that required suspended animation,” Fry answered, his enthusiasm for the mystery apparently tempered as he considered what the victim had endured. “My guess is that his metabolism was slowed in order to hinder the immuno response to whatever process he was enduring. I’ll have to run more tests, but I’d say Alpha died from acute hemolytic reaction to a blood transfusion that replaced the original AB blood I found traces of in his kidneys with the rarer O-negative blood. Alpha was originally a universal recipient, someone who could receive blood from any other group, but this transfusion still killed him because his T-lymphocyte cells mounted an attack on the foreign blood entering his body, causing hemorrhage and liver failure.”
Tyrell shook his head slowly.
“I need something that I can follow here.”
Fry turned to a smaller table beside him, retrieving from it a long, slim metal object that he held in his hand.
“You’ll be needing this then,” he said. “It’s a titanium implant belonging to Alpha.”
Tyrell smiled. “Serial number?”
“All in order,” Fry said, handing him the rod. “It’s from the right femur, probably a result of an automobile accident. Maybe whoever caused his death wasn’t as thorough as they thought.”
“What about the other two?” Lopez asked.
“I’ll send blood specimens to the state crime laboratory,” Fry said. “I can use radio or enzyme immunoassay here, but only gas chromatography or mass spectrometry will give us a clear answer as to what happened to these poor souls and be admissible in court. My guess is that they’re genuine overdose victims, although still homicides, and that Alpha was made to look like one of them.”
“Keep me informed,” Tyrell said, turning from the gurneys, “and let me know of any developments, no matter how insignificant.”
Tyrell led the way out of the laboratories and into the fresh air outside. He heard Lopez breathe an audible sigh of relief as they left the labs, but managed to keep his own quiet enough for her not to hear.
“How do you want to play it?” she asked as they reached the car.
“Carefully,” Tyrell murmured. “Our victim Alpha’s had his blood transfused after being cryogenically frozen and had God knows what extracted from his body, for reasons I can’t possibly fathom. If I can’t work out why, I doubt the district attorney’s going to see this as anything other than a freak overdose.”
Tyrell leaned on the roof for a moment, looking thoughtfully back at the office building as he retrieved his handkerchief and mopped his brow once again. He noticed with a sigh that Bailey was watching him from a rear seat covered by a sea of biscuit crumbs.
“Get in touch with the International Commission on Missing Persons. I want details of all individuals reported in the last four weeks who match the bodies we’ve got in that morgue. Whoever they were, it’s my bet that someone’s missing them. As for this,” he said, tapping the titanium rod, “get in touch with the hospital administration and find out who it belonged to.”
Lopez nodded and opened her door.
“Captain Powell won’t want us chasing this down, Tyrell. He’ll have it tagged as another bunch of po’ crackheads wiped out on misadventure once he gets the FBI report from yesterday morning.”
“Indeed he will,” Tyrell agreed, “but we won’t. We keep this to ourselves, for as long as we can.”
UNITED STATES EMBASSY
HAYARKON STREET, TEL AVIV
Greetings and welcome to Israel.”
A smartly dressed envoy led Ethan and Rachel through the large, modern building of concrete pillars and smoked glass situated in the heart of the city. Supported by a consular section in the nearby Migdalor Building, the embassy was home to Ambassador Jeb Cutler, a buoyant Arkansan with a long history of diplomatic wrangling who welcomed them into the conference room as though it were his own living room.
“Ms. Morgan, welcome to Tel Aviv.”
Cutler was middle-aged, his features creased by the years of worry that marked the career politician, but his brown eyes danced with genuine delight.
“Thank you for seeing us, ambassador,” Rachel said.
“It’s Jeb,” he insisted. “I’m glad that you’re here, although I wish it were under better circumstances.”
Cutler turned and gestured to a wiry little man in a neatly pressed suit who stood behind a table dominating the room. Ethan looked on as Rachel was introduced to Shiloh Rok, a representative from Israel’s Foreign Ministry.
“Welcome, Miss Morgan,” Rok murmured, then glanced over Rachel’s shoulder at Ethan. “I believed that you were traveling alone.”
“This is Ethan Warner,” Rachel said. “He has come to help me here