The Chemist

Alex smiled in spite of her fear. “That I can manage.”

He pursed his lips for a minute. “This is weird, Ollie. I… well, I almost like you right now.”

“The feeling will pass.”

“You’re right – it’s fading already.” He sighed. “How long will you need with your chemistry set?”

Alex calculated quickly. “Give me three hours.”

“I’ll research my new target, then.”

Kevin grabbed his machete and other knives and headed upstairs, whistling.

Alex stood and stretched. Even with the new pressure and attached dread, it felt good to have the answer. The missing name had been an irritant, like an itch on the inside of her skull. Now she could concentrate on her next move.

“All right, I’m in the master bath.”

Kevin’s voice was muted, for Kevin, but still louder than Alex felt was safe. If she’d mentioned her concern, he would only have reminded her that he was the expert now, but still. He was just so cocky.

Alex wondered if he’d brought Einstein into the house with him. Probably, she thought, but of course the dog made no sound.

“Make sure you’ve got his side of things. I don’t want to kill the wife.” Alex couldn’t bring herself to speak above a whisper despite his apparent comfort.

“What?”

“Make sure you find his stuff,” she murmured a little louder. “Nothing unisex, like toothpaste.”

“I’m pretty sure the right-hand side medicine cabinet belongs to our guy. Refill safety razor blades, Excedrin, SPF forty-five sunblock, Centrum Silver, some makeup, but it’s all flesh tones…”

“Be positive.”

“I am. Lots of lipsticks and perfumes on the left side.”

“Some things they might share… check the drawers under the medicine cabinet.”

Alex pictured the pretty blond woman she’d seen standing beside Wade Pace in the official photos. Carolyn Josephine Merritt-Pace. She was only ten years the senator’s junior, but she looked a full quarter of a century younger. Whatever surgeries she had undergone, she’d been circumspect enough to keep things minimal; she’d retained her warm, beaming smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes and had every appearance of being genuine. She’d inherited a fortune from her aristocratic southern family, much of which she used to fund her various causes – literacy, feeding hungry children, saving music programs in inner-city schools, building shelters for the homeless. Never anything controversial. She had been a stay-at-home mother for their two daughters, both of whom had graduated from Magnolia League schools and were now married to respectable men – a pediatrician and a college professor. From everything Alex had learned in her hurried research about the senator’s wife, Mrs. Merritt-Pace seemed a pleasant enough woman. Certainly not deserving of the painful death her husband was about to suffer. Hopefully about to suffer, Alex amended. There was still so much that was left to luck.

“I’ve got three boxes of bar soap, a pack of extra toothbrushes, ChapStick in two flavors, cherry and strawberry… pomade, cotton pads, Q-tips… Next drawer down – oh, now here we go. Hemorrhoid cream. That’s fitting. Suppositories, too. Whatcha think, Ollie?”

“That might work. I’d love to use something topical rather than going the oral route, just to separate this as much as possible from Carston. But he might not use either the cream or the suppositories regularly.”

“A good point. Though it would be so great to literally shove this poison up – oh, hey, is our guy a smoker?”

“Um… hold on one second.”

Alex typed the phrase Does Wade Pace smoke? into her open browser window. She was immediately flooded with articles and pictures. She clicked on the images – poor-quality photographs taken from behind or at a great distance. Wade Pace – younger than he was now, still some dark in his hair, usually in a military uniform – was never at the center of the photo, but it was easy enough to pick him out, cigarette in hand. And then the more recent photos where he was centered; these were after he’d morphed into the “silver fox” Val had called him, and he never held a cigarette. But several photographers had focused in on the nicotine patch just slightly visible through the sleeve of his white button-down. Another on vacation, in a garish Hawaiian shirt, the bottom corner of the tan patch showing just below the sleeve. The vacation picture was from April. Not that long ago.

“Looks like he used to be,” Alex said. “Tell me you found the patches.”

“NicoDerm CQ. One half-used box, with three unopened packages behind it. I’ll check the trash.”

Alex waited eagerly through the short silence.

“Affirmative. Used patches in the trash under his sink. I’d say this bin gets emptied regularly. So he’s still actively using them.”

“This couldn’t be more perfect,” Alex said through her teeth. “Use the syringe marked with the number three.”

“Got it.”

She could hear the quiet pull of a zipper.

“Don’t let the liquid come in contact with your skin. Come at it from the seam – don’t leave an obvious pinhole.”

“I’m not an idiot. How much?”

“Depress the syringe halfway.”

“It’s pretty small, are you sure – you know what, never mind. How soon will it dry?”