“You want prior marriages, credit scores, property ownership, memberships, and all that, too?”
“Yeah, why not?” I sighed.
“Ray, do you have the hots for this chick or something?”
“No, why would you say that?”
“Raaaaay.” She drew out my name for several seconds.
“No. She’s dating a friend of mine, remember?”
“But you have the hots for her. I can tell.”
I didn’t say anything, the road noise filling the silence. How the hell could she tell?
“I think it’s cute when an old guy like you likes a girl.” She then sang a rap version of the old seventies song “Love Is in the Air.”
“Did you step on a cat?”
“You don’t know art when you hear it.”
“Apparently. Now when can you get me the info on her?”
She promised to provide it to me within a few of days. I hoped she’d find some dirt on Jolene. That would make things easier. First, it would help me get over the sudden attraction I’d felt for her. Second, it might dissuade Danny from marrying her and thereby eliminating any future awkwardness—on so many different levels—if Jolene, Danny, and I were ever in the same room together.
Before I hung up I asked, “What have you found out about the Golden Dragons?”
“Still looking. But one of my contacts says they have a small cell here in Sacramento, two, maybe three gang members. Mainly, they’re checking things out, seeing if it’s worth it to set up shop. My guy doesn’t think they’ve done much yet. They’d need more than a couple of guys to start any serious shit.”
“What about the license plate?”
“Oh, yeah, the car’s tagged to a dude named Wu Wing. Don’t know jack about him yet. My LA guy’s asking around.”
“Okay. Could you try to find out if one of their MOs is cutting the fingers off their victims?”
“Ouch.”
“And one more thing—”
“Is this a paid gig, too, because you’re piling on, professor?”
“Yeah, yeah, quit crying. Can you find out who Adam Benzer’s parents are and whether or not they have money?”
Corey Truxel’s company was on the south side of Interstate 80 in a Davis industrial complex three blocks from the freeway. Though I had come unannounced, he seemed undisturbed by my visit. Like Wiggin, he looked to be younger than his seventy-something years. Short and of slight build, he had rosy cheeks and wavy blond locks showing no hints of gray.
“Ken said I might be getting a visit from you.” He smiled, eyes beaming through round wire-rimmed glasses.
“Professor Wiggin is, ah, insightful.”
Truxel laughed. “People misunderstand and underestimate him because of his personality, but the man is brilliant. I’ve always known that.”
The small space looked like a cross between a science lab and a metal shop. Microscopes, electronic instruments, Bunsen burners, glass beakers of varying sizes, and other chemistry lab staples mixed with acetylene tanks and torches, power tools, and a floor-to-ceiling rack loaded with sheet metal, steel rods, and angle iron. Four men in lab coats worked at separate tables on a variety of equipment I didn’t recognize. I knew from its one-page website Truxel Laboratories conducted research and development of microbial fuel cells and Corey Truxel earned a PhD from Berkeley in electrical engineering.
“What do you do here?” I asked as I surveyed the room.
“Do you want the long answer or the short one?”
“Short will do.”
“We do R and D to improve the efficiencies of various types of microbe-powered fuel cells. Most of our work is done for engineering firms, energy companies, and a couple of auto manufacturers.”
“So the work is similar to what Wiggin’s team is doing over at Granderson?”
“In a sense, yes, though they’re doing more genome sequencing than we do here. We do more testing of existing technologies with an eye towards improving their efficiencies. Dr. Wiggin is seeking to create new technologies.”
We moved through the lab, Truxel pointing out to me here and there the projects they were working on at the tables we passed. He displayed a true passion for his work with the enthusiasm in his voice and the animated gestures he made as he pointed out aspects of each project. Most of it went right over my head.
“Are these all your employees?”
“Yes, just the five of us. We may be small, but we can outwork firms five times our size.”
“Did Wiggin tell you anything about what happened at his on-campus lab?” I asked.
“Not in any detail, only that someone sabotaged his project. It sounded dreadful.”
“Any idea who would do such a thing?”
“None.” A one-word answer.
From my days working on the Sacramento State campus, I’d rubbed elbows with the school’s science and engineering professors. Though I knew better than to generalize about any group of people, I felt assured in characterizing them as straightforward and guileless, their zeal for finding answers and solving problems so consuming it left little room for trickery or deceit. Truxel struck me much the same way. He could have been a class-one liar, but from the way he looked me in the eye with that one-word answer, it made me believe him.
“From what you know of Wiggin’s work, do you think it would be worth a lot of money? By that I mean commercially, to an energy company or something similar?”
“Absolutely, Ken’s characterization of their work made me believe it would be a major breakthrough in utility scale power production.”
“Would it be something of interest to you?”
He laughed. “It would be of interest to anybody in the field of fuel cell technology. Hey, wait, what are you implying?”
“Just asking is all. I’m trying to find out who stole their project. And the only place I can figure to start is by, one, finding out who knew about what he was doing and, two, determining if they had sufficient knowledge and skills to do something with the project once they took it. So far that’s proven to be a pretty short list.”
“And I’m one of the people on that list.”
“Nothing personal.”
“Well, it is personal! You’re accusing me of being a thief! And besides, your logic is flawed. It could be someone who had a vendetta against one or more people on their research team.”
“Or some environmental wackos like Stone Creek Saviors?”
“Exactly. Those are the kind of people you should be looking at instead of insulting the likes of me.”
Our exchange had led us nowhere. The Saviors or S-SOP might have had the desire to destroy anything they saw as anti-environment. Especially if they mistook Monarch as a fracking project as Seth Seeger had said. But the desire to steal Monarch was one thing. The capability to do so was something else.
As I mulled this over and waited for the heated air between Truxel and me to cool, my cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I retrieved it and looked at the text message from Candace Symington: Ransom instructions just came in! Can you come to Sieboldt right away?
seventeen
Ken Wiggin, Candace Symington, and I sat in the faculty conference room in Sieboldt Science Center just before nine at night. A large high-definition video monitor had descended from the ceiling, obscuring the whiteboard behind it. The three of us sat at the conference table in seats nearest the blank monitor; a squat cylindrical camera the size of a large coffee cup had been positioned on the table in front of us.
Candace showed me the e-mail she, Cassidy, and Wiggin had received simultaneously. Its message had been brief:
You will pay us the $20 million in CASH, one-third in one hundred dollar bills, one-third in fifty dollar bills, and one-third in twenty dollar bills. This will weigh about one thousand pounds. One of you will rent a white minivan and drive to Corti Brothers Market next Tuesday at 6 pm with the money in mailbags inside the van. In the wine department, there is a rack displaying Talbot Bordeau
x 1996. Take the bottle at the bottom of the wine rack. You will find a note taped to the bottom of the bottle with instructions. Follow them. If we see any cops or more than one of you driving the van, we will destroy Monarch.
SCS
It had arrived minutes before Candace texted me. While the timing of its arrival didn’t altogether rule out Corey Truxel or one of his employees, it did appear unlikely one of them had sent the new ransom instructions while I was standing in their lab.
“So, Sunrise and NAFC know about the instructions?” I asked.
“No,” Wiggin said. “I figured it best to tell everyone all at once. You know, like ripping a bandage off.” To illustrate the point, he tore a phantom bandage from his arm.
At two minutes before nine, Candace used a remote to turn on the monitor. She then pointed the remote at the camera to activate it. Seconds later, the three of us appeared in the monitor’s lower right quadrant, our images a bit distorted by the camera’s wide angle lens.
“The others should be logging in any minute now,” she said.
“Okay,” Wiggin said. “I’ll take the lead on our end.”
Candace started to speak but then stopped herself.
“If this goes well, the conversation shouldn’t take long,” he continued.
I was feeling uneasy about the ransom plan. The extortionists held all the cards. Part of me wanted to turn the whole matter over to the FBI. Monarch had been missing for four days. If the ransom payment didn’t yield the project, then there would be no choice but to bring in the feds. They wouldn’t be pleased to learn it’d taken several days before we’d done so. I wondered if we might even be charged with obstruction or some other crime.
“Before they come on the line, I want to be clear about something,” I said. “If this ransom drop goes south at any point we need to report it to campus security. And then get the FBI involved.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He gave me a backwards flip of his hand.
Less than a minute later, Arnie Chipperfield’s image appeared in the upper left corner of the monitor. He looked to be seated at his desk, wearing a light blue dress shirt and a red tie with blue stripes. A few seconds later, Trudy Nichols popped onto the screen’s upper right corner. She looked tired and a bit cranky, our conference call well-past normal workday hours, even for a hard-charging executive.
Wiggin greeted everyone. As he did, Candace used the remote to arrange the images on the corner so they were aligned from left to right—Arnie, Trudy, and the three of us in the conference room.
“We received the ransom instructions from SCS.”
“What do they say?” Trudy asked, her voice eager, the possibility of Monarch’s return giving her a shot of energy. Her sidekick from the other day, Dick McBright, was notably absent, Trudy apparently taking the reins for Sunrise on this operation.
Candace read the instructions from the SCS e-mail she’d printed out.
“I don’t like this,” Arnie said.
“I tend to agree with Arnie,” Trudy said, her initial hopefulness fading. “Driving around town with that much money. It seems like we’re setting someone up to get killed and lose all our money.”
The three of us exchanged glances. “Please, I know it’s not the most comforting process,” Wiggin said. “But look at it as a positive, as a step to getting Monarch back.”
“Did you get some assurances these people even have Monarch?” Arnie asked.
“Yes,” said Candace. “I replied to the e-mail I read you and asked for the sequencing on one of the bacteria I’d done. They sent it back. They couldn’t have done so unless they had the project in hand.”
“I saw the e-mail,” Wiggin said. “She’s right.”
A few seconds of silence ensued as everyone took in the implications of that. The extortionists appeared legit. The question was whether they could be trusted to return the project after they’d received payment.
“What kind of strategy options do we have?” Arnie asked, his voice still tinged with anger.
“The way I see it, it’s not complicated,” I said. “We can go one of two ways. Pay the money and hope for the best. Or get the FBI involved right away and oversee the drop. So, what will it be?”
Neither of our two callers spoke. They looked to be thinking and fuming.
“Shit.” Trudy slumped back in her chair. “We can’t risk losing it. If these Saviors find out the cops are involved, we’re screwed. Even if they don’t, but the cops fuck up, then we’re still screwed.” She said nothing for several seconds as she looked away from the camera. “They don’t teach you how to handle situations like this in business school.” She seemed to be talking to herself. “All right.”
“So we’re agreed to go through with paying the ransom tomorrow?” I asked. On the screen I could see four nodding heads.
“Why the hell do they want cash?” Arnie asked. “Like they said, it’ll weigh half a ton.”
“Setting up untraceable wire transfers is not as easy as it used to be,” I said. “You can’t do it sitting at your computer. It takes a while, and you have to put in fifty thousand or more to open it up. Unwieldy as that much cash is, it’s probably easier for them overall.”
“I might get fired over this,” Trudy said. “It’s going to be a great conversation going into the CEO’s office in the morning asking for ten million in cash.”
“He’ll understand,” Wiggin said. “He knows the value of our work.”
Trudy’s withering look seemed to have no effect on Wiggin. Had it been directed at me, I might have started crying.
For the next fifteen minutes, we talked about the logistics of collecting the cash and all the steps needed to deliver the extortion money. Tuesday was four days away. Four days, including a Saturday and a Sunday, to gather twenty million in cash. Not much time. But Trudy and Arnie agreed they could get it done. That left one order of business. Who would deliver the money?
To my surprise the choice had been unanimous: me.
eighteen
After breakfast the next Tuesday, Rubia dropped me off at the Enterprise Rent-A-Car office on 16th Street, where I rented a minivan as instructed in the e-mail. From there I drove straight to Sunrise Oil’s corporate headquarters in San Ramon an hour and a half away. The guard at the security kiosk directed me to a loading dock, where Trudy Nichols and I watched two workers hoist fifteen mailbags of cash into the back of the van. Trudy and I didn’t exchange pleasantries. On the return trip, I stopped in Fairfield and bought five matchbook-sized GPS trackers.
I drove back to Sacramento and on to Rancho Cordova, a nearby suburb, where I repeated the loading exercise at the North American Fuel Cell’s office, adding nine more mailbags to the collection. The back of the van sagged noticeably, but it drove fine as I returned home to wait out the two hours with a wine bottle at Corti Brothers until my designated meeting.
In the corner of my bedroom closet, I picked up and set aside my half-full laundry hamper, which sat atop a small gun vault. Lifting the vault, I carried it to my dresser. I entered the lock combination, opened the vault, removed the Glock 32 pistol, and loaded it with a full thirteen rounds of .357 bullets. For good measure, I stuck another magazine with thirteen more rounds in my front pocket.
I strapped the leather holster to my belt and inserted the gun so it rode at the small of my back where I could conceal it under a coat. I told myself I wouldn’t need to use the gun. I hadn’t entered the field of investigation to become some cowboy. I wanted to help people not hurt them. On the other hand, experience taught me non-violence wasn’t always the most practical route to travel.
My life had changed so much since I’d retired from teaching college. When I thought about what I’d already done today—loading twenty million dollars of cash into a rented minivan—I shook my head. I’d moved from a world of theory, abstraction, and ideas into one of action, reaction, and cold reality. Before, I armed myself through scholarly research. Now, I armed myself with a gun. I might have tol
d myself two years ago, hell, even a year ago, that my former life held superiority over one favoring the physical over the intellectual. I wasn’t so sure anymore. There was something to be said for living in the reality of the moment, where there wasn’t time to overthink or overanalyze, where stopping to ponder might get you in trouble, hurt, or even killed.
It was a quarter to six. Time to head out.
I entered Corti Brothers at six sharp and soon found the rack containing ten bottles of Talbot Bordeaux. I’d been anxious someone might’ve inadvertently purchased the bottle with the note until I saw the price tag affixed to the display bottle. The Talbot went for a hundred and fifty bucks each, making it unlikely they’d sell ten bottles after we received the ransom instructions.
I pulled out the bottom bottle and found the small scrap of paper taped to it. The message was created using words cut from a magazine and taped to the note:
Go to Effie Yeaw. Note taped to garbage can.
Effie Yeaw Nature Center at Ancil Hoffman Park out in Carmichael. My wife and I had taken our daughter Sara there a few times when she was a little girl. I wondered why they’d chosen this location for the drop. It occurred to me the long road leading from the park’s entrance stretched across a small valley easily observed from the overlooking ridges. Someone could watch my progress from the entrance to the nature center. The nature center itself wouldn’t be open at this hour, its parking lot likely empty and out of view from the main road. I wondered if there really was a note on the garbage can or if they would just steal the van and its valuable contents. I had hoped for the latter because I’d mounted a GPS tracker to the bottom of the van. The other four trackers I put in different mailbags, carving out space in four stacks of currency to hide them in the wrapped bundles.
The drive from Corti Brothers to Effie Yeaw took about fifteen minutes. The unlit country road from the entrance of the park to the center took me past the park’s picnic grounds, golf course, and hiking areas. Lights from the expensive homes on the ridge above offered little illumination as I drove along at twenty miles per hour. Since leaving Corti, I grew edgier by the minute, unsure how this endgame would play out.
Courage Stolen Page 9