us with."
"The FBI?" Carla said nervously. "We have green cards for all our employees. We pay our taxes. We don't get mixed up in anything."
"It's not like that," Olivia said. "We're looking for information on a Peruvian scientist who may have had ties in the ex-pat community. He's been missing for four days. Any information you could give us would be helpful."
"I told her you knew everyone," Peter said. "He lives in New York, but what's a four hour drive when you need some of Carla's Anticuchos de Pollo?"
"You are a flatterer," Carla said, clearly pleased by Peter's comment. Turning to Olivia she said, "He has a sweet tongue, and you watch yourself. He will be your paramour yet."
"It's a risk she's going to have to take," Peter said, obviously amused. "Olivia, could you show her the picture?"
"His name is Juan Jalisco Parmas," Olivia said officially. "Like Peter said, he lived in New York, but the people he worked with said he didn't socialize with them, and his apartment was practically empty. He must know someone – be part of some community."
"Not ours," Carla said. "Not mine, that is. But, yes, he's Peruvian. He may have some Sephardic in him, look at the nose."
"Sephardic?" Olivia asked.
"His ancestors might have been Jewish, come from Morocco," Carla said. "I know of a synagogue in New York that he might have gone too. They have a strong community outreach; if I wanted to be with Peruvians in New York City, that is where I'd start."
"Fantastic," Olivia said. "What's the name of the synagogue?"
"Where I would start, young lady," Carla said, as if to clarify.
"I think we should let Mrs. Vilca contact the synagogue," Peter said. "Immigrant communities don't usually like federal investigations."
"Won't they be wondering why you're asking?" Olivia asked.
"Let me worry about that," Carla said with a smile.
"Don't you even want to know why we're looking for him?"
"I trust Peter," Carla said with a warm smile. "He took good care of my Cezar when they were friends. Like I told you, a good boy. If he says you need to find this man, then I can know it is for a good reason."
"Thank you," Olivia said with earnest gratitude.
"Now, you two enjoy your dinner," Carla ordered. "You had the double order of Arroz a la Merinera."
"What else?" Peter said.
"You're a lucky girl, Agent Duhnam," Carla said, this time giving her knowing smile to Olivia. "You two enjoy. I'll come back with the Mazamorra Morada and tell you what I've learned."
The old woman walked off and Olivia turned to Peter, "Mazamorra Morada?"
"Corn and fruit pudding," Peter said. "It's amazing. You'll love it."
"Well, I have to say," Olivia said, leaning back in her chair and looking at the waterfall cascading down the wall behind Peter, "Of all your wierd contacts, Carla is by far my favorite."
Peter smiled, "And you haven't even tasted the Arroz."
~B~R~E~A~K~
Friday 10:20 a.m.
Carla's contacts with the synagogue in New York bore fruit. The rabbi knew Juan Parmas, though he was not a member of synagogue itself. Rather, he was very involved in the Peruvian cultural events which the synagogue often participated in and sponsored. He'd taught a class on Peruvian constellations for the summer solstice, and participated in a cooking class for singles. The Rabbi was able to give Carla Parmas's address as well as the name of a young woman who was a member of the synagogue, with whom the rabbi had reason to believe Parmas was friendly.
Olivia and Charlie went straight to New York and found the woman, Hannah Loba, at her apartment in Queens. She opened the door when they knocked and smiled when they introduced themselves, but something in her large brown eyes look worried. She kept glancing down the hall as if she expected, and possibly dreaded, someone. Sure enough, after a few minutes of fruitless questioning, Juan Jalisco Parmas walked up the stairs holding a grocery bag in one hand and a gallon of milk in the other.
He saw Olivia and Charlie, two people wearing FBI windbreakers, talking to his girlfriend, and he panicked. He dropped the groceries and ran down the stairs.
Olivia and Charlie pursued him to street level. Then, when he reached the street, he did not bother to look for traffic and he ran directly in front of an oncoming car. He was hit and pronounced dead by the Paramedics when they reached the scene.
Charlie and some agents from the New York field office searched Hannah Loba's the apartment while Olivia arranged for the transportation of Juan Parmas's body.
"Peter," she clipped as soon as he answered the phone. "Where are you?"
"We just got home," Peter said. "Why?"
"I need you in the lab," Olivia explained.
"What happened?" Peter asked an undertone of dread in his voice.
"We found Juan Parmas," she replied simply.
"And?"
"And he was hit by a car before we could question him."
"That's inconvenient."
"He's dead."
"Extremely inconvenient."
"I was thinking; he's our only lead. If we could get anything out of him, anything at all, we might be able to continue our investigation."
"But didn't you just tell me he's dead?"
"As I recall, your father doesn't think that's an insurmountable obstacle."
There was a pause as the meaning of Olivia's statement sunk in. "No," Peter said firmly. "No."
"Peter, please."
"It hurts, Olivia," Peter said angrily. "And no matter what my father tells you or Astrid about the drugs he gives me, it still hurts."
"People could die, Peter," Olivia insisted. "We haven't found his workshop, so we don't know how many devices he has, or where he's planted them."
"If he's planted them."
"The point is we have questions," Olivia said.
"There's got to be another way," Peter said.
"There may be," Olivia admitted. "But Parmas has been dead for an hour already. Our window of opportunity is shrinking."
Another long pause.
"I hate this," Peter finally said. "I hate being the guinea pig. I hate being a tool."
"I know, Peter," Olivia said. "I'm sorry."
Peter sighed. "When do you think you'll get to the lab?"
"About two hours."
"We'll be there and be prepped."
"Thank you," Olivia said, genuinely grateful.
"Yeah," Peter muttered, genuinely annoyed.
To be continued . . .
