Diablo Mesa(29)

“Agent Morwood,” said Lathrop in an ingratiating tone, “I’m rather more sanguine than our resident Cassandra here. On the contrary, I believe we will have an ID for you by Tuesday, or at least something close.”

Morwood nodded and, as his eyes flickered again to Corrie, she thought she caught a veiled warning. He knew how offended she must be, and he was cautioning her not to react. She swallowed hard. Our resident Cassandra here. Was she really going to let that one go?

“You’re both doing a fine job,” Morwood said. “Corrie, as you’re the agent in charge, I’ll expect you to give the main presentation. I hope you won’t mind, Dr. Lathrop.”

He nodded curtly. “Of course not.”

“Very good.” Morwood looked at his watch. “I have to go—the good Dr. Eastchester has granted me a seven o’clock audience at his home in Los Alamos.” And he left.

A long silence ensued. Corrie made a decision—she turned to Lathrop and said in a low, even voice: “I did not appreciate your Cassandra comment. If you make another remark like that, I’ll file a complaint.”

“Oh, what rubbish!” he said. “There was nothing wrong with my comment. Cassandra, as you apparently don’t know, was the ancient prophetess who spoke the truth and was never believed. So you see, my dear, it wasn’t an insult—it was a compliment.”

This little speech confounded Corrie, but she nevertheless felt sure she had been insulted. The “my dear” didn’t help.

“It isn’t just the Cassandra comment. It’s everything since I first arrived.” She tried to speak in a measured tone, choosing her words carefully. “You’ve minimized and belittled my contributions. You’ve taken credit for things you didn’t do. And you’ve treated me in a condescending and, frankly, sexist manner.”

“Well, well,” huffed Lathrop, “I didn’t realize you were such a tender creature. This is the FBI, my dear, not the DAR.”

That did it. Corrie lanced him with narrowed eyes. “Here’s something you seem to forget: not only do I outrank you as a special agent, but I am far more educated in forensic science than you. I doubt you’ve cracked a book on the subject in twenty years.”

All the color drained from Lathrop’s face and Corrie realized she had scored a direct hit. Her feelings of triumph, however, quickly gave way to apprehension as she saw just how hurt he was. She suddenly wished she could take back what she had just said.

His face as white as a slab of suet, Lathrop stiffly walked away and exited via the lab door, closing it ever so fussily behind him.





18



THE GPS ON Special Agent Morwood’s phone informed him to go left at the intersection of Trinity and Oppenheimer. He made the turn, marveling at the street names in this once-secret town that had launched the Atomic Age. He soon arrived at 122 Oppenheimer Drive, a modest condo painted gray with white trim, and parked the car in a designated spot in front, next to an antique pickup truck. He fetched the large evidence container by its handles out of the back seat and carried it to the entrance, but before he could even ring the bell, Angus Eastchester had opened the door. Years had passed since Morwood had first met him as a rookie agent, but the scientist had aged gracefully, sporting a shock of white Einsteinian hair, a ruddy face, horn-rimmed glasses, and an appropriately rumpled tweed jacket with leather patches. He was leaning on a beautiful old Malacca cane with a gold head.

“Please come in!” Eastchester said. “Come in!”

Morwood followed him into a modest living room. Eastchester offered him a seat in a wing chair that had seen better days. Morwood was surprised a Nobel laureate lived in such simple, even spartan, surroundings. Didn’t a couple of million dollars come with the prize? Some people just didn’t care about money or possessions.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me, Dr. Eastchester,” Morwood said.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” Eastchester said. “I’m Angus and you’re Hale. No need for formalities here.”

“Of course,” said Morwood. Eastchester was still as warm and unpretentious as he’d been twenty-three years ago, before he’d won his Nobel. It didn’t seem to have changed him.

“Before we begin, can I offer you anything? Coffee? Tea? Water?”

“I’d love some coffee.” It had been a long drive from Albuquerque to Los Alamos, and Morwood needed refreshing.

“Me too.” Eastchester called: “Annie?”

A matronly woman came out of the kitchen.

“Coffee, please.”

“Coming right up.” She vanished again.

“When I hit eighty,” said Eastchester, nodding toward the kitchen, “my children imposed someone upon me. To help out during the day. I broke a hip last year and it hasn’t been easy.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Bah! The infirmities of age. What a bore. We gain honors, age, and wealth, and then just when we’re ready to enjoy them, Father Time comes swooping down and screws up our bodies. Pulvis et umbra sumus and all that.”

“I know what you mean. I’ve got this damn lung situation, which slows me down.”

“I hear you’re a supervisory agent these days. You’ve come a long way, Hale, from the nervous rookie I recall working his first case with that senior agent, what was his name?”