by B. J. Graf
“You think Maclaren’s on the level? I said.
“He’s hedging his bets.” Shin cracked his knuckles. “But the terms of Lee’s will corroborate his statement. So, we don’t have any reason not to believe him.”
“Nice to have a witness tell the truth for a change.”
“What I want to know,” Shin said, “is how did Nieto find out about the embryo sales in the first place? The Devonshire girl? Maybe a little pillow talk with some AzteKa she met at the club?”
“Too bad we can’t ask her.” I drummed a tattoo on the steering wheel. Glancing at the rear-view mirror, I watched the long black ribbon of highway spooling out behind me. “But there is somebody who might have wanted to punish Britney and tighten the vise on Lee at same time.”
“Sandy Rose,” Shin said. “But why would she bring in the AzteKas? She doesn’t strike me as the profit-sharing type.”
I thought back to Shin’s and my visit to her gentleman’s club, Sandy Beaches. There’d been a bouncer with a Santa Muerte tat at the door. AzteKas favor that design, and I don’t believe in coincidence.
“Maybe they were already involved.” I told Shin about the bouncer. “She needs security to run that kind of operation.”
“If Britney Devonshire didn’t spill the beans herself,” Shin said, “one of their soldiers could have heard something and relayed the intel up the chain to Nieto’s people.”
“Let’s bring Sandy Rose in and talk to her again. We’re breathing down Nieto’s neck, but I want to get ahead of him.” Shin and I disconnected.
Traffic was moving now. The freeway’s amber alert signs predicted another forty-five minutes to downtown L.A.. I checked my voicemail. Jim Mar had logged a call while I was talking to Shin. My third call was to him.
“I took that fetal partial prelim you got from Britney Devonshire,” he said from the crime lab, “and ran the comparison with the genome from Lee’s encrypted file.” His eyes had a feverish glint.
“And?”
Jim’s face, floating in front of the car’s green dash screen, took on a spectral appearance in the night. “While there’s data corruption in the blood spot,” he said.
“Yeah, you said that before. How bad?”
“There are some gaps. Can’t confirm the race or sex on the blood spot, for example.” Jim smiled and his grin broadened. “But it might not matter. On the DNA we do have, the blood spot’s a point for point match. Allowing for statistical error, I’d say it’s gotta be the same genome.”
I felt that little zing in the blood you get when a hunch pays off. “So, the person whose DNA is on that partial has to be the same person whose genome was the basis for Lee’s Alzheimer’s X vaccine,” I said. “The highly resistant source genome.”
Jim’s head bobbed up and down in affirmation.
“But the genome isn’t Britney Devonshire’s,” Jim said, repeating what he’d told me during dinner two days ago at the Theban Grill. “Not even close.”
“Could Britney be the resistant source’s mother, or egg donor?”
“No. Kids inherit one genetic marker from each parent at every location on a chromosome,” Jim explained, holding two genetic barcodes up to the camera. “So, when we run a forensic DNA test, relatives will have lots of markers in common.”
He pointed to several specific sections of what looked like fuzzy barcodes and a couple numerical charts showing the respective location and type of various markers for the two genetic samples.
“These don’t. Sorry Eddie, no familia here. Ditto with Gabriel Lee. I ran that comparison too just in case.”
“So, who?” Had the stripper stolen some other girl’s partial from her boss, Sandy Rose? Was that why she ended up dead in that bathtub well before her time?
“I don’t know,” Jim said. “But whoever the source is, she’s walking around with a goldmine in her blood.”
And a target on her back. Unless she was already dead like Lee and Britney Devonshire. I had to find her.
I’d taken my eyes off Jim’s floating face for a second and was staring blankly at the road. Amber dots and dashes against black tarmac flashed by – like Morse code I couldn’t read. Send me some answers from beyond, Frank.
“You still there, Eddie,” Jim said, “or am I looking at a frozen d-stream?”
I took a deep breath before answering. “Just thinking.”
“Any news on when this vaccine’s coming to market?”
“Go home, Jim,” I replied. “And thanks.” He groaned good-bye and disconnected.
The air in the sedan suddenly felt hot and clammy. I opened a window.
The vaccine and that vacant stare of Maria Fuentes-Obrador - Nieto and Lee - the entire case circled back to Lee’s blackmarket embryo buys. And the identity of the vaccine’s source genome. I had to find her and fast.
By the time I neared Nokia P.D., a full moon hung high against over the city like a fly ball that would never be caught. Ten p.m. Wind howled through the nearly deserted parking lot.
I badged the security guard upon entering the station, and took the elevator up to the third floor. Shin was still at his desk.
“You find anything?”
“Served the warrant for Baby Mine today.” Shin reached up and massaged the kinks out of his neck. “Some shell corporation fronts the clinic, but three guesses who’s the real puppet master?”
“Sandy Rose,” I said.
Shin nodded. “Right. Thirty odd years ago, she and an OB-GYN named Dr. Singh ran an outfit called Global Baby. That company folded seventeen years ago after they got in trouble selling extra embryos left in the freezer. One of the clients sued and the OB-GYN lost his license.”
“So Sandy Rose shuts down Global Baby,” I said, “and reboots the company under the name Baby Mine?”
“And this time she supplies her black market clients with a steady stream of eggs from girls who wouldn’t be filing any charges.”
“Or leaving any records,” I said. “Let’s bring her in first thing tomorrow.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
We brought Sandy Rose in for questioning at eight the next morning, but she refused to speak until her attorney arrived. At ten-thirty the desk sergeant informed me that lawyer Jason Goldblatt-Wong was seated with his client in Interview One.
So, holding two cups of java crystals in one hand and a new e-cigarette pack in the other, I headed into the small, spare, room. There was a desk with two scuffed steel chairs on either side. I took my seat and slid the coffee snuff across the desk towards Sandy Rose and Wong.
Sandy Rose stood at the back of the room, staring at me through hooded eyes. She shivered and wrapped the black ends of her paper-thin sweater around her gaunt frame.
“You cold?” I said. “I can get you real coffee.”
She shook her head, jaw clenched and slowly lowered herself into the seat beside her lawyer.
“What’s this all about?” Her lawyer ran his hand through gelled hair that resembled a pack of black lacquered ramen noodles. Wong had an imperious voice, and from the cut of his bespoke suit it was clear he made a very nice retainer. “What are the charges against my client?”
I hit the privacy screen. The glass walls clouded and turned opaque steel grey.
I slid the new e-cigarette pack towards Sandy Rose. She pointedly withdrew her own electronic cigarette from her black lizard bag, and flicked it on, frowning.
“Your client, Ms. Rose,” I said to Wong after entering our names and the time into the record, “has been operating a black market trade in human eggs and embryos out of her fertility clinic. That was the facility Dr. Lee worked at thirty years ago. But recently he discovered a cure for Alz-X based on the resistant genome of an egg donor or embryo he acquired illegally. With help from your client’s clinic.” I brought up a picture of the remains of the Baby Mine clinic on the wall screen to Sandy’s left. It was all twisted steel, shattered glass and mangled limbs. Blood painted every surface.
Sandy Rose’s la
wyer kept his mouth shut about the charges.
I stared at her ruined face. “Ms. Rose’s employee, Britney Devonshire, was one of the black market egg donors. But she was doing a side deal with Lee. Somehow she got hold of the blood spot that contained the resistant genome.” I pulled up a close-up of the blood spot.
Sandy leaned close to Wong and conferred with her lawyer in a whisper.
“Former employee,” Sandy Rose said. “Britney stole confidential files from the clinic. Legitimate files.”
I nodded. “Okay. Then Ms. Devonshire tried to blackmail Lee. We have her phone and text records linking her to him. Dr. Lee got a little desperate. He knew he’d be ruined, and the researched derailed. He made a couple calls we traced.”
When Sandy Rose took a deep drag of her e-cigarette, the blue light flickered and sputtered out. She sniffed and tried to relight, angrily flicking the battery-ignition on and off without success.
Lee had made those calls to a ghost phone, which are untraceable, but the display of angry nerves on Sandy Rose’s face read loud and clear. She had been the one Lee had called.
“After those calls, you fired Ms. Devonshire.”
“Coincidence,” Sandy said. “She failed a drug test.”
“Which you administered at whim,” I said. “Then Ms. Devonshire turns up dead. Her death is made to look accidental so no investigation would derail the progress of Lee’s research to market.”
When I pulled up a crime scene photo of Britney Devonshire lying dead in that tub, Wong leaned over to his client for another sotto voce conference.
“But Lee panics and runs,” I continued. “Then he’s murdered too. Along with my former partner Frank. Again, everything is made to look like an accident.”
I pulled up a photo of the Clara Vista crash that featured Dr. Lee’s burnt and bloodied corpse in close-up. The lawyer quickly looked away. Sandy Rose never looked at all.
“Now your client’s Baby Mine clinic is a burnt-out pile of twisted steel,” my glance richocheted from Wong to his client, “and Ms. Rose is the only one left standing.”
I took the vaper, refired it for Sandy Rose and handed it back. This time she grudgingly accepted my help.
“Interesting theories,” the lawyer said. “But that’s all they are. You don’t have enough to make your case against my client. Not in court. From what I’ve heard here, my client was an innocent victim of two criminal employees. You push ahead with this, and we’ll sue the city for harassment.”
“I don’t need to bring the case to court,” I said and turned to stare at Sandy Rose. “I just have to charge your client. Sure, you’ll get her out on bail, but she’ll have a target on her back. Even a good lawyer doesn’t mean much if you’re dead, Ms. Rose. You’re a loose end, and you know how Nieto ties up loose ends.”
Sandy Rose leaned back in her chair and studied me coolly. But the moment I’d said ‘Nieto,’ she’d wrapped the loose ends of her jacket even more tightly around her gaunt frame, an ancient vulture tucking its wings protectively as it watched the other birds of prey circle overhead.
“And if he hears I cooperated?” she said. “How long do I last then?”
“Longer than you will if you don’t cooperate. I don’t want you. I want Nieto, and I need your information to get him. I know he’s behind this. If you help me, I can take him off the street. Without your help, well, he’ll have more time to get to you. And he will get to you.”
The lawyer was just about to speak when Sandy Rose put her hand on his arm. While they leaned their heads together in conference, I tapped the app for Assistant District Attorney Garcia.
“We’ll need assurances,” Wong said a few moments later.
“Here’s ADA Garcia now.” I smiled as the heavyset thirty-something lawyer entered the room and closed the door behind her.
“Can I assume,” Sandy Rose’s lawyer said, mopping a slight sheen of perspiration from his broad forehead, “that the presence of Ms. Garcia means you agree to grant my client full immunity from prosecution in exchange for her testimony?”
“So long as her testimony is worth it.” I glanced at Garcia.
Garcia had barely taken her seat and smoothed the wrinkles on her navy off-the-rack suit, but she nodded, her halo of dark curls bobbing. “And she tells the truth.”
“Nieto’s the one you want,” Sandy Rose said in a cool voice. “But you already know that.”
“I need to hear it for the record. How’d he get involved with your operation in the first place?”
A vein in Sandy Rose’s temple started to throb through the papery skin. “I needed security. I hired some ex-gang members years ago, including AzteKas. That was a mistake. They brought him in.”
She confirmed that the girls in her club had talked, and the information about the black market sale of human eggs and embryos had made its way up the chain of command to the AzteKa enforcer.
“He threatened to turn us in to the police unless I upped his security fee,” she said, using air quotes around the last two words. “When he was sent to prison for the murder of that Zeta thug, I thought it would end his threats. But by then he’d figured out Lee had discovered the golden goose with his cure to the plague. So, Nieto’s demands only escalated.”
“He wanted a get out of jail card,” I said, “and he forced you to help him get it. Who put pressure on Fuentes-Obrador, the first officer on the scene of the Nieto murder?”
“Nieto’s people,” Sandy Rose said. “In exchange for getting the officer’s wife into the clinical trial for Alzheimer’s X, they got him to file that supplemental report. That report sprang Nieto from jail.”
“So he didn’t force you to pressure Fuentes-Obrador yourself?”
“All I did,” Sandy Rose said, “was to convince Dr. Lee to put Obrador’s wife into the clinical trial. Nieto made the threats. I still kidded myself that I could control him. But he always wanted more.”
“Did Nieto kill Britney Devonshire?”
She closed her eyes and nodded. “And Lee, through Harvey Pink. I’m sorry about your partner, Detective. I don’t think even Nieto intended for that to happen. But you’re right about him coming for me.”
Sandy Rose pulled up a series of pictures on her glove phone and held them out. The first couple of shots showed the strip club. The office, squirreled in the back, had been tossed. Furniture was smashed. The last picture showed a black pit bull lying in a pool of blood – its severed head propped up on the dog’s hind quarters. The dog’s genitals were stuffed in its mouth. I recognized the dog as the mascot from her club.
“Nieto mess you up?” No bruises were visible, but Sandy’s long sleeves and layers could have hidden them.
The tip of her electronic cigarette glowed ice blue as she took a deep drag of nicotine vapor. Sandy Rose shook her head. “I wasn’t there.” She took another drag. Little lines feathered out all along her top lip as she sucked in the poison. When she exhaled, the plume of vapor-scented air smelled like spearmint. “Nieto and his thugs broke into my office two days ago,” she said.
“They left Angelo’s body for me to find.” She angled her head to indicate Angelo was the dog. Sandy Rose pressed her lips tight and looked away. But her eyes were brimming.
“Nieto tossed the place,” I said. “Was it just part of his threat, or was he looking for something specific?”
“A password,” she said. “For an off-shore account. My security plan – against him. He knew so long as I was - healthy,” Sandy Rose paused, “deposits from that account would keep coming.”
“Did he get the password?”
With a heavy sigh, she nodded.
I took the details of the account from her and shot a glance at Garcia. The money was most likely in Nieto’s hands already, but the ADA immediately texted her assistant to get the warrant we’d need to freeze the account.
“How much does Nieto know about Lee’s work?”
“Enough. He’s a psychopath. He’s not stupid. He saw a big o
pportunity for the drug cartel. An opportunity that would advance his own career within the AzteKas.”
“Who’s the source of the resistant genome for Lee’s research?” Now more than ever we needed to find her and keep her safe until Nieto was back behind bars.
Sandy Rose shrugged. “Lee erased the name from the file. Part of the new security system he introduced.” She sniffed. “Security for him, the little cheat. He’d reorganized all the stock too. All I can tell you is that came from the Global Baby inventory. 2010-2020.”
“It’s strange.” I paused. “Nieto was released from jail last month. I’m surprised he waited so long to pay you a visit.”
“He didn’t, Detective.” The first hint of a smile turned up the corners of her mouth. “Nieto was there that day you and your partner came by to ask questions about Britney. He watched you interview me from the back room of the club.”
I felt a sick, angry, burn in the pit of my stomach.
“Nieto saw you didn’t buy Britney’s death as an accident. When you left,” she rattled on, “he made it crystal clear I would have an accident too - if I didn’t keep my mouth shut. I’m only alive because he didn’t want a murder that could be linked directly to him. A murder that couldn’t be made to seem accidental. But that’s all over now. He knows the noose is tightening. Now he’s got my money. When he comes for me, Nieto won’t bother to make it look like an accident.”
“Tell us where to find him.” Nieto was a ghost. His last place of residence on file had been sold.
“He has my Mercedes,” she said, giving us the the plate number: ROSE-2. “One of the club’s cars. And he was staying at the Mandarin Oriental under the name of Duarte.”
Hiding in plain sight.
“We’ll get your statement ready for signing,” Garcia said. She was already expediting the warrant to arrest Nieto.
“We can offer you protection.” I said.
“No you can’t.” Sandy Rose turned off her e-cigarette. “I’ve already told you everything I can. I’m leaving town – today.”