WASHINGTON, D.C.
Benjamin Platt carried a hard-shell case filled with an assortment of samples. He was anxious to get back to a lab at USAMRIID. Bix had overnighted a set to his CDC scientists in Atlanta as well. Platt would, no doubt, be cross-checking what Bix’s experts had looked for at the Norfolk high school, including a variety of strains of E. coli and salmonella along with norovirus and a few other sneaky bacteria. He also had more than a dozen baggies filled with leftovers and garbage that he and Julia Racine had carefully scavenged.
He was still smiling at Julia’s last remark: “I’ve never seen a guy get so excited about vomit. Your mother must be very proud.”
She stood beside him now, shoulder holster in full view as if providing backup while he loaded the samples into his Land Rover. They ignored the media that had followed, tossing questions and sticking microphones in their faces. That’s when Racine pushed back her jacket to show her badge as well as her firearm. She shoved one reporter off the curb then held out her hand like a running back, strong-arming anyone else who dared get in their way.
Finally inside the vehicle, Platt was ready to make a getaway. He revved the engine to warn the Channel 5 news crew at his hood that he wouldn’t hesitate to roll over them. He accelerated forward, braked hard. Watched the big guy with a camera jump-step out of his way. Suddenly the back door to the Land Rover opened. Racine turned ready to pounce over the seat. Roger Bix slid inside.
“Go,” Bix said. “Run these assholes over if you have to.” Halfway down the street Platt said, “I’m taking Detective Racine to her car. You want me to take you to yours?”
“USDA just invited us over to their house to play a game of information swap.”
“Really? I thought they had to assess your request.”
“Evidently they’ve assessed it. My guess, our new Miss Undersecretary watched a little television this afternoon and is now as nervous as a long-tail cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”
Platt glanced at Racine then at Bix in the rearview mirror. Bix was finally slipping back to his old self, using metaphors that would still sound ridiculous even without the Southern drawl.
“So you want me to drop you off at the Department of Agriculture?”
“Drop me off? I thought we were in this together. Like Batman and Robin or the Lone Ranger and Tonto.”
Platt bit back: “More like Archie and Jughead,” and added, “Believe me, Roger, I’m more useful to you in a research lab, hunting for what made these kids sick. Not in some office, sipping tea, eating finger food, and batting around political mumbo-jumbo.”
“Actually you’re both coming with me. I need a show of force.”
“What happened to Agent Tully?”
“His boss said there wasn’t enough information yet to make this an FBI matter.” Bix pursed his lips and muttered, “Bastard.”
“Officially, I’m not assigned to this case either,” Racine told him.
Bix held up his cell phone. “Who do I need to call to get you officially assigned?”
“Roger, this is her day off. What the hell’s going on with you?”
“Only twenty minutes,” Bix promised.
“Sure, why not. I’m hungry.”
Before Platt could argue, Bix’s cell phone started playing something that sounded more like salsa when Platt would have expected country western. The guy was full of surprises.
Bix glanced at the caller ID, frowned, then shook his head as he answered, “This is Bix.” He listened for several seconds and finally said, “Yes, of course, I believe you. I never said I didn’t believe you.”
Platt exchanged looks with Julia but stayed quiet. He continued to shoot glances at the rearview mirror, watching Bix. The man appeared visibly shaken, eyes darting outside the vehicle windows as if trying to locate his caller someplace on the sidewalks of the District. Was that sweat on his upper lip?
“Christ almighty, you cannot be serious.” It came out as a hiss of disbelief rather than anger. “You’ve got to give me more than that to go on. Hold on. Wait a minute.” He brought the phone down and stared at it before he slapped it shut. The person had hung up before Bix was finished.
He wiped a sleeve across his sweaty face and then said, “There’s going to be more schools.”
He said it so quietly Platt wasn’t sure he heard him correctly.
“What do you mean, going to be?” Julia asked.
“If we don’t figure this out by Monday morning then Monday afternoon there’ll be more sick kids.”
“Who did you just talk to, Roger?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is this some food terrorist plot?” Julia asked.
“Almost as bad,” Bix said. “But not a terrorist. A whistle-blower.”