Flu

Chapter 104

Brow furrowing, Kate watches as Rick enters a password into Busby's cellphone. "Doesn't look like Spurtle is going to do it. Maybe we'd better go see Perlmutter."

Rick holds up his hand. "Wait a sec. I have another idea." A chime sounds, confirming his second guess.

"What did you enter?" Kate asks.

"'Chef Busby.' Given his mix of ambitions, it made sense. OK, here's the locator app. This is strange. The G.P.S. shows Busby's laptop at Imagination Patch."

"Maybe Busby hid it, and we didn't find it," Wigdor suggests.

"I can't see him doing that. When we writers have brainstorms, we like to be able to get them down while they're fresh in our minds," Rick explains. "He'd want his machine within reach."

"And C.S.U. went over the crime scene," Kate adds. "If the computer was there, they would have collected it." Her teeth nibble her bottom lip. "Unless – does Imagination Patch have a dumpster?"

"Auchincloss likes to bag food waste to ship off for composting on an organic farm. He trades it for a deal on fresh produce. But we share one with the shop next door for whatever trash we have. Fremont could have thrown it in there," Rick realizes.

"When's the pickup?" Kate asks.

"In about 45 minutes." Rick starts for the elevator. "We'd better hurry."

"Can't you just call Mark and ask him to look for it?" Kate queries.

Rick sheepishly pulls out his phone. "Uh-huh, but you just sucked all the drama out of this scene. If I pen a version, I'll have to make sure we speed through traffic in a fevered rush."


Mark points to a laptop resting on newspapers spread on the floor of his functional office. "The thing's a mess, but I didn't want to take a chance of ruining fingerprints or something by trying to clean it up."

"You did the right thing," Kate assures him, pulling on a pair of blue nitrile gloves. " I don't know if these will work with a touchpad."

Rick grins. "They will. I tried that scenario out for my last book."

"I don't remember it," Kate admits.

"I didn't use it. I wrote a more," Rick wiggles his eyebrows, "engaging scene."

Kate winks, dropping to the floor to sit cross-legged in front of the laptop. "That one I do remember. Damn! We need another password."

"Try Spurtle, again," Rick urges. "Busby had to use it somewhere."

"You're right. I'm in. He has a bunch of files. OK, this is the one he accessed most recently."

Rick and Bernie crouch to see the screen. "That's it, Kate!" Rick exclaims. "He's writing about a villain making money by sabotaging a company run by dedicated workers. That's got to be Sir Lancelot. That character he's calling Filch must be Fremont. Not exactly subtle."

"And calling Ryan and Esposito Riley and Ochoa is?" Kate needles.

"Touché."

Kate leans away from the screen. "The problem is this is fiction. Even if it is based on thinly-veiled facts, it would never stand up in court. It doesn't get us any closer to Fremont, either."

"There's a file named, 'Resources,'" Bernie notes. "Try that."

Kate brings up the text. "You called it, Wigdor. This has Busby's notes on where and how he got his information. There's an address here he calls "The Lair."

Rick springs to his feet. "Want to bet that's where we find Fremont?"

Kate snaps a picture of the screen and bags the laptop for C.S.U. "Let's find out."


Fremont had never intended spending more than a couple of hours at a time in the space he rented as an address for his imaginary laboratory, but he can stay there until he comes up with a better plan. He was using the place to print out phony reports, to make Sir Lancelot and Eastwick happy, but it has enough room for him to sleep. The self-inflating air mattress he bought isn't half bad. The little fridge and microwave will keep him fed, and he can wash up in the utilitarian bathroom. He wishes he had a window, so he could check if anyone comes looking for him. Still, if his accomplice at Sir Lancelot hadn't given him a heads up that the police were sniffing around, he might be in a cell right now. Until he can figure out something better, this place will do.

Kate regards an industrial building in a group of other industrial buildings. Nothing about it stands out or would attract undue attention. Its unremarkable appearance makes it the perfect candidate for a hideout.

Rick studies the companies listed on the board beside the entrance. "One-C is Nutra-Analytics. Isn't that the name of the lab Fremont claimed was doing the testing for Sir Lancelot?"

"It is," Bernie confirms. "But there's no way anyone could put a lab in here – not legally. The one at Sir Lancelot had exhausts for the hoods and a sprinkler system. There's no provision for that in this complex."

"Good catches, both of you," Kate acknowledges. "I'm going to call the building management company and see what it can tell me about the tenant in One-C."


After quietly clearing the surrounding offices, 12 uniformed and armored officers approach One-C. Kate orders Wigdor to wait in her unit, and she and Rick don Kevlar vests. They follow the blue horde to their quarry's door.

Fremont can hear the pounding of approaching footsteps even before the demand to open up. The knife he used to kill Busby Centerfield was a weapon of opportunity. He hates guns and has never considered carrying one. His primary defense has always been between his ears. His only chance with the police will be to talk his way out. He opens the door and, as commanded, meekly lies on the ground with his hands behind his head.


Kate's folder smacks against the metal table. "So, Mr. Snigley, that is your real name, isn't it, George Snigley? You must have thought you were pretty smart, sabotaging Sir Lancelot so you could get a big payday from Ivanhoe Mills. Too bad for you that Busby Centerfield caught on to your game. But killing him wasn't very bright. If you hadn't attracted my attention, you might have been able to slither back to your hole.

"But you see, George, murder has no statute of limitations. And the N.Y.P.D. has a very long memory. I've brought in killers who committed crimes before I was born. The moment you stabbed Busby Centerfield, the clock started ticking. It was just a question of when your time would run out.

"You left D.N.A. behind when you killed Busby. The crime lab can do great things these days. I knew what Busby's murderer would look like before I ever saw you. That and a lot of other evidence tie you to the crime. And the damage you caused at Sir Lancelot won't help your case either."

"I didn't cause any damage at Sir Lancelot," Fremont insists. "That was someone else. I can tell you who it is, but I want to make a deal."

Kate smirks. "Maybe that will help you with the civil suit Sir Lancelot has every cause to bring against you. The lawyers can work that out. Busby Centerfield is my concern. Perhaps you didn't mean to kill him. You could have grabbed that knife in the heat of the moment." She can see Fremont leaning forward in his seat as he goes for the bait, and reels in her line. "If you can make me believe you did that, I might be able to sweet-talk the A.D.A. into reducing the charges. But you're going to have to give me a story I can accept."

"Yes," Fremont agrees, "I can do that."


Alone in the break room, Rick pulls Kate into the warmth of his body. "You know the tale Fremont/Snigley told you was almost pure bull."

Kate flutters her eyelashes. "I know. But he confessed. I made sure he was informed of his rights, but he was so sure of his own silver tongue that he confessed of his own free will. And he did give us his co-conspirator at Sir Lancelot. Who would have suspected Iris? Obviously, she thought she could play both ends against the middle. Anyway, Bernie Wigdor goes back to Vermont happy, and we're free of a third wheel."

Rick lowers his lips to hers. "Yes, yes we are."