Page 98 of Accidental Murder

“Stop!” Simmons ordered.

Harkowsky sucked in a sharp breath at the shrill tone. Kayla edged closer to Eve, confident Simmons wouldn’t shoot her. If he did, he might lose the doctor’s willingparticipation.

“Doctor,” she said, “I assume your clients will pay millions of dollars for the ability to perfect their unborn children.”

“One million per child. We have a waiting list.”

“What is going on in this particular room? Why use adult patients?”

“We have worked on animals for quite a while, but none of us felt we could regulate the genomes in a child or an infant based on our findings.” Harkowsky raised his chin. “However, we have ethics.”

“Ethics.” Kayla rolled her eyes.

“We will not test our theories on unborn fetuses. In adults, we can see if the genome has merged with theDNAstrand.”

“Enough, Doctor.” Simmons smacked Harkowsky’s arm. “The lady’s curiosity has been slaked.”

“But—”

“Enough!”

Dismissed, the doctor moved on, but not in the direction of the exit. Instead, he attended to the patient at the far end of the room. Kayla wondered whether he was dawdling on purpose. To protect her?

“Doctor, I said leave. Now!”

Harkowsky bridled but obeyed. At the door he stopped. “A word, Fitz.”

Simmons turned.

With the distraction, Kayla lunged for the monitor nearest Eve. She disconnected a wire from it as well as from Eve’s head before leaping toward Simmons. Before he could pivot, she wrapped the cord around his neck and twisted hard, cutting off his air. He fired a wild shot. It spit into the wall.

At the same time, Kayla felt a sharp pain in her arm. Warm fluid flowed into her blood stream. The drug—it had to be a drug—instantly inhibited her motor skills. Her ability to speak. “What the—” She released the cord and tried to raise her arms to defend herself but couldn’t.

Over her shoulder, she caught a glimpse of her assailant. Not the doctor. Blond Guy. Still in black. A vertical shoulder holsterwas strapped across his chest, a gun secured in its compartment. Liquid dripped from the tip of the hypodermic he was holding.

She sank to the floor.

The last thing she heard was someone saying, “When the K2-4 wears off, hook her up and get her signature.”

CHAPTER EIGHTY

A suffocatingfog crept in as Megan pulled to the curb by the Simmons’s Las Casitas-style home in Russian Hill. She could barely make out the house, but from what she could see, it was a beauty, the kind of place she would never be able to afford. She stepped out of the car and buttoned her coat.

Vaughn got out on the passenger side. “I’m going in with you.”

“Fine, but you’re a ride-along. Keep your mouth shut.”

“Gee, Inspector, I get the feeling you’re growing fond of me.”

“It’s Inspector Sergeant and don’t you forget it.”

Megan climbed the terra cotta stairs to the front porch. Yellow pansies tumbled from clay pots. Stone lions guarded the entrance. A beautiful Christmas wreath adorned the front door. She rang the doorbell and a long, mournful Chinese gong sounded.

A moment passed before Taylor Simmons answered. His gaze moved to Vaughn and back to her. He offered a frosty smile. Not his best feature, Megan mused, but excused his stiffness. Grieving could challenge the strongest of souls.

“Good evening, Inspector.” He cinched the belt tighter around his velour robe. Beneath the robe he wore slacks and awhite shirt. His thick black hair stuck out at odd angles, as if he had recently washed and towel dried it.

“Sir, I have a couple of questions. May we come in?” The chill was cutting through her.