“What kind of specialized environment?”
“There are many settings in which specific footwear is required. There are disposable, nonwoven foam ‘scuffs’ for spas, hotels, and the like, usually color-coded for size. On the other end of the spectrum are the kind of heavy-duty, polyethylene-coated shoe coverings used in biohazard environments or clean rooms. This is neither of those.”
Pendergast nodded for the technician to continue.
“When a shoe resists easy analysis, we must turn to its component parts to look for an answer.” Quarles picked up a small metal instrument from the tray, almost like a dental pick, which he used for demonstration. “The shoe—I use ‘shoe’ here in the most generic sense—is cheaply made, of inferior materials, and lacks many standard components, such as an inner lining. The top was formed through a process known in the trade as ‘SMS’—meltblown polypropylene, sandwiched between layers of spunbond polypropylene. Usually, such footwear would have three or four plies of material, but these have only two—more evidence of how cheaply they were made. The exterior layers are not woven into a breathable material. That gives them fluid resistance at the expense of comfort.”
“Fluid resistance?”
“Yes. This shoe, or perhaps more accurately specialized slipper, would be used in an environment where there might be fluids on the floor, such as a hospital, nursing home, kitchen, workshop, prison, factory—that sort of place. These shoes are too expensive to be onetime disposables, but too cheap for long-term wear. And they present a couple of other curious aspects.”
“Which are?”
“The SMS upper is attached to the slip-resistant sole by contact cement: very inexpensive. The bonding line is hidden by this bit of piping, here.” And with the tool, Quarles pointed to a thin ribbon of material, slightly darker than the sea green of the slipper, that ran horizontally along its surface just above the sole. “We tested it and it’s nothing but simple polyester. On a more expensive shoe, its use might have been decorative: a stripe to conceal the joint between the upper and the outsole. But these are of shoddy manufacture, and the stripes are not of contrasting color. They are also especially sloppy.” He indicated spots where the ribbon was hanging loose from the base of the slipper or had fallen away entirely.
Pendergast nodded. “Interesting. And the other detail you can’t account for?”
“It’s an odd one. When we analyzed the upper, it tested positive for antibacterial treatment. That’s a common feature of ‘safety shoes’ you’d find in a surgical bay, a lab, a clean room—even a hotel kitchen. But such shoes almost always have EVA uppers and tend to be expensive.”
“EVA. I assume you mean ethylene-vinyl acetate rubber.”
“I see you’ve studied chemistry. Quite right: water resistant, flexible, but heavy and sturdy for protection. As you can see, this slipper isn’t sturdy. And it certainly isn’t heavy—the samples weigh from forty to forty-four grams. And it’s not EVA.”
“So why bother to protect such shoddy workmanship with antibacterial treatment?”
“Exactly.”
“Very interesting, Mr. Quarles.”
“That’s about it. Any questions?”
A silence ensued as Pendergast became lost in thought. At last he shifted in his chair. “You’re familiar with the details of the case?”
“I read the covering folder, sir.”
“And there’s nothing remotely like this in the NCAVC database.”
Quarles nodded.
“You mentioned they were probably made in China. Can you elaborate?”
“With pleasure. There are three or four shoe-manufacturing regions scattered across China, and each specializes in a certain kind. There’s Jinjiang, in Fujian Province. It’s known as the ‘shoe capital of China’ and has facilities that are technologically advanced. Then there’s Wenzhou. They have the greatest number of manufacturers but are geared toward the domestic trade. Also Dongguan, in Guangdong Province. Their factories tend to be smaller, more specialized, niche producers.”
“I see,” Pendergast replied. “And have you been to these places?”
“Before I joined the FBI, I was in the jobber market for three years. I was the middleman for moving overruns on big orders. Or buying and selling odd lots.”
“Excellent. That familiarity, along with the remarkable knowledge of footwear you’ve just displayed, makes you the logical choice.”
“Choice?” Quarles asked, face blank. His expression changed to one of surprise. “You don’t expect me to…go to China and locate the manufacturer, do you?”
“Who else, if not you? We must find out who made these shoes.”
“But that’s impossible! China’s footwear revenue is nearly seventy billion dollars a year. Why, Dongguan alone has fifteen hundred factories—many of them no bigger than a restaurant.”
“Nevertheless, you must try. Take these samples and show them around. Make use of your local contacts—without giving away any details, of course. Nĭ huì shuō Zhōngwén ma?”
“Pŭtōnghuà,” Quarles replied absently—then looked startled, realizing he had unconsciously switched languages. “You speak Mandarin?”
“As do you, it seems. Most excellent! You’ll leave immediately.”
Quarles’s lips worked silently a moment. “This is rather short notice—”
“I have ADC Pickett’s authorization,” Pendergast went on. “This won’t be a shoestring operation: think of it more as a junket. I’ll make sure you fly first class, stay in the hotels of your choice, have a generous expense account. Discovering the manufacturer of these shoes could be crucial in solving the case.”
Quarles did not reply. But his eyes betrayed what he was imagining: a promotion and dramatic leap up the GS pay scale.
“I’ll need to go back to Huntsville,” Quarles said. “Pack a few things.”
“Of course. Come back here—shall we say this time tomorrow?—and we’ll discuss the operating parameters of your investigation. And then we’ll get you on a plane from Miami. Until then, thank you once again for your invaluable—and ongoing—aid.” With this, Pendergast got up and walked toward the door. When he reached it, he turned. “And, Mr. Quarles?”
Quarles, who was gathering up the evidence bags, turned toward him. “Yes?”
“Remember to pack your, ah, boxers.”
15
COMMANDER BAUGH STOOD on the bridge of the USCGC Chickering, staring at the hazy northern coast of Cuba through a pair of binoculars. The officer at the con had brought the cutter’s speed down to four knots, cruising just outside the twelve-mile limit, parallel to the low shoreline.
“Mr. Peterman, throttle down to two knots,” Baugh said. “Maintain the same heading.”
Baugh could feel the diesel engines slackening slightly, more a change in vibration than an actual sound. The handheld binoculars were no damn good. He laid them down and moved to the navigation bridge station, where the XO stood before an array of electronic charts, transceivers, and radar screens.