Grass

by Steve Williams

  Sandovan hung up the phone and looked at his notepad. “There’s only one Zeus camera on the eastern seaboard. It was loaned to a documentary filmmaker here in Salento. His name is Gary Berthold.”

  Mitchell got up from his chair. “Shall we see if he’s available?”

  They rolled to the warehouse district, where Gary Berthold had a studio and loft on the top floor of an old furniture factory. They took a freight elevator to the top and stepped off into a very posh reception area. The floors were polished wide-plank hardwood. The walls were exposed brick. The receptionist was a heavily muscled man whose shirt advertised the fact.

  Muscle guy gave them a bored look. “Can I help you?”

  They showed their ID and Mitchell said “Tell Mr. Berthold his three o’clock is here.”

  Muscle guy looked at his computer screen. “He doesn’t have a three o’clock.”

  Sandovan leaned in. “Great. That means he’s free.”

  Unhappy muscle guy picked up the phone and buzzed someone. “Hey, Gary. There are two detectives here to see you. They didn’t say. All right.”

  He pointed to a heavy sliding door, trying to look like he wasn’t flexing as he did so. “Right through there.”

  Mitchell yanked on the door and it slid open smoothly. The muscle guy leaped up from his desk and stopped it just before it hit the end of the steel track it was riding on. He glared at them.

  “Nice reflexes,” Sandovan said.

  They entered the studio of Gary Berthold, documentary filmmaker. On one side of the expansive room were two shelves laden with awards. The rest of the studio was littered with lights, C-stands, apple boxes, and sandbags. Heavy steel cases were arrayed along another wall. Many of the cases looked like they’d been dropped from an airplane at some point. At the very end of the studio space a door opened. From a darkened room, which the detectives could see was jammed with monitors and consoles, Gary Berthold emerged.

  He stretched out his hand. “Detectives. Sorry about the frosty reception. What Clyde lacks in interpersonal skills he more than makes up for as an assistant. He can carry about three hundred pounds of gear without breaking a sweat. What can I do for you?”

  “Possibly a lot. It all depends on how you want to do it,” Mitchell began.

  “We know that you’re the only person within a thousand miles of here who has a prototype Zeus camera,” said Sandovan.

  “Damn straight,” Berthold said. “It’s a kick-ass piece of gear. The resolution is off the charts. Its active pixel sensor is revolutionary. And there’s no sitting on your ass on location waiting for it to reboot.”

  “I’m sure the company is looking forward to your testimonial. What have you shot with it?” Mitchell asked.

  “Nothing yet. I’ve been in Bali for the past month doing a National Geographic segment on the Silver Leaf Monkey. The camera got here while I was gone, so I’m stoked to do something with it.”

  Mitchell and Sandovan hesitated. Their bullshit meters were pretty sensitive. This guy seemed absolutely genuine and forthcoming. “Do you have anyone else on staff?” Mitchell said.

  “No. It’s just Clyde and me. I make documentaries, so I don’t need a big staff. I hire contract players when I need them.”

  Mitchell walked quietly back to the sliding door. He opened it just enough to stick his head out, then ducked back in quickly as it slammed shut with incredible force. “Sandman, it’s Clyde!”

  Together they slid the door back just in time to see Clyde bolting for the stairwell. Drawing their guns, Mitchell took the stairs while Sandovan hopped in the freight elevator. Mitchell could see Clyde taking the stairs three at a time a full floor below him. He quickened his own pace, grabbing the railing so he could whip around to the next flight.

  After six flights he was starting to get dizzy. He heard Clyde burst through the ground floor stairwell door. It hit the brick wall and bounced back but didn’t close. As he got to the ground floor just a second later, Mitchell heard a loud slap, a grunt and then a tremendous impact shook the floor. He kicked the door open and saw Clyde on his back, with Sandovan standing over him, pistol pointed at his head.

  “You have the right to remain silent,” the Sandman said.

  49

  Thanks to three consecutive nineteen-hour days in the agency’s Zealot Jeans war room, Mya, Arlo, Sisha, and Leah were now close friends. Like many relationships forged under tremendous pressure, they were growing stronger by the day.

  It never ceased to amaze Mya how people from so many disparate backgrounds were drawn to the advertising profession. In conversation over the past seventy-two hours, Mya had discovered that not one of them had envisioned the career trajectory they were now on.

  Sisha had trained as a sushi chef. Leah was a top graduate from a prestigious journalism school. And Arlo had been incarcerated as a juvenile for hacking ATMs, but went on to graduate from a computer programming correspondence course and start up an online gaming company.

  They were united by their mutual curiosity about a wide variety of esoteric subjects and an ability to muster enthusiasm for the various brands they worked on. Not all the brands had the inherent cool factor that Zealot possessed, but that was part of the challenge—to take a mundane product like shock absorbers, toilet paper, or courier services and elevate it above its competitors.

  Right now that was exactly what was happening with Zealot Jeans. The media coverage and viral buzz of the fourteen finalists was snowballing beyond their wildest expectations. The team had created a computer screen dashboard widget for tracking every mention of each contestant—good or bad, large or small. A complex formula of the number of mentions, the quality of each, the longevity and the appropriateness for the brand would determine the winner.

  Several of the finalists’ attempts, such as the jeans on the flagpole at city hall, had fizzled and were clearly out of the running. But others were gathering momentum daily.

  One of the front-runners was the mural that was evolving on the side of the brick building in downtown Salento. It had the benefit of being a huge canvas—almost ten thousand square feet. But there was also the grassroots appeal of the three local art school students who had been asked by finalist number four to execute his vision. The mural appeared to be a highly stylized representation of a lush microscopic ecosystem, populated by fantastic flora and fauna. At the top of the ecosystem, representing the highest form of evolution, was the finalist’s pair of Zealot Jeans. Across the top of the brick wall, in whimsical, very colorful hand-painted letters approximately 15 feet high was the caption “Zealots Rule the Jean Pool.” The creative execution was exceptional, and the local and regional news media was eating it up.

  Not to be outdone, the “yoga hottie”—as christened by Sisha and Leah—was pulling in massive numbers from all over the continent. Social media groups had sprung up to take his online yoga classes. Others had formed to take bets on when he would be bitten by one of the dozens of rattlesnakes or tarantulas occupying the enclosure with him. The marriage proposal counter was up to seventeen and PETA was formally protesting the imprisonment of the spiders and reptiles.

  “Hey, heads up on monitor two,” Leah announced.

  An indie nightclub blogger was talking up a Zealot Jeans finalist’s mobile and online game app. The blog was reporting that the app featured a computer-animated depiction of the finalist in her Zealot Jeans, and was entitled “Charm My Pants Off.”

  “Oh shit,” Mya said.

  “Sex still sells,” countered Arlo.

  The app required users to answer a series of questions based on the animated girl’s likes and dislikes. For each correct answer, a key stitch in the jeans came undone. If the 12 main stitches on the animated jeans were released, the jeans fell off.

  “Quick, download the app and let’s play,” Arlo implored Leah.

  She gave him a dirty look and he hastily added “For quality control purposes, of course.”

  They downloaded the game on one of the bi
g screens. The agency team breathed a sigh of relief that the graphics were beautifully rendered vs. crudely sexualized. The questions were also very much in line with the tastes of the brand’s target audience. Many were based on pop culture trivia that only the target group would understand. “Okay,” Sisha began, “the first question is which member of the band Myopia Utopia has a serial killer in his family tree?”

  “Easy. It’s C, the bass player,” Arlo said.

  Sisha chose C, and as they watched, a stitch on the hip of the jean-clad avatar popped open. The team high-fived in celebration. “Next question,” Leah continued, “If I chose you to join me on Jean Zélat’s private island, would you bring VS or VSOP cognac?”

  “Pick VSOP,” Mya said.

  Leah did, and another stitch popped open. “Ha, that’s awesome,” Arlo said.

  The app was $1.99 per download, with all funds raised going to the Salento Second Chance charity clothing outlet. The woman in the app was quite striking, and when the team finally answered all the questions correctly, her underwear-clad avatar was reminiscent of a Bettie Page style burlesque queen. Perhaps not surprising, the downloads by the five colleges in the Salento area alone had raised $41,000.

  The team continued to monitor the progress of the game. With just days to go, it looked like the competition was going to come right down to the wire.

  50

  “This isn’t a game, Clyde,” Mitchell said to Gary Berthold’s assistant, now handcuffed and seated at the Eighth Precinct. Ironically, they were in the same room where Harvie Widdicomb had first identified the nuance in the DVD footage that had led to Clyde’s arrest.

  “No doubt my lawyer’s on his way,” Clyde scowled.

  “Yep. Sure is,” Sandovan said. “Can we get you anything?”

  “Yeah, Clyde. Can we get you anything? Water, soft drink, steroid cycle?” Mitchell added.

  Clyde laughed and flexed as best he could with the cuffs on. “Not me, dude. All natural.”

  “We know you were there, Clyde,” Sandovan said. “Our crime scene guys pulled a very distinctive boot tread out of the mud outside the fence at the Salento Zoo. One of ‘em said it looked like the tread of an Israeli combat boot he wore on his kibbutz.”

  Mitchell leaned in. “That’s one disadvantage of being such a big dude, Clyde. You sink into soft ground really nice. The tread pattern was perfect. Now, I can’t be sure, but those boots you’re wearing don’t look like they’re American.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got? I’ll be out of here in a couple hours.”

  Sandovan looked thoughtful. “That’s a possibility. But don’t count on it. See, these crime scene guys don’t miss a thing—just like the ones on TV. And they took four fingerprints off the fence post where you guys cut through the chain link. Two of them are an exact match to the index and middle fingers of your left hand, according to the prints you gave us when you checked into the Eighth Precinct’s hospitality suite today.”

  Mitchell sat down directly opposite Clyde. “You’re done, dude. We’re going to book you for attempted murder. And if Rammi Vargas dies without coming out of his coma, we’re booking you for a full ride: Murder One.”

  Clyde was visibly shaken. He became downright penitent and asked if they could take the handcuffs off. The uniformed officer in the room obliged and stuffed the cuffs back on his belt. “Can I get a water?” Clyde said.

  “Sure thing,” Mitchell said. He left the room for a moment and returned with four bottled waters.

  Clyde guzzled half of his. He put the top on it and rested it on the table. “Here’s the thing. I need protective custody out the wazoo. Up front. In writing. And I don’t want the lawyer in here anymore. He’s connected to one of the dudes I’m about to give up.”

  “Canceling the lawyer,” Sandovan said. “If you don’t mind, we’ll wait until he makes the trip all the way over here and then let him know. We don’t like lawyers.”

  “Whatever,” Clyde said.

  “Give us something,” Mitchell said across the table.

  “There were two guys there that night besides the kid. The main man’s name is Otis Gaverill. He’s a very wealthy legit businessman, but he’s also a major league gangster. Called all the shots. The other guy was just a flunky like me. Name’s Amari or something. You think I look like a ‘roid monkey? This guy is twice my size.”

  “How’d it go down that night?”

  Clyde gave them a detailed account of their plan, right down to Otis picking a moonless night, how they scoped out the Zoo’s security, and the type of gear they used.

  “Thing is, I didn’t know what Otis was going to do. We got to the grotto part of the Zoo, and you couldn’t even tell there was anything down in it. Then Otis pulls out a flask of brandy or something, takes a swig, and tosses the flask down into the grotto. As soon as it hit the ground and rattled around in there, that’s when that tiger came out. I almost pissed myself when I realized what was going to happen.”

  Clyde went on for another twenty minutes as the recorder captured every word. Then, when he was taken to a private cell, Mitchell and Sandovan reported back in with the captain.

  “Dunno guys,” Ramsey said. “It’s the word of the other two guys against this camera guy. And you know what? He’s got priors. Nothing recent, but an ag’ assault from about five years ago, plus a GTA as a minor. It’s not a lot, but it’s enough to give a slick defense lawyer a hard on.”

  “Can’t we at least roust this Otis guy?” Sandovan said.

  “We won’t even be able to get near him,” said Ramsey. “He’s probably one of the five richest guys in metro. Unless you’ve got him dead to rights, forget it.”

  Ramsey looked at his watch. “I’m going to go drown my sorrows with the assistant DA.”

  Mitchell and Sandovan watched the captain leave. Mitchell was about to make a wisecrack when a thought occurred to him. A smile crept over his face.

  “What?” Sandovan said.

  Mitchell grabbed his sportsjacket off the back of his chair. “Speaking of a drink…what do you think the odds are that Otis’s flask is still in that tiger grotto?”

  Ramsey called the chief. The chief called the mayor. The mayor’s office called over to the zoo and gave the authorization for the search of the tiger grotto. Baika the tiger had been temporarily moved to another compound to allow the forensic investigators to gather evidence, so the grotto was empty.

  Mitchell and Sandovan dragged Ryerson, Hernandez, and Nelson along to help. They combed the enclosure for the steel flask. Nelson finally spotted it, in a hollow far underneath one of the sandstone boulders that made up the terrain.

  Sandovan bagged it in a tamper-evident polyethylene evidence bag, then took off his gloves. “Hopefully the lab guys can pull a print,” he said.

  “Fingers crossed all around,” said Ryerson.

  51

  The Colonel and his men did a thorough reconnaissance of the building Warren Shelburne had identified as Otis Gaverill’s cash-processing hub. Because they started their surveillance just hours after learning its location, they could see that no additional security had been added—a sign that Shelburne had kept his mouth shut.

  The building was at the back of a large rural greenhouse complex operated by the legitimate side of Otis’s empire. This meant that if they went in through the front gate, the team would have to cover almost a quarter-mile of hostile territory. What intrigued the Colonel more was that the cash-counting building was just twenty yards from the back fence of the complex.

  The area was surrounded by dense forest, but there was a spur for Salento Gas and Power that ran through the forest just two hundred yards behind the property. They decided this back road would be their way in and out.

  The evening before they were planning to make their assault, Hector and Andre drove out one last time to check the lay of the land. Andre got out of the vehicle and started to add to his sniper’s ghillie suit using the local vegetation. An hour later, i
n the fading light of the sunset, he blended into the surroundings like an indigenous predator.

  He began to walk the two hundred yards to the fence line. The farther he went into the woods, the slower he moved. As he drew to within fifty yards of the building he was moving almost imperceptibly. In his pocket he carried a wireless camera detector. The WCD swept the route to the fence for wireless surveillance camera transmissions, covering frequencies between 900MHz through 2.7 GHz.

  As he drew closer to the fence, the device beeped softly. In all, he identified the positions of five hidden cameras. By crouching in the underbrush and observing the surveillance cameras’ views on the screen of the handheld detector, Andre could tell which approaches to the fence they should avoid.

  There was a movement to his left, and Andre froze next to a large cedar. A whitetail doe moved cautiously through the underbrush, stopping now and again to chew on some of the native grasses. Andre was downwind, so the deer did not react to his presence. It passed within eight feet of him.

  When he reached the tree line overlooking the Verdant Greenhouse compound, Andre sat and captured video for a half hour. He stayed another ninety minutes, sitting without twitching a muscle, observing the routine of the complex of buildings. Occasionally a man with an assault rifle slung over his shoulder would appear at the back of the cash building for a smoke. Apart from that, there were no regular patrols.

  He put his video camera away, then made the painstaking journey out of the woods to the spur road. An hour later he rejoined Hector in their Salento Gas and Power van.

  “I believe the mission has an excellent chance of success,” he said to Hector as he carefully pulled off the ghillie suit. He laid it in the back of the van for use the following night. He’d seen a spot that would allow him to provide sweeping cover for the rest of the team.

  “We shall see if the Commandante shares your optimism, Andre,” Hector replied. “He often sees things that we do not.”

  They drove out the same way they’d come. The Colonel was waiting for a full report.