“Sometimes big crimes are committed to cover up smaller crimes. Maybe the Chemist had a specific target, and the rest of this is all smoke and mirrors.”

“I’ll need more cops,” Herb said.

“Retirees,” I said. “Put them back on limited duty.”

The super nodded, then took a phone call.

The extortion letter had gone on ahead to the crime lab, and I dug out my cell and spoke briefly with my guy there, Scott Hajek. He’d confirmed botulism in the envelope and on the letter through the wonder of mass spectrometry. Postmark came from the post office around the corner, mailed yesterday. Stamp and seal on the envelope both self-adhesive, so no saliva. Eleven prints found on the envelope and paper. The letter had been printed on an inkjet, using Arial Black font, available on almost every computer made after 1994. No hairs or fibers or business cards revealing the Chemist’s address had yet been found, but Hajek was still on it.

“Priors,” Captain Bains said. He’d been silent for so long, I’d forgotten he was there. “I can get a team searching for anyone in our system with a past record of poisoning, product tampering, or extortion.”

“Keep it open to women,” I said.

O’Loughlin cut off her phone conversation in mid-sentence and gave me the eyebrow.

“Poisoners tend to be women,” I said. “It’s a crime that doesn’t involve physical aggression or personal contact.”

“How about the botulism itself?” Herb asked. “Any way to trace that?”

“Maybe I can help with that.”

I looked over my shoulder, and in walked… a hottie.

While I appreciated a good-looking guy as much as any woman, my days of getting dreamy-eyed and giggly were thirty years behind me.

This man, however, made me feel sixteen again.

He was gorgeous. Early thirties, tall, broad shoulders and narrow hips, a Marlboro profile, and piercing blue eyes that were otherworldly. His suit wasn’t as expensive as Davy’s, but he filled it out a lot better. It was as if God had taken half of Brad Pitt’s genes, mixed them with half of Sean Connery’s, and added more muscles and thicker hair.

“Special Agent Rick Reilly, HMRT.”

He did a round of hand-shaking. When his fingers touched mine I felt a shock, then spent the next few seconds wondering if I’d imagined it or not.

“Clostridium botulinum is a bacteria that occurs naturally in the soil throughout North America,” Rick said. He had a rich baritone, with just a hint of Southern lilt. “It produces a toxin that has the honor of being the most poisonous substance in the world. A single gram could effectively kill a million people. Symptoms of food-borne illness can begin as early as two hours after exposure, or may be delayed for as long as two weeks.”

“What are the symptoms?” Herb asked.

Rick sat on the super’s desk, facing me and Herb. His crotch was just below eye level, and the very fact that I was even thinking about it meant my mind wasn’t in the game. I refused to look.

“Let’s say you ate some contaminated seafood. It doesn’t matter if it came straight from the freezer, or the microwave. Heat and cold might kill the bacteria, but the poison they produce is still deadly. The next morning, your mouth might be unusually dry. You might also have some abdominal cramps. Maybe even some vomiting. But no fever. It feels like a hangover. What’s happening is that your bloodstream is circulating the toxin to your neurological junctions, where it binds irreversibly, blocking acetylcholine release.”

“English,” O’Loughlin barked.

“It goes where your nerve endings meet your muscle fibers, and paralyzes them. You can’t walk or move. Your face droops. You get double vision and lose your gag reflex. And eventually, you can no longer breathe.”

I thought about the shots the nurse had administered the hour previously, and wondered if my dry mouth was the result of nerves or the result of a bad batch of vaccine.

“What’s the treatment?” I asked, my voice cracking slightly.

“Antitoxin and ventilation. It can take months to fully recover, and there may always be some residual paralysis. With effective treatment, there’s less than a twenty-five percent loss of life. If treatment is delayed, or if there’s a shortage of adequate equipment, the death toll rises.”

“Can people transfer it to each other?” the super asked.

“Normally, no. Botulism isn’t contagious. But we seem to be dealing with a weaponized form that may have inhalation properties, so if someone has BT on their hands or clothing, cross-contamination is possible. For example…”

He reached over and stroked the back of my hand. I felt another spark.

“… if I had BT on my fingers, I could have transferred a lethal dose to Lieutenant Daniels. The toxin can enter the body many different ways. The lungs, the stomach, wounds, mucus membranes”-his eyes met mine-“or through sexual contact. The spores will remain on her skin until they’re washed off.”

“Bleach?” I asked.

Rick smiled at me.

“A bubble bath would be fine.”

Then he lowered his eyes, for just a fraction of a second, and eyed the tear in my skirt. I felt my whole body blush.

Thankfully, he hopped off the desk and walked over to the corner of the room, where he’d left his briefcase. He dug around inside and pulled out a syringe, a salt shaker, and a spray bottle.

“I’ve been with the CDC crew all day, and we’ve been trying to imagine a delivery system to contaminate food. A syringe would be able to penetrate food products and offer the highest likelihood of spreading the disease. A squirt bottle, used by someone polishing fruit in the fresh produce aisle, would work, but the toxin doesn’t last too long when exposed to O2. But if the Chemist is using dry spores, which last longer in an oxygenated environment, a salt or pepper shaker would do the trick.”

“Do you know which he’s using?” Herb asked.

“We don’t know yet. We’ve found contaminated food, but no needle holes. And we haven’t seen spores on the outside of food in quantities that would suggest a shaker. He might be soaking food in the toxin at his home, then bringing it to the stores.”

“Where would he get the toxin?” Bains asked. “Can it be ordered online?”

Rick sat on the desk again, his crotch again at eye level. This time I looked. Ay caramba. Rick didn’t lack in that area either.

“The toxin is available for sale at hundreds of locations throughout Illinois,” he said. “Anyone with a few wrinkles will pay big money to get their hands on some.”

“Botox.” Davy smiled, and I noted that he had no smile lines at all.

“Exactly. In small doses, the same toxin that paralyzes your diaphragm can paralyze the tiny muscles in the face that cause frown lines and crow’s-feet. But pharmaceutical Botox sprayed on food wouldn’t cause the kind of epidemic we’re seeing here, and because Botox uses the toxin, not the bacteria, it can’t be cultured. A much easier source of botulism is honey.”

Rick waited for a response. I bit. “Honey?”

“Yes, darling?”

Bains thought this was hilarious. No one else laughed.

“Sorry.” Rick gave me an aw, shucks look that made my hormones gush. “Serious topic, thought some comedy might help. Honey contains botulism spores. That’s why it carries warnings on the label, not to feed to children under the age of one. Their intestinal bacteria aren’t mature enough to handle it.”

“You can culture botulism from honey?” Herb asked. He didn’t look happy.

“It isn’t easy, but it’s possible. Even from pasteurized honey.”

“So there’s no way to trace the bacteria strain?” Herb again.

“Anyone with some basic lab equipment and a few biology books could learn to culture botulism. Weaponizing it would be more difficult, but there’s a wealth of information on the Internet. This particular toxin has been identified as type E. It’s common to this area.”