Upon returning from the Cabo trip, Pebbles discovered her clunky, noisy scooter had been stolen from the apartment parking lot. Anlon had it replaced within 24 hours with a brand new hot pink upgrade.
Though it killed her to do it, she rejected his gesture, saying, “Look AC, I love it, and you are incredibly thoughtful for doing this, but I can’t accept it. I need to fend for myself. I don’t want to depend on anyone but me. I’ll buy another used one with the insurance money. I’ll be fine.”
Anlon was dumbfounded but respected her decision. She was, after all, adamant about her independence. As protective, he realized, as he was about his own. Maybe that’s the glue that somehow weirdly binds us, Anlon thought. He decided it wasn’t advisable to mess with the glue.
But Anlon could be stubborn too, and so he kept the shiny scooter instead of returning it and left it parked in the garage next to his Jeep just in case she ever changed her mind.
As Pebbles now searched for flights on the laptop in her austere apartment, she thought of the shiny pink scooter in his garage. “Finally, I have a chance to earn that scooter!” she excitedly exclaimed.
V
BACK PORCH DETENTE
When they hung up, Anlon felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He was soothed knowing he could count on Pebbles when the chips were down.
Clad in a heather-hued sweatshirt, jeans and scuffed up brown hiking boots, he strolled to the kitchen of Devlin’s house and gave a small victory shout when he discovered a six pack of Great Barrington’s finest microbrewed IPA front and center in the refrigerator. He layered three of the beers amid ice cubes into one of the copper pots dangling above the center island stovetop and headed for the back porch.
Seated now on the steps leading from the house’s covered porch to the backyard, Anlon uncapped the first bottle and stared down at the mysterious oval and square stones he’d removed from the safe and placed on the step beside him. He ruminated on the last two day’s events and shook his head. It was all too fantastic. No way these were anything more than run-of-the-mill artistic pieces from some ancient temple. Yet Dobson had been so passionate, so sure they were anything but.
Raising the sweaty IPA bottle towards the sky, he toasted to Devlin and Dobson with a silent promise to continue their work and catch the bastard who killed them.
Lowering his gaze, he peered at his uncle’s office perched on the small rise 50 yards in the distance. It was actually an old barn that Devlin had gutted and remodeled to his specifications. From the outside, it still looked like a classic red and white New England barn, complete with a steeple and black rooster weather vane.
The barn was surrounded by a lush rolling green field that, in turn, was bordered along the edges by a knee-high, stone wall. Just beyond the wall surrounding the field was a line of trees that marked the boundaries of Devlin’s five acres. From that tree line, for a second time in as many days, a dark, solitary figure watched in unnoticed silence. As Anlon sipped on his beer, the figure trained binoculars on the two stones resting on the steps beside Anlon.
Anlon debated internally whether he should tackle the office tonight or wait for Pebbles to arrive tomorrow. Still exhausted and unsure of what else he might discover, Anlon opted to remain planted on the steps and watch the sun dip below the Berkshires in the distance. He thought of his own home’s sunset view and wished he was there now. But given what had transpired over the last 48 hours, Anlon didn’t think he’d see his home for at least a couple weeks.
Setting aside the mystery surrounding the stones, there was Devlin’s funeral to attend (and now Dobson’s as well). He also needed to meet with Devlin’s attorney to go through the will and learn his responsibilities as executor of his uncle’s estate. And then he had to figure out what to do with Devlin’s house and the belongings willed to him.
Just then, Anlon’s reflections were interrupted by the sound of a car idling slowly towards him. He craned his neck to peer around the wide back staircase to the winding driveway leading to the house. A small white compact came to a halt by the garage, its headlights blinding him from espying the occupant.
He turned his head away from the lights and drew another swallow of the rich citrus ale. When the car’s engine silenced, Anlon heard the tell-tale sound of its door swinging open. He shouted, “I’m out back. If you’re selling something, you’ve picked the wrong house on the wrong day!”
The car door shut with a light thud and a voice called from the driveway, “Dr. Cully? Det. Lt. Stevens. I’ve been looking for you.”
He rolled his eyes and called back without looking, “Ugh, no more interrogation please. I’ve had enough for one day!”
Jennifer Stevens snickered under her breath. She deserved that, she thought. She’d been pretty rough on him earlier that morning and now that they were fairly certain he wasn’t involved in Matthew Dobson’s death, she felt badly for her prior aggressive questioning. That’s partially why she had sought him after meeting with the coroner and Capt. Gambelli.
“Good news,” she said as she stepped towards his seated figure on the stairs, “you’ve been reduced from a suspect to a person of interest.”
“What?” Anlon queried, turning his attention to her as she approached, clearly surprised by her comment. “So you’re saying it wasn’t murder?”
“Oh no, it was definitely murder. At least, that’s what my boss and the coroner think. But there was no trace of you — fingerprints or hair fibers — anywhere on Dobson or his car. If the DNA results come back and there’s no trace of you at the crime scene, then you’re closer to being in the clear.” Stevens revealed as she halted at the bottom of the stairs glancing up at Anlon.
Before she left the office, she’d ditched the grey suit and now stood in tight-fitting jeans, an ivory cable knit sweater and pink and green running shoes. Her hair, bun-tight earlier in the day, was now drawn back in a silky golden ponytail. Again, the muted scent of her perfume found its way to his nostrils. He casually took another sip of his beer and said, “Well, I guess I should be glad to hear it, but I’ll be honest with you, it doesn’t provide me much comfort. Dobson’s still dead and someone still killed him.”
She dug her hands into the back pockets of her jeans and nodded in agreement, “I understand. It doesn’t take the sting away, but I thought you’d like to know.”
She turned to head back to her car, a move that surprised Anlon. He called out, “Hold up! That’s it? You came all the way out here just to say that?”
She wheeled and smiled at him for the first time. A beautiful, inviting smile. “Well, I know it’s been a tough day for you. I do have some other questions but they can wait until tomorrow. Just didn’t want you going to sleep tonight thinking you were still our prime suspect. And I wanted to apologize for being so combative this morning.”
Anlon was touched by the unexpected gesture of kindness from the previously stone-cold Stevens and playfully cracked, “Thank you Detective, apology accepted. I will sleep a little better knowing I won’t wake to you cuffing me in bed.”
At that she giggled. A sweet, carefree giggle. She bowed slightly, her ponytail sliding over her right shoulder, and replied, “You’re welcome Dr. Cully. And you can call me Jennifer.”
She turned again and slowly paced across the grass to the driveway. Anlon, uncomfortably aware he was staring at her butt as she walked away, called, “Only if you call me Anlon. And if you’ll come have a beer with me, I’ll answer any other questions you have.”
Jennifer halted by her car door with a hidden sly grin. She was technically off-duty and so drinking a beer was copacetic. However, he was still a person of interest to the investigation, hence a semi-conflict of interest when all was laid bare.
On the other hand, she’d spent much of the afternoon conducting further research into Dr. Anlon Cully’s background before the coroner’s tests had largely ruled him out. The more she discovered, the more mortified she felt about her treatment of him that morning
. And the more intrigued Jennifer grew to learn more about him.
Professionally, of course. He might have valuable insights for the investigation she reasoned, and despite his apparent innocence, she was absolutely sure Anlon hadn’t been fully open with her during her earlier questioning. She shared as much with Gambelli, and he in turn tasked her to unpeel more of the onion…his words. So while she’d altruistically sought him out to assuage his apprehension about his status as a potential suspect, she did possess an underlying motive for stopping by.
Well, possibly two ulterior motives Jennifer allowed. She had been very impressed by what she’d learned about Anlon in the course of a couple hours of additional Internet search, and if nothing else the idea of sharing a beer with a bright, attractive, wealthy man wasn’t the worst way to spend a Sunday.
Jennifer had no trouble attracting men, but all too often they were too needy and lacked the kind of ambition she found appealing. Plus, being honest with herself, it was tough for guys to date a detective. Her hours were long and sporadic and when duty called, she had to respond, regardless of what she might be doing.
Most of the guys she’d dated since leaving the Army and joining the police force had trouble dealing with her moving-target schedule. But it didn’t bother Jennifer too much. She loved to be outdoors and she could run, hike, mountain climb, cross-country ski, fish and hunt on her own quite happily. Still, it would be nice to play with someone when off-duty.
She realized the likelihood of Anlon as that someone was a long shot, but her research into his background intrigued her enough to dream of the possibility.
The first thing Jennifer discovered about Anlon was his involvement several years prior in a globally renowned invention of an alternative form of propulsion — an invention that might cut combustion engine pollution in half when commercially available. She’d been floored to learn that the four-person research group he’d been part of had received a billion dollars for their patent from an upstart technology multi-billionaire itching to take on the glacial pace of the world’s oil companies and auto producers to bring to market breakthrough technologies.
One article Jennifer read highlighted Anlon’s contribution to the team. As an expert in biomechanics, he was fascinated by the biological systems used by certain animals and birds to generate movement over long distances, particularly those that had limited access to food in their journeys and were more efficient in consuming energy to produce movement. In studying their body chemistry and systems, he was captivated by two underlying commonalities. They seemed to burn energy in pulses or waves, not in a constant churn, and they were capable of storing more excess energy than other animals and birds. Most store excess energy primarily for fight or flight situations, but long-haul animals seemed to be capable of tapping their excess energy at will.
In the article, Anlon likened how most animals and birds generate movement via a comparison to the way combustion engines operate. Fuel is introduced, it’s ignited and movement is created from the mini-explosion. But this form of movement requires constant, violent, energy-consuming and waste-generating bursts.
Anlon wondered if it were possible to either change the fuel or change the mechanics of a traditional combustion engine, or both, to create longer-lasting, less frequent bursts — more like pulses or waves observed in long-haul animals and birds. If there was a way to store the excess energy generated with each pulse or wave, then the same degree of movement could be generated as found in a common combustion engine, but with less energy required and less waste produced.
A pulse engine was not a new concept, yet the way previous pulse engines were designed was very different. Traditional pulse engines were used mostly on rockets to achieve extremely fast bursts of energy that burned quick and required few if no moving parts. Ultimately they proved too wasteful and too expensive to operate and maintain.
Anlon’s idea was the opposite. Was it possible to learn from nature how to apply biomechanics and biochemistry to achieve a different kind of pulse engine, one that burned slower, consumed less and produced less by-product waste?
He shared his research and ideas with his engineering and chemist colleagues on the team who took the ball from there and ultimately created an additive to traditional fossil fuel that was combined with their redesigned vision of a combustion engine. The two concepts married together produced astounding efficiency gains in their laboratory prototype. The leader of the research team, a debonair African-American named Antonio Wallace, anointed the prototype as the Whave engine.
From the laid-back manner in which Anlon carried himself, Jennifer never would have guessed he was brilliant or wealthy. Most self-proclaimed brilliant and wealthy people she ran into in the course of her job threw their weight around and let you know at every turn how important and rich they were, invoking often the tried and true, “Don’t you know who I am?” when they were caught stepping over the lines set by laws.
She’d also read some of his gracious quotes in articles published about the invention, and others about the charitable foundation he established with a chunk of his cut from the patent. In fact, she didn’t find a single reference to him online that was negative, excepting the predictable, loathsome comments and social media posts about him and his research colleagues selling out to corporate interests. There were also dozens of articles and hundreds of photos of him reveling in his new-found celebrity and wealth.
But what was most interesting to Jennifer was the fact that the “celebrity” articles about him seemed to suddenly cease about three years ago. Since that time, it was almost as if Dr. Anlon Cully had disappeared from existence. Yes, there was the odd mention here or there of his investment in one new idea or another and the occasional tidbit about a donation his foundation made, but outside of that, he’d simply faded back into the obscurity he’d known before the invention.
No more red carpet photos with statuesque starlets, no innuendo laden articles about who was seen hopping into his Ferrari at some L.A. nightclub in the wee hours of the morning and no more videos of scotch and cigar “bro” fishing trips off the coast of the Sea of Cortez. Little did she know that obscurity was exactly what Anlon desired.
With this background in mind, Jennifer turned back around and demurely asked, “Are you sure?”
“Yes, come on. I know you didn’t come all the way out here solely to make sure I get a good night’s sleep. But if we’re going to do this can we drop the surreptitious tactics please? I’m okay helping you but I’d like us to be straight with one another because, frankly, I’m pretty sure I’m going to need your help too,” Anlon implored.
Beyond the reach of Anlon’s gaze, Jennifer’s face reddened in embarrassment at his ability to see through to her core motive so easily. He’s clearly observant, she thought, as she arrived back at the staircase. Chagrined, she agreed, “Fair enough. Now where’s that beer? I’m thirsty.”
“Help yourself,” Anlon replied, nodding his head towards the copper pot resting on the step below where he sat. “While you get settled, you can answer a question for me. You mentioned Dobson’s car. Is that where he was killed?”
She tip-toed up four steps, reached forward for one of the ice-cold beers, uncapped it with a corner of her sweater and leaned back against the wooden stairway railing. As she took a sip, she gave Anlon a clipped summary of the crime scene. Gazing past him, she then spied the two stones sitting by Anlon. “What are those?” she asked.
“Good question,” he said as he assimilated the information she shared. “I’m not entirely sure is the honest answer. They are artifacts my Uncle Devlin found in storage in a couple museums. He seemed to think they might be more than ceremonial trinkets, but I don’t know. So how do you think Dobson was killed?”
“Best we can figure from the evidence so far it appears that Mr. Dobson was confronted by someone as he pulled into his driveway. We think he stepped out of the car to speak with the person who, at some point, knocked him unconscious in the driveway.
We found blood on the edge of the driver door that seems to match up with a small gash the coroner found on the back of his head. Then it appears the unknown assailant placed him back in the car, plugged up the tailpipe, turned the engine on and let it idle until he died of carbon monoxide poisoning. After he was dead, we think the killer removed whatever plugged the tailpipe before leaving the scene,” she detailed before taking another sip of her IPA.
“Did you know your uncle well?” Jennifer queried.
“So so. I knew him all my life but only saw him every few years. He was always on the go to some new site or barricaded in his office up there on that hill, and I moved to the west coast, so our paths didn’t cross that often. But I liked him and he apparently liked me too. He willed me this property and his research, God knows why,” Anlon replied while shaking his head and taking another swig himself.
“This morning you said something about him wanting you to pick up where his research left off,” Jennifer commented, sliding down to sit on the step beside him.
“Yes, that seems to be the case alright, but I’m not an archaeologist. And I don’t think he counted on Dobson dying. Without him, ‘I’m lost in the dig’ as my uncle used to say about his reliance on Dobson himself,” Anlon explained, his voice trailing off as he finished speaking. He was still contemplating her description of the crime scene. Based on what she said he was having trouble seeing how he could be ruled out as a suspect.
“You said my fingerprints weren’t found at the scene. Did you find someone else’s?” he ventured.
Jennifer looked at him with admiration. Not a bad deduction, she thought, before responding, “Yes, there were fingerprints and hair fibers from multiple people on and inside the car, but none were yours. But there were no foreign fingerprints of any kind on Mr. Dobson’s skin or clothes. That’s the odd part.”
Shadows of the Stone Benders (The Anlon Cully Chronicles Book 1) Page 6