The Target

by L. J. Sellers

  She headed downstairs and out the back of the building. A sidewalk led to the nearby R&D building. The factory was farther back and had its own entrance on a side street, but she could see a covered walkway between the two back buildings. A young man passed her going toward the offices and smiled. An employee she would probably never meet—‌if she succeeded at her mission.

  The air was stagnant and humid, so she hurried across the open space and flashed her ID at the camera on the drab building. Inside, she blinked in adjustment to the indoor light. The small foyer had no windows and no reception area, just a chair and table by the door. Dallas ventured into a circular open area with doors on both sides. A narrow hall lay straight ahead. At the end of the darkened space, loud voices caught her attention. She moved quietly and stood outside an open door. The space led into a rectangular room filled with stainless steel appliances, microscopes, and cluttered workbenches.

  A dark-toned man with a delicate mustache shouted at a younger man in thick glasses. From his profile on LinkedIn, she recognized the shouter as Curtis Santera.

  “We don’t have time to repeat every damn test. You have to be more careful!”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know the test bacteria was still stored in there with the microbiota.” The lab worker gestured with both hands, his voiced distressed. “We haven’t used it in a recombinant process recently.”

  Bacteria. She needed a sample for the CDC.

  “It’s clearly labeled.” Santera squeezed his forehead, as if to calm himself. “Cheryl will be distressed. The FDA has already set us back by asking for more information.” His voice softened and he seemed to be talking to himself now.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Start over, work late, and don’t screw up again.”

  The younger man walked away. Dallas watched him head toward a stainless steel vault with three big drawers. He opened the bottom one. Was that where she would find the right sample? The CDC had labeled it SA-13, but she had no idea what this company called it. She stepped into the room.

  “Who are you?” Santera snapped.

  “Jace Hunter. Cheryl Decker’s new assistant. She asked me to bring this to you.”

  He snatched the envelope out of her hand, tore it open, and extracted a small container. Santera noticed she was still standing there, so he paused and waved her away. “You can leave.”

  Dallas nodded and turned, pausing in the hallway.

  Behind her, Santera said, “SlimPros. Where the hell did Cheryl get these?”

  Chapter 22

  Monday, July 14, 10:35 a.m.

  Jonas Brickman was sick of hearing about his weight, but he worked to keep his anger in check. This potential supporter was too important to alienate. “Do you really think voters care? I’ve been active in city politics for a decade, plus I’m a generous philanthropist. Shouldn’t that be all that matters?” He’d been seeding his career shift for years.

  “It should. But it’s not. Your weight sends a message.” Don Tavakole—‌fifty-eight and not exactly slim—‌shifted in the chair across from him, clearly uncomfortable. The millionaire and political activist had come to Jonas’ office to talk about the mayoral campaign, but Tavakole was still in a negative mode. “People will make assumptions that you’re lazy or unhealthy. Even if it’s not a conscious thing. Even if they say they like you in political polls. At the voting booth, they’ll abandon you. I’m sorry. But unless you start losing weight, my group can’t support your campaign.”

  There it was. The PAC was withdrawing the money they’d promised. A hot rage filled his chest, and he wanted to punch Tavakole’s ugly pinched face. Everything he’d been building for years was being snatched away. He would never be governor if he didn’t get elected as mayor first. “I can lose the weight. I’d planned to anyway.” He scrambled to form a convincing plan. “My company is ready to launch a revolutionary weight-loss product. It’s called SlimPro, and I can be one of the first patients to get one implanted.”

  “I don’t think there’s enough time. The election is three months away.”

  “It’s plenty of time. In fact, this is a great public relations opportunity.” Liking the idea, Jonas leaned forward in his leather chair. “I’ll issue a public challenge for people to join me in a city-wide weight-loss program. Then I’ll do a series of interviews and talk about the challenges of losing weight. I think people will relate to it.”

  Tavakole was silent for a moment. “I don’t know. It sounds like a great promotional idea for your product, but I don’t think it will help your political campaign. It shows weakness.”

  Jonas’ hands clenched into fists. Weak? He wanted to punch the prick in the mouth and show him some brute strength. But he forced himself to sound calm. “People love rooting for the underdog—‌as long as he wins in the end. And I intend to win.” Rage, fear, and excitement drummed in his veins and he had to stand up. “I can lose three or four pounds a week for three months. By election day, I’ll be transformed and voters will be won over.” Jonas could see himself in front of City Hall, talking to reporters after the election, looking slim and healthy like he used to. He could do this.

  “You have a lot of faith in your product.” Tavakole’s mouth turned up. “If it’s that good, you’ll end up so rich you won’t need my money.”

  Jonas forced himself to smile back. “In time.” SlimPro would be a moneymaker, for sure. But it didn’t work for everybody. No drug did. Most medications only helped half, or fewer, of the people who took them. He’d already tried the peptide implant, back when they first tested it in humans. After losing only ten pounds, he quickly gained it back. His second implant had been even less effective. It just didn’t work with his genetic structure. But fortunately, enough people in the clinical trials had benefitted, so it was approved and marketable.

  Don Tavakole stood too. “We have another candidate in mind, but we’ll wait and see how this goes. If you can lose forty pounds in the next two months, we’ll fund your TV campaign.”

  “Still at two million?”

  “We’ll see.” Tavakole reached out his hand.

  Prick. Jonas shook it, smiling. “You will see. I’ll get this set up immediately and do the implant and video in a couple of days.”

  Tavakole breezed out, taking his potent cologne with him. Jonas plopped down, sweat pooling in his armpits and soaking the back of his pressed white shirt. He yanked off his jacket and forced himself to breath slowly. He’d just committed to losing five pounds a week for eight weeks. The only way to make it happen was to cut out the carbs and live on protein and vegetables. And exercise every day. Oh god, he’d have to get up early and start swimming laps again.

  He was about to become the public face of SlimPro, and its success was dependent on his success. Now his political future was dependent on him losing weight too. Something he hadn’t been able to do in the decade since he’d gained it all. Fuck!

  Jonas opened his top drawer and reached for a small flask of scotch he kept for occasional stress. He’d have to be careful and not let small sips become long gulps. His thoughts turned to Cheryl. She and her TecLife team were working on a new weight-loss product, but damned if he could find out anything. The freelancer he’d hired to steal their files had brought back a thumb drive full of data, but none of it was that useful. The target—‌for him and Cheryl, first as a team, then as competitors—‌had always been a widely effective weight-loss product. The peptide implant had resulted from her research, and she had to be gleeful that it hadn’t worked for him personally. He wouldn’t blame her, except that the bitch had set fire to his warehouse, costing him thousands in lost sales. He couldn’t prove she’d done it, but who else?

  The intercom interrupted his thoughts. Jonas shoved the flask away and pressed the respond button. “Yes?”

  “Dominic Prill is here to see you. He says it’s important.”

  For a moment, he didn’t place the name.

  “From R&D,” his assistant
prompted.

  “Yes. Send him in.” Please let it be good news. He started to reach for his jacket, then changed his mind. He didn’t need to impress his employees.

  The scientist was in his late twenties, ridiculously thin, and not smiling.

  “Have a seat.”

  Dominic perched on the edge of a chair and repeatedly clicked the pen in his hand.

  Jonas resisted the urge to snatch it away. “Just relax and tell me what’s going on.”

  “Someone took three SlimPros from the sample batch.”

  No! “How is that possible? Unless it was an employee.”

  “A woman drugged me at the gym.” A pink flush spread over Dominic’s cheeks, and he cast his eyes down. “I think she put me in a wheelchair and used my palm-pass to get into the vault. I can barely remember any of it. I woke up in my car about three in the morning, feeling drugged and confused.”

  Oh hell. Cheryl again? It had to be. But why did she want the SlimPro? Was her own product failing? “What did the kidnapper look like?”

  “I’m not sure. I have a vague memory of a tall blond woman waiting at the front of the gym.”

  Not Cheryl, but maybe someone she hired. “You say she took three?”

  “I counted our supply this morning, and that’s what’s missing.”

  “Thank you for telling me.” He couldn’t bring himself to let the researcher off the hook. “We’ll have to increase our security. And you should be more vigilant.”

  “Yes, sir.” Dominic blinked a few times. “Are you going to report the incident to the authorities? I’d prefer not to.”

  What did his employee have to hide from law enforcement? “I don’t think they can help us. But I’ll have our security team check the video footage and see if the cameras caught her.” Jonas was torn. He desperately wanted to stop Cheryl and find out what the hell she had in development. But he didn’t want the FBI coming around again. Things had been too weird lately.

  Yet now that Cheryl had the SlimPro and could start reverse engineering, his company had to fast-track the launch. Instead of producing a small test batch this week, the manufacturing plant needed to scale-up and produce a full run—‌so they could get the product on trucks and out to as many clinics as possible.

  He reached for his desk phone, temples pounding. He’d never felt so much pressure.

  Chapter 23

  Monday, July 14, 3:20 p.m.

  Cortez waited in a conference room in the massive downtown headquarters, where all six homicides teams worked. He drank his coffee, studied his notes, and practiced his presentation. He wanted to sound professional, with an excellent command of the terminology. A flutter in his stomach, as he realized he had nothing significant to report. Would Hawthorne start giving Harris the legwork and make him comb through the paper trail?

  This would be the first time the three had met together to discuss the case. Hawthorne had been in the hospital until Saturday, keeping everyone updated by phone, then had come into headquarters that morning to get caught up. He’d been abrupt when he’d called Cortez to set up the meeting. Maybe Hawthorne had run out of pain meds.

  A moment later, the older detective crutched through the open door, his canvas briefcase slung around his neck. Following him was Detective Harris, a matronly woman in her early forties with a long, horse-like face. She had a reputation for sharp analysis, and Cortez hoped to learn from her.

  “Good afternoon.” He stood to show respect for both.

  “Not really.” Hawthorne lowered himself into a chair and set his crutches on the floor. “Sergeant Riggs will join us shortly wanting an update. He scheduled a press conference for this afternoon and wants something to report.”

  “We may have a lead.” Harris went to the case board and began mapping out the evidence. “We should have done this on Friday,” she mumbled as she wrote. “But the College Killer case still takes priority over a B-list actor.”

  B-list? “James Avery was a classy Hollywood star,” Cortez argued. “Those designations are not just about how much money a movie earns.”

  “Don’t hyperventilate. Hawthorne told me to say that.” She gave him a wicked grin. “I’m a James Avery fan too, but only a few actors past fifty are still a big box office draw.”

  Hawthorne cut in. “Let’s focus please.” He turned to Cortez. “What did you learn this morning about Avery’s appointment at ProLabs?”

  “Not much.” He cleared his throat. “The victim arrived at four-thirty for a DNA analysis. He was probably under a court order because of the paternity suit filed by Alicia Freison. Blood was taken and submitted to their in-house lab analysts, but they won’t have results until later this week.” Cortez paused, forgetting what else he wanted to say.

  “When did the victim leave?” Harris asked.

  That was it. “I don’t know. The appointment should have only taken five or ten minutes, but the receptionist doesn’t remember seeing him walk out the door.”

  “What does that mean?” Hawthorne’s tone had an edge.

  “Probably nothing. She could have been away from her station.” Had he failed to ask the right questions? “But no one saw him or heard from Avery after that. The lab doesn’t have any security cameras inside the building, but they monitor the front door from outside. I asked the manager to send me the video for late that afternoon.”

  “Let us know what you find out.”

  “What about his family?” Harris asked. “I’m sure Avery has a sizable estate.”

  “His widow has a solid alibi until about ten with her yoga instructor, and his son lives in Oceanside. Julian Avery says he was home with his family, and his wife corroborates that.”’

  Harris turned from the case board. “Who stands to inherit? Have you read the will?”

  Heat rushed to Cortez’s cheeks. “His wife thinks the money will be divided between her and his son. But she hasn’t seen the last version of the will. Avery’s lawyer was out of town last week, but I left messages for him to call me. I’ll stop at his office first thing tomorrow.”

  “What about the paternity suit? Did you find the woman?”

  Sergeant Riggs strode through the door. “What have you got for me? The press conference is in twenty minutes. Most of the questions will be about the College Killer, and the lieutenant will take those, but someone will ask about James Avery.”

  Hawthorne gestured. “Cortez was going to tell us about a lawsuit he’s following up on.”

  All eyes were on him, so he sat up straight. “Her name is Alicia Freison, and I questioned her Saturday morning. She claims James Avery is the father of her four-year-old son and that the DNA test will prove it. She has an alibi for Tuesday night, but it’s her sister, so I don’t have much faith in it.” Cortez hesitated. Should he offer his opinion? It seemed important. “Whoever killed Avery either transported him out to the cannery or met him there. Then they punched him in the face repeatedly and gave him an overdose of barbiturates. Freison doesn’t seem physically big enough to do that by herself, and she had nothing to gain by killing Avery.”

  A moment of silence.

  Harris spoke up. “Unless she thinks his heirs are more likely to settle with her now that he’s dead. Instead of going to court, I mean. We need to bring her in for questioning. She probably has a thug boyfriend.”

  “I agree.” Hawthorne glared at Cortez. “Make it a priority.”

  Cortez thought it was a waste of time, but he wasn’t running the case. “Copy that.”

  “Is that all you’ve got?” Riggs gestured with impatience.

  What was he forgetting? Cortez glanced at his notes. The truth serum. “The medical examiner’s office called this morning and said Avery had sodium thiopental in his blood. It’s a barbiturate that’s sometimes used by psychiatrists to relax patients or get them to tell the truth.”

  “What the hell?” Hawthorne stared, open-mouthed. “Was that the only drug in his system?”

  “He also had high levels of phenoba
rbital, which is what killed him. There was only a trace amount of the thiopental, but I think someone wanted information. That would explain the beating and the drug.”

  Riggs shook his head. “I can’t tell the media that. They’ll go nuts with speculation.”

  “Why didn’t I get a copy of the toxicology report?” Hawthorne demanded.

  Cortez didn’t know and refused to feel guilty. He had enjoyed delivering that revelation. “The full blood-work analysis hasn’t been done, and the assistant ME was returning my call.”

  “I have to go prep,” Riggs said. “I’m sorry I can’t get more people on the team, but the College Killer is still out there preying on young women, so that has to be our priority.” He turned and left.

  Hawthorne glanced back and forth between the two detectives. “What else have we learned?” His eyes settled on Harris.

  “The paper trail wasn’t helpful.” She gave a small shrug. “Avery’s phone records revealed nothing of value. The day of his death, he took a call from his manager around noon, and made a call to a cosmetic clinic to set up appointments for laser treatments. That’s it. Except for all the calls from his wife, asking where he was and when he’d be home. There isn’t anything unusual in the days leading up to his death either.”

  “His bank and credit cards?” Hawthorne tapped his cast, his jaw set.

  “Nothing interesting,” Harris said. “No large deposits or withdrawals. No unusual purchases.”

  Hawthorne turned to Cortez. “Where was Avery between the time he left his house and the time he reached Prolabs?”

  “Playing golf. I checked it out on Friday. He was with two friends. Nothing unusual.”

  “Oh, hell. We have to be missing something.” Hawthorne looked pained and shifted his cast to a new position.

  Harris paced in front of the board. “If the killer wanted information, it was probably about money or valuables. Maybe Avery has a stockpile of cash, and they wanted the combination to his safe.”