Chasing Hindy

by Darin Gibby

  Chasing Hindy

  A NOVEL INVENTION

  DARIN GIBBY

  Chasing Hindy

  by Darin Gibby

  © Copyright 2017 Darin Gibby

  ISBN 978-1-63393-366-8

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The names, incidents, dialogue, and opinions expressed are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Published by

  210 60th Street

  Virginia Beach, VA 23451

  800-435-4811

  www.koehlerbooks.com

  To my wife, Robin, for her patience in enduring

  the fifteen years it took me to write this book.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  1

  ADDY FELT LIKE jumping out of her car and doing a quick happy dance in the middle of stalled traffic. Her excitement at becoming the newest—and youngest—partner at the intellectual property law firm of Wyckoff & Schechter was nearly overwhelming.

  She grinned at the shadow on the hood of Hindy, her treasured retrofitted cherry red Shelby Mustang. The shadow was created by a barrel-sized, hydrogen-filled balloon that floated above the Mustang’s roof. Gawkers pointed and laughed as the Shelby eased down El Camino pulling the tethered balloon as if in a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade. The balloon—which on one side sported her law firm’s logo, and on the other Hindy in giant cursive script—was just an advertising gimmick to show her passion for alternative energies. It was only strapped to the roof on calm, sunny days when she was travelling at slow speeds using routes that avoided overpasses. The retrofitted Mustang was really powered by four electric motors using electricity produced by solar panels and a conventional fuel cell.

  At first, the Wyckoff partners questioned Addy’s prudence in strapping a floating balloon to the roof of any vehicle, but they’d come to admire the effectiveness of her marketing innovations. They even lifted their champagne glasses at the end of her mentor’s welcome speech acknowledging that her Shelby was responsible for bringing in increasing numbers of the “green” companies sprouting like weeds all over the Silicon Valley—inventive, entrepreneurial companies in need of legal advice and support for their patents.

  While the traffic inched forward, Addy chuckled with excitement. “Hindy, ol’ pal,” she said, patting the dashboard, “you and I are going places now! Next time some overzealous cops accuse you of being a traffic hazard, I’ll stare them down and inform them they’re messing with the partner of a highly prestigious law firm.”

  Traffic momentarily loosened and Addy eased Hindy forward, careful not to snap the lines tethering the egg-shaped balloon. Addy sang along with Zissy Spaeth, pop rock’s newest and most flashy star, as Zissy belted out her latest hit, Light in Your Eyes, over the radio. In the corner of her eye she noticed a blaze of neon orange.

  Her heart stopped. In the car next to her someone was pointing a bazooka-sized gizmo at her balloon. She blinked, trying to clear her vision.

  A flare shot out, aimed straight at her floating ball of hydrogen.

  Even in the late afternoon sunlight, it was impossible to miss the explosion. The dirigible burst into a giant fireball, then slowly deflated and floated down toward the Shelby’s crimson hood.

  Addy stomped on her brakes, hoping the balloon’s momentum would shoot the flaming mass forward. The fireball, safely secured by its fluorescent yellow nylon tethers, crashed down onto the windshield, blocking Addy’s view. She screeched to a halt, slammed her shoulder into the door, flung it open, and darted out, catching the heel of her pump on the doorjamb, which sent her sprawling headlong onto the pavement.

  She heard tires squeal and at least a half dozen blaring horns. Stinging pain shot up from her elbow and knees. Thank goodness traffic had been just inching along.

  Ignoring the pain, she bolted forward, arms raised, ready to yank the still-burning fabric off the windshield. Before she got close enough to grab it, the sweltering heat from the flames scorched her cheeks, and she shielded her eyes with her forearm. Just when she reached the hood, a breeze lifted the infernal blob and propelled it directly at her, the nylon cords now seared through.

  She braced herself for the fireball when she felt arms wrap around her chest and yank her back, barely in time to avoid the searing molten mass of goo about to descend on her head, threatening to fry her face and melt her hair.

  “Are you crazy? What are you thinking?” a deep voice bellowed in her ear, still holding her tight.

  Together they watched what was left of the blimp float like a falling leaf onto the grassy shoulder, just like the Hindenburg did almost eighty years ago.

  “Someone clearly doesn’t like you, short stuff,” her rescuer said, now standing next to her stroking his goatee, his face hidden behind dark sunglasses and a low-riding Dodgers cap. “More like out to get you. That was some kind of flare the driver shot at your blimp. I tried to spot his license plate, but it was covered up. Snapped a picture with my phone, though,” the man said fishing it from his pocket. “You can kind of see a tattoo on his forearm. The police will love this.”

  Before she could thank him, someone cried out, “Call a fire truck! The grass!”

  Brush fires in California were no joking matter. Addy could smell the smoldering grasses. A strong breeze fanned the flames, pushing the fire toward a row of redwood trees.

  Then she heard a whiny voice coming from the milling crowd of stranded passengers who’d gathered to find out what was holding up their homeward commute. “I’ve seen that blimp before. I knew it was trouble,” the whiner complained.

  “Yeah, but at least she’s part of the solution,” said someone else. “Her car doesn’t use gasoline. Look at what you’re driving,” he said, sneering at the whiny woman’s crossover SUV.

  Addy’s knees buckled, her head spinning. She plopped down onto the pavement and hugged her bare legs. This couldn’t be happening.

  Why would someone try to destroy her car? Hindy, her beloved Mustang, was just a marketing ploy, no worse than a billboard. Hindy’s fuel cell and solar panels were just two modern technologies that Addy hoped someday would become mainstream to the automotive industry. And her purpose was noble. Her “green” car told the world of inventors that she was one of them, that she would secure their patents and protect their investments. Now her expensive marketing project was in jeopardy.

  Soon, swarms of firefighters were scrambling around dousing the flames, while police officers attempted to reroute traffic. A well-built bald man fli
pped out a paper pad and scribbled a few notes. After removing his sunglasses, he swapped the pad for a pocket camera and snapped random shots of the avid crowd.

  All four local networks had sent news crews, and Addy knew two of the reporters. They had already run stories about Hindy, praising Addy’s creative marketing, which one reporter said was a refreshing change from the barrage of personal injury commercials littering daytime television.

  As Addy told the reporter during her interview, Silicon Valley was going to be known, not just for starting the computer revolution and launching the social networking scene, but now for making the world green. And Addy was their lawyer.

  Reality burst her daydream bubble when she was whisked aside by a team of Sunnyvale police officers. She told them what had transpired, hoping it would help them find the sniper. And she pointed out her rescuer, who was showing another pair of police officers the photo on his phone.

  At the end of the interview, one of the officers handed her a ticket. “You were carrying a flammable substance without a permit. You’ll need to make a court appearance.”

  Addy gasped. “But they shot at me.”

  “And we’re not taking it lightly. There’s been a serious crime committed here, but that doesn’t mean you can break the law. If you hadn’t been toting that blimp, none of this would have happened.”

  Addy’s eyes narrowed. “Am I free to go?” she said, snatching the paperwork and turning toward Hindy.

  “Yes,” the officer said, “but we’re going to need to impound your vehicle.”

  Addy halted. “Hindy? You can’t.”

  The other officer beckoned with both hands, big gestures, as if directing an airplane to the gate. A tow truck wedged its way through the onlookers and began backing up in front of Hindy.

  “But Hindy works perfectly fine,” Addy protested. “The balloon, that was all for show. The hydrogen for the fuel cell is where the gas tank used to be.”

  The officer shook her head. “We need your car for evidence. As I said, a serious crime has just been committed, and we need to take the vehicle to the station for a thorough evaluation.”

  “But I need to get home, and get to work tomorrow.”

  “There’s always Uber,” said the officer with a shrug.

  2

  THE OFFICES OF Wyckoff & Schechter were located at the intersection of Lytton and Waverly. It was a coveted corner in the heart of Palo Alto, in large part because of its proximity to an assortment of eclectic shops and quaint restaurants serving nearly every kind of ethnic cuisine.

  Addy crept off the elevator and sidled down the hall to her office, shoulders hunched and collar covering her face. It was bad enough she was still freaked out about being shot at, but, honestly, the prospect of the partners’ collective frown was worse.

  The television perched in front of a leather couch was running a story about oil production, with a tickertape of stock prices scrolling along the bottom of the screen. Addy paused to see if the Hindy story was still on the news. She had already seen news coverage last night. The demise of Hindy’s balloon had gone viral before she even had time to wonder whether that kind of attention would be a boon or a detriment to her career.

  At least she’d been able to spend the evening figuring out what to say to the partners so they wouldn’t summarily demote—or worse—fire her. She was toying with the idea of disappearing into her office until she’d sent out a partner email summarizing everything that had happened. Or maybe she’d do a mass voicemail.

  Hector, the receptionist, looked over his bifocals and pointed his pen behind his head in the direction of her mentor’s office.

  Well, scratch that plan. “Perry wants to see me already?” she asked Hector.

  Hindy wasn’t just about her legal practice. Like most patent attorneys, she had a secret dream that someday a client with a world-changing invention would walk into her office and offer her part of the company if she’d help them secure their patents. It did happen, but not often. When it did, those patent attorneys were set for life. For Addy, though, being a patent attorney was all about discovering a new energy source. She wanted her name in the history books next to Edison, Bell, or Philo T. Farnsworth. What just happened to Hindy’s balloon might, ironically, help her cause. But was being shot at worth it?

  Toting her briefcase, she strode around behind the reception desk, placing her hand on the door handle. She hesitated and took a deep breath, expecting the worst. Addy swung the door open.

  Perry Tomkins, her mentor, was seated behind his desk. He stood and pushed one of his unbuttoned white shirtsleeves up above his elbow, his lavender satin silk tie swaying. Dressing up was a habit the old partners just couldn’t seem to shake.

  His wry smile contrasted with the bags under his eyes and deep creases in his forehead. His mane of thick black hair was both sprinkled with silver and graying around the ears. Addy gulped, hoping she hadn’t compounded his troubles with yesterday’s spectacle.

  The past month had not been kind to Perry. Normally, this senior patent attorney was the life of the office, but Keri, his wife of nearly a quarter century, had passed away after a long fight with breast cancer.

  With no children of their own, the older couple had made Addy somewhat of a goddaughter, and Addy welcomed the family connection. She, too, had felt the pain with Keri’s passing. And she couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing Perry, especially not now.

  He gave her a warm smile and gestured her to one of the armchairs in a corner of the office.

  “Perry, I—,” she began.

  “Nothing’s changed, Addy,” he said. “So stop fidgeting. In fact, the partners—I mean the rest of the partners—consulted, and we’re cautiously pleased about the news coverage. Two of them even called you a crusading green lawyer.

  “I’m sorry there wasn’t time to explain this last night,” Perry continued, “because I’m sure you were up half the night worrying, but the partners see the green practice as the next big thing, and you were promoted to partner so you can run the new green division. So many of our practice groups are struggling with languishing client bases, so the firm needs a new source of work.

  “And that’s you, Addy. We’ve tried to teach partners how to make their mark in the community, how to reach out and connect with clients, but they just can’t seem to do it. The days of hanging out at the country club to get new clients are over. What you’re doing with Hindy, with your commitment to a better future, that’s what the new generation of clients wants to see in their lawyers. The partners not only want you to head up the green practice, but we need you to teach us old fogeys how to re-energize and reinvent our practices.”

  Addy sat back, stunned. Yes, she’d worked hard and had gained a reputation for getting patents on green technologies, ideas like more efficient solar panels, LED lights, and wind turbines, but did that warrant making her a partner two years early?

  Perhaps it was because she was a woman, because her birth parents were Vietnamese, and the firm was under pressure to diversify its partnership. Or was it really because of her congeniality, for her unique way of attracting clients, for her business savvy, as Perry had just said? Did they really want her to change the conservative culture of Wyckoff & Schechter?

  “You could start with a new wardrobe,” she joked, leaning closer to tug on Perry’s lavender tie.

  An uneasy silence settled over the room, and she carefully smoothed down the bright satin tie. Last time she’d teased him about the way he dressed, he’d made a joke about her wearing jeans to work, so this silence unnerved her.

  Perry stood and walked her to the door. “Oh, one more thing,” he said. “You know your car made the national news, right? Is there anything the partnership should be worried about?”

  “No, not at all. It was no big deal. I mean it was a big deal getting shot at and seeing my blimp go up in flames, but it was just a random act of violence. The police said so, too. It will all blow over.”

  Perr
y smiled. “For now, what we need is to have you out there taking advantage of the publicity, and showing us old folks how to make a dent in the new markets. I’m very proud of you, Addy. Now get to work and make us even more famous so you can pour even more pots of money into our coffers.”

  3

  STANDING IN FRONT of his closet, Agent Jesse Long strapped on his holster and pulled his argyle sweater over his shoulders, which had grown broad from throwing hay bales as a teenager. Now, they were mostly used as a pillow for his infant son.

  He looked down at the empty bed. All the covers were pulled to his side, because the other side had been empty for at least half the night.

  A cry, almost a squeak, came from the baby’s room down the hall. Jesse hurried toward the garage, hoping not to awaken his exhausted wife. As he passed the second bedroom, he cocked his ear and listened to the stirring of his wife of just over a year.

  “Goodbye honey,” she whispered through the door. “Don’t forget to comb your hair.”

  “Got it,” he said.

  It was a joke between them. At forty-nine, he was prematurely bald, and he shaved off the small bit of hair above his ears to keep him from looking a decade older.

  Long had started his family late in life. He’d grown up on a cattle ranch in Wyoming and thought riding the rodeo circuit was going to be his career. But that dream ended when a bull crushed his right shoulder. He attended the University of Wyoming in Laramie. After that, he joined the FBI, hoping it would take him far away from the windswept plains to see the world.

  That he’d done, tracking terrorists in places like Afghanistan, Columbia, and Thailand. He met Laura at a grocery store in San Francisco when stocking up after a two-month training stint in Washington, D.C. She was forty and had also never been married, and they both felt it was time to settle down.

  She desperately wanted a family, and since her biological clock was ticking down toward its expiration date, they didn’t wait. She was pregnant six weeks after their honeymoon. They pooled their life savings and purchased a two-bedroom home in Brisbane with a large mortgage. They’d wanted to live in the city, but skyrocketing real estate prices in San Francisco made that option a non-starter.