Courage Stolen

by R. Scott Mackey

  Students Saving Our Earth, or S-SOP, had picketed the Food Science Building the day before. The group was protesting the Food Science Department’s research of genetically modified foods. Much of that research is funded by Alton & Grayton Corporation, the world’s largest food processing conglomerate.

  “They got what they deserved, man,” said Seth Seeger, president of S-SOP’s Granderson chapter, who was on the scene to watch the fire department put out the flames. He denied accusations S-SOP had anything to do with the firebombing or that his organization was connected to the Stone Creek Saviors.

  “Genetically modified foods, or Frankenstein food, is a threat to all of us. For the university to encourage research in that area is unconscionable,” he said.

  Langford said his department would continue to review tapes from nearby security cameras for clues in identifying the culprits, but so far nothing has turned up.

  Anyone with information about the attack is asked to call Granderson campus security at 530-555-1257.

  It took all of five minutes to find a cell phone number for Seth Seeger. He picked up right away. I identified myself as an investigator on the Food Science arson and said his name had come up as part of an investigation.

  “That’s bullshit, man.” He had a nasally voice steeped with petulance. “I already talked to the police last spring. Campus security, too. I didn’t do shit.”

  “I know it, you know it. So why don’t we clear your name once and for all so you don’t have to keep getting hassled.”

  “How do we do that?”

  “Let me get a full and complete statement for my report. I’ll declare you free and clear of the matter, and it’ll be over.”

  “Now? On the phone?”

  “No, are you free now? How about I buy you a beer?” Rule One in the Ray Courage Manual, use alcohol to ingratiate yourself to hostile individuals.

  “I guess. If you’re sure this will end all the bullshit.”

  “I believe it will.” I gave him the address of the Fahrenheit 250 Restaurant across from Sac State and asked him to meet me there in an hour.

  Fahrenheit 250 was the latest inhabitant of the building on Folsom Boulevard. Their proximity to a large urban university notwithstanding, the restaurants and bars occupying the building over the previous twenty years had come and gone with little success, despite having a full liquor license, usually a magnet for college students. Because Sac State was essentially a commuter school, most students returned to their own neighborhoods when drinking hours commenced, rendering the area in and around the campus a ghost town after classes ended.

  Fahrenheit 250 appeared to be doing better than most of its predecessors, having survived its first two years of business, a strong review in the Bee, and its appeal to both families and college students contributing to its endurance. The restaurant derived its name from the temperature at which it slow-cooked its meats—ribs, tri-tip, pork, and chicken.

  On this night at about nine o’clock, several families ate in the large dining area, many of the teen and pre-teen kids wearing soccer or baseball uniforms; a night out for dinner was an easy choice for parents who had to work all day and then shuttle kids to and from ballgames. At the bar, four guys attempted to flirt with three women in their early twenties. I sat at one of the vacant tables in the bar. Seth Seeger was late.

  I started on my second beer when a skinny kid with curly brown hair down to his shoulders walked in. He had a moderate case of acne and wore a T-shirt decorated with the words “You are not an environmentalist if you eat factory farmed animals.” He might as well have had “Seth Seeger” tattooed on his forehead.

  I waved him over.

  “Beer?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Anything non-American.”

  I went to the bar and ordered him a Heineken. He looked at it with disdain when I handed it to him at the table.

  “So what’s your deal?” he asked when I’d settled back into my chair.

  “Like I said on the phone, I’m trying to tie up loose ends on the arson.”

  “Are you some sort of arson specialist or something? I thought the investigation was over and they never found out who did it.”

  “Who do you think did it?”

  “How the hell would I know?”

  “What about the Stone Creek Saviors?”

  “Ask them.”

  “Aren’t the Saviors and S-SOP like brothers in arms?”

  “No.” He snorted. “The Saviors are eco-terrorists, man. S-SOP is a student organization. We’re not into violence.”

  “How was it you happened on the Food Science Building a few minutes after it’d been torched last spring?”

  “Coincidence. I was in the library studying and was heading for my car when I heard the sirens.”

  I drank some of my beer, an Eel River Pale Ale. “In the Granderson paper, you said the research going on at Food Science was creating ‘Frankenstein food.’”

  “So? That’s what they’re doing. Who knows what damage they’re doing to people who eat their genetically altered crap.” He took a tentative sip of beer. “Aren’t you going to take notes or something?”

  “No need,” I said, tapping my temple with an index finger. “Like a steel trap.”

  “Whatever. As long as you people quit hassling me after tonight.”

  “Have you heard the term ‘Frankenstein Labs’ used at Granderson?”

  “Of course, that’s what they call Professor Wiggin’s lab. It’s because he’s crazy as a loon. And because their work’s a big freaking secret for some reason.”

  “Do you know what they’re doing over there?”

  “No. It’s a big secret, like I said.”

  “There must be rumors, or people who think they know.”

  He laughed to himself and then drank more beer. After he swallowed, he moved his lips in and out as if trying to get rid of the taste. “Forrester thinks they’re working on a new system for fracking. He says they’re getting money from Sunrise Oil. Corporate pigs.” He blushed, as if he’d said something he hadn’t meant to.

  “Who’s Forrester?”

  “No one. Never mind.”

  “Is he in S-SOP?”

  “I said never mind.”

  “Or is he in Stone Creek Saviors?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why are you asking me about Wiggin’s shit? I thought you were investigating the arson?”

  “Just trying to put everything into context.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Do you know anybody who works over at Sieboldt?”

  He shook his head. “Man, I’ve taken one science class my entire time at Granderson. Introduction to biology my freshman year. I haven’t set foot in Sieboldt since. I’m a sociology major. I hang out on the other side of campus.”

  “Do you have an opinion on what goes on at Sieboldt?”

  He exhaled in frustration. “I don’t have any idea what you’re getting at. Do I have an opinion? Yeah, I have an opinion. The shit that goes on in Sieboldt or Frankenstein or whatever you want to call it is the same shit that goes on in every other department at Granderson. It’s all about money. They’ll take any corporate dollar they can get and then do whatever research the money men tell them to. It’s just as bad in the sociology department as it is in Sieboldt. Everyone’s making money. Everyone but the students.”

  I let him finish, deciding to wait a few extra seconds to let him calm down. When I started to ask him another question, he interrupted me.

  “This is bullshit,” he said. “Thanks for the crappy beer.” He stood and stormed out.

  So much for Rule One and ingratiating myself to hostile individuals.

  seven

  I sat inside my car in front of Thomas Chan’s house. The brick home in McKinley Park featured a sloping shingle roof, arched doorway, and double-paned windows. It wasn’t huge, though it probably had at least three bedrooms and a couple of bathrooms. For this part of town, the price tag on a
house like this pushed a million dollars. I wondered if he owned or rented the place. Either way, he’d have a steep monthly payment on his hands.

  After about ten minutes, Rubia arrived and parked behind me. I exited my car and waited for her to approach.

  “It’s about time.” I tapped my watch.

  “You want me to leave?”

  “No, late or not, I’m stuck with you.”

  “Yeah, stuck. As in, I’m bailing out your sorry ass yet again.”

  A minute later, Chan flung the door open just after we rang his doorbell.

  “What the hell do you want?” He glowered at me, nostrils flaring. He glanced at Rubia, looked her up and down, and returned the smile she gave him. Given our earlier run-in, I knew I needed something to change the contentious dynamic between Chan and me. That was why I’d asked Rubia to join me.

  Chan was a good-looking guy, fashionably under-dressed in skinny cargo pants and a ribbed purple Armani sweater that probably cost four bills. Maybe he didn’t have the coin for a Rolex, but he did sport a classic Baume & Mercier wristwatch.

  “Thomas, I know we didn’t get off to such a great start yesterday. My name’s Ray Courage. I’m an investigator, and I’ve been asked by the university to look into an incident at Sieboldt Science Center. This is my colleague, Rubia. Rubia, this is Thomas Chan.” I was laying on the civility, my need for information outweighing my disdain for the prick.

  “So nice to meet you.” Pretty and petite, Rubia could bring the charm when needed. Never mind that she’d once commanded the most ruthless street gang in Northern California.

  “Hi.” Chan’s right hand was wrapped in a bandage the size of a kitchen mitt, an addition since our encounter the day before.

  “What happened to your hand?” she asked.

  “Nothing.” He winced as he put the hand behind his back.

  “We’re sorry to bother you at home,” Rubia continued. She was working her charm, sounding more like a soccer mom than an ex-gangbanger. “But we’re working on something for the university and thought maybe you could help us.” She reached out with her hand and gently touched Chan’s non-bandaged left forearm.

  He thought for a second. “I don’t have a lot of time. I’m working from home today.” He stepped back and let us inside.

  For someone right out of grad school, Chan’s furnishings were impressive. Everything in the living room where we sat appeared to be chosen and coordinated by someone with a professional eye. And deep pockets.

  “Nice,” I said, looking around the room before giving him my sincerest insincere smile.

  Rubia had done her part by placating Chan and getting us inside. Now, I had to get some answers. Chan settled into a sofa seat in the living room, and Rubia and I sat at opposite ends of the couch.

  “You didn’t come here to admire my home. So what do you want to know?” Chan had a nervous energy about him. I’d seen his type before, a young man who couldn’t wait to make his first million dollars and keep on going from there.

  I held my fake smile a few more seconds before I spoke. “Do you know much about the work being done by Dr. Wiggin and his team over at Sieboldt?”

  “You mean Candace’s project? No, I don’t know a thing about it.”

  “She’s never said anything about it to you? Not even casually?”

  “No, because I don’t care anything about her work.”

  His answers came quickly, preemptive salvos to cut off that conversational path. He had the self-assured air of someone who considered himself the smartest guy in every room he graced.

  “What do you know about S-SOP?” I asked.

  He snorted. “Bunch of environmental wackos. Especially their so-called leader, Seth Seeger.”

  “Why do you think he’s a wacko?”

  “Because the asshole threatened us—Chan International—a few months ago. He sent Adam and me an e-mail using all his left-wing environmental rhetoric.”

  “What did the e-mail say?”

  “You know, the usual bullshit these weirdos spout. About how we were capitalist pigs, desecrators of the earth, out to rape and destroy the land, and so on.”

  Some of the words he recounted were the same as those in the note Candace had shown me the day before. “Why was S-SOP so mad at your company?”

  “Pfhfft! Because we do a lot of business with Chinese companies. They said we were supporting companies known to be the worst polluters on the planet.”

  That made some sense to me. “How did they know about your company? Have you ever met Seth or anyone in S-SOP?”

  “No. They probably read the story in the Granderson student newspaper a few months back. It talked about the success of our company and what our business was all about.”

  “You said S-SOP threatened you. What did they say?”

  “Nothing concrete. Something like if we don’t stop we’ll be sorry. Very sophomoric. It was pretty much like the note I found on my car a week before that.”

  “A note from S-SOP.”

  “No, they signed it SCS. But it was the same rhetoric, not word for word, but close enough.” When he stopped talking, he recoiled in pain, grabbing his right arm with his left hand and bending forward until his upper body was parallel with the floor.

  “That looks like it hurts,” Rubia said. “Can I do something?”

  Chan shook his head as he returned to a normal sitting position. His eyes were watery, his face pale.

  I pointed at the bandage.

  “I cut it on a broken bottle.” He stared at me, jaw tight.

  “I hate it when that happens.” I kept my eyes locked on his. “Can I see the e-mail?”

  “What e-mail?”

  “The one from S-SOP, threatening you.”

  “I deleted it the same day I got it.” He looked away. “I figured it was some dumb kids trying to act tough. And I was right. They haven’t done anything since.”

  “What about the note?”

  “I tossed it in a trash can.”

  “Did you think about maybe showing it to the police?”

  “No. Bunch of stupid punks. Like I said, nothing’s happened since.”

  I looked at his bandaged hand and considered his statement. “Let’s go back to your dealings with Candace.”

  “Dealings? You mean my relationship with her?”

  “Yes.” I glanced over at Rubia, hoping she might jump into the conversation.

  “I don’t want to talk about that. It’s personal. And none of your business.”

  “Fair enough. What’s your take on the work they’re doing over at Sieboldt? Some people say they’re developing breakthrough technologies. What do you think?”

  “Like I said, I don’t know anything about what she does.” He was stonewalling me, crossing his arms to emphasize the subject was closed.

  I pushed him a couple more times about his knowledge of the work at Sieboldt, but he wouldn’t budge. He said he knew nothing and stuck to it. Even Rubia’s charming presence had its limits as Chan grew impatient and shuttled us out the door before we could get anything else out of him.

  “Think that sucka told us the truth about those S-SOP dudes sending him an e-mail?” Rubia asked as we stood on the sidewalk in front of Chan’s house.

  “Probably,” I said. “He’s got no reason to make up something about that. Same with the note on his car. Though, if you’d been on your game, we might have been able to talk to him longer.”

  “Hell, if it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have gotten jack but a door slammed in your face.”

  “True.” I looked back at Chan’s house. “What do you make of his bandage?”

  “Don’t know. Didn’t cut it on a beer bottle, though.”

  We went to our separate cars and drove off. I made it to the end of Chan’s street and turned right when my cell phone started playing La Bamba, Rubia’s ringtone.

  “Yeah.”

  “Ray, drive around the block and go by Chan’s house again. I’ll follow.” />
  “Why? What’s going on?”

  “Just do it. I need to check something out.”

  I made three more right turns to get back to Chan’s street. Except for the same couple of cars parked on the side of the street, I saw nothing of interest.

  “See the black Chevy Camaro up on the right?” she asked over the phone. “Don’t look at it when you drive by. Just keep going. I’ll check it out and get the plate number.”

  “What do you think—”

  “Do it, Ray. Trust me.”

  I did as instructed, though I sneaked a glance at the car as I drew even with it. The driver’s window was rolled down. An Asian man of about thirty, wearing a big pair of sunglasses, sat behind the wheel, his meaty arm resting on the door’s open window. I turned away before I could tell if he saw me looking.

  After we turned off of Chan’s street, Rubia spoke again. “Golden Dragons.”

  “What?”

  “The punk in the car is a Golden Dragon. They’re old-school Asian bangers. They go way back. Started in San Francisco, then moved down to LA. Heard they were starting up something in Sacramento, but that’s the first I’ve seen of them.”

  “You’re sure this guy’s one of them?”

  “Yeah. He must be a boss or some other big shit. Dragons like Chevys and Fords. The street punks drive older low-riders. The top guys like the brand new Camaros like that one. And the dude had a big diamond stud in his left ear. Another sign.”

  “You think Thomas Chan is hanging out with drug dealers?”

  “Not drug dealers. Golden Dragons are more than that. They push drugs, sure, but they’re into shaking down mom and pops, loan sharking, prostitution, gambling, and financial crimes. They’re diversified gangstas.”

  I knew better than to question Rubia’s ability to identify a gang member. She’d run a gang. Her non-profit, It’s My Life, or IML as they called it, worked with kids to steer them away from the gang life. If anyone knew how to spot a gangster, she did.

  Now I had to figure out what it meant.

  eight

  Once I left Chan’s house, I made a couple of calls on a small case for an insurance client and then headed to Old Sacramento to meet Danny Cashmore for lunch at the Firehouse. Danny greeted me with a bear hug. He and I had been college roommates all four years at San Jose State. We didn’t see each other much anymore, having lunch maybe once every two years. Danny preferred the card tables at Lake Tahoe and big-ticket golf in Carmel, the former activity outside my interest, the latter beyond my pocketbook. The son of an Acura car dealer in Santa Clara, Danny used the old man’s acumen, not to mention his bankroll, to grow four thriving dealerships of his own in Sacramento. At present he owned three—Toyota, Lexus and Subaru dealerships—the fourth dealership had long-since been turned over to wife number three. With her sense of humor intact after the divorce, she renamed the dealership Goldigger’s Ford.