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“Whatever he sent? He obviously sent the fucking formula to someone.”
“It’s more likely that he emailed it,” Hoyt said. “Probably to every newspaper in the country.”
“He didn’t. The package he sent has the formula,” Chad said.
“How do you know that?”
“He won’t have sent it by email because he’s not a stupid man. I’ll have Angston confirm it by checking his work and personal computers, but I’m confident he won’t find any electronic evidence of it being sent. And as far as making the formula public? He’d never do that.”
“Why are you so sure?” Hoyt said.
“Because Whitman believed he could fix the formula. He wanted more time to work on it than the Board was willing to give him. He wouldn’t expose the formula to the public, not when he believed he could fix it,” Chad said. “But he was smart enough to send it to at least one person because he knew we’d fucking find him sooner or later.”
Hoyt cleared his throat. “We went to the morgue. Bribed the morgue attendant into letting us see the stuff Whitman had on his body when they brought him in. There was a receipt from the post office. He sent it priority and on priority receipt slips -”
“They show the address,” Chad said.
“That’s right.” Hoyt pulled out his phone and tapped the screen. “Whitman sent the parcel to a woman named Eleanor. Eleanor Whitman. His daughter.”
Chad jerked in his chair. “Whitman doesn’t have a kid. He has a dead wife but no kid.”
Hoyt shook his head. “He has a kid. I called Angston and had him do a deeper dive into Whitman. The old man hid her well, but he definitely has a kid.”
“Fucking Angston, I should have him fucking cleaned for missing that,” Chad said. “Tell me about the kid.”
“Eleanor Whitman. She’s twenty-seven years old, lives in Bridgedale, worked at a few restaurants in her teens, then worked for Uber for three years. She started her own transportation company two years ago. She’s been driving rich assholes around ever since.”
“So, she’s not a brilliant scientific genius like her father, is what you’re saying,” Chad said.
Hoyt shrugged. “Maybe she’s just unmotivated.”
Chad tapped his fingers on the desk. “He was right to hide her from us.”
“I’m sending a team in tonight to search Whitman’s house,” Hoyt said. “Likely, he sent the flash drive with the formula to his kid, but we’ll do a sweep just in case. How long do they have?”
“Their next dose is needed in six hours.” Chad stood and walked to the bar fridge tucked at the far end of the credenza. He opened it and stared at the vials of serum on the top shelf.
Hoyt joined him. “You have extra.”
“Not enough for all twelve,” Chad said. He brought out a vial, staring at the way the blue liquid gleamed in the light coming through the window.
“So, we’re gonna lose the whole fucking team,” Hoyt said.
Chad shook his head. “No. We keep dosing Rourke. There’s enough juice to keep him going for a couple of weeks if we only use it on him.”
“What about the others?”
“They’ll either die or wish they were dead as the serum wears off,” Chad said.
“You should dose all of them. We’ll have the juice back within a day or two,” Hoyt said.
“And if we don’t? I’d rather keep one than lose all of them.”
“You’re making a mistake choosing Rourke.”
“He’s the fastest and the strongest of them,” Chad said.
“And the most aggressive,” Hoyt said. There was a touch of disgust and fear in the big man’s voice.
