Beyond the Spectrum

by G. W. BOILEAU

  “What are you talking about?” I asked dismissively. “I’m the same guy I’ve always been.”

  Her hands paused and she leveled her eyes at me. “Look at you, Blake. You haven’t had a haircut in months. You don’t shave, your clothes are dirty, and, well, I’m sorry, but you stink.”

  I glared at her. Her eyebrows rose unapologetically and she shrugged. “Well, someone has to tell you.” Her hands started moving again. “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through, Blake, but at some point you’re going to have to ask yourself, am I going to give up, or am I going to start living again?”

  I didn’t reply. I didn’t know what to say. And I was afraid if I opened my mouth I’d say something I’d regret, so I just sat there.

  Calloway put a hand on my leg and I looked up at her. She smiled. “Now. Because I deal with dead bodies, there’s no anesthetic. Which means this is going to hurt.”

  I pushed my hair back. “Just as long as I get a lollipop afterwards.”

  She laughed and pressed the needle into my skin. It hurt. A lot.

  NINE

  I stabbed my thumb into the number one button on the elevator panel. The doors closed and I leaned against the wall, waiting for the elevator to descend, mulling over what Calloway had said about Nicholas Hartmann’s death. I thought about the time of death and the estimated time Hartmann’s head had been removed from his body. About one hour, Calloway had said. I thought back to what Romero had told me over the phone. That tech had found video interference an hour after the man in fatigues came running out of the garage. What did it mean?

  When the doors opened, I remained resting against the wall, lost in thought. A man entered the elevator and asked me to press three for him. I walked out and made my way into the CFU, where Aaron was set up in the tech lab, sitting in front of an LCD screen, the box from the pawnshop on the desk beside him. He swiveled in his chair as I approached.

  “I got it,” he said.

  “Great,” I said. “Let’s see it.”

  “Okay, but I don’t think you’re not going to like what you see.”

  “Why’s that?” I was suddenly tense.

  “It’s best I just show you.”

  The screen was split into two—a video window on the top half, and a visual depiction of the sound frequency spectrum on the bottom. The line was flat. No sound. Below it were a set of onscreen tools, including a navigation bar.

  The static image of the pawnshop was a blur. Aaron tracked the cursor over to the play button and clicked the mouse. As the image came to life, it immediately focused into a clear image of the shop and the digital clock in the corner of the screen started running.

  The shopkeeper was leaning on the counter, looking at his cell phone. Twenty seconds later a man with a duffel bag approached the counter. He was an overweight Asian man. It was Stuart Arnold. I recognized him from his photo, only he’d put on at least another fifty pounds since the MIT college photograph. Definitely no wheat germ diet.

  The shopkeeper leaned his hands on the glass counter as they talked, then Stuart pulled out his wallet and showed his ID. The shopkeeper turned and grabbed the leather-bound ledger. He opened it on the counter, wrote something down, then spun the book around to face Stuart, who bent down and signed it. The shopkeeper returned the book, then the two moved through the black curtain together.

  “I’ll skip over this part,” said Aaron. “They’re gone for seven minutes.”

  The clock in the top corner of the screen sped up, and seven minutes later, Aaron pressed play.

  “The big guy leaves the shop holding the duffel bag,” he said, giving a running commentary. “Then the shopkeeper goes back behind the counter and starts playing on his cell phone again. Now I’ll skip forward twenty-three minutes ’cause nothing happens.”

  He moved the cursor down to the navigation bar and clicked again. The image skipped and the shopkeeper was still on his phone, only he’d moved further down the counter and was now scratching his ass.

  “At twelve twenty-seven p.m. the big guy comes in, see.” Aaron hovered his finger over the screen as the man approached the counter and began talking.

  “What’s he saying?” I asked, frustrated.

  “No sound.”

  The big guy was losing his cool. He leaned forward as he spoke, poking his finger in the air at the shopkeeper. But the defiant man crossed his arms.

  “If I had to guess, I would say the big guy’s threatening the little guy,” said Aaron.

  I nodded. He wanted something and the pawnshop man wasn’t going to give it to him.

  “At twelve twenty-nine, this starts to happen.” Aaron’s finger tracked a black bar rolling over the screen.

  The big guy reached across the counter and grabbed the pawnshop guy by the shirt.

  “Here’s another one,” Aaron said, his finger tracking it once again.

  The pawnshop guy was holding his hands up, like he was saying, “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

  A second later and the black bars began to multiply. I couldn’t see what was happening. They were in the damn way.

  “And now we lose all picture,” he said.

  The screen filled up with black and white rolling bars and the image of the shop was gone.

  “What is that?” I asked.

  “At a guess,” Aaron turned to look at me. “I’d say EMI.”

  “EMI?”

  “Electromagnetic interference. The thing is, I saw this earlier today on footage taken from outside a garage.”

  I looked at him. “The same interference an hour after the guy in black fatigues ran out?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, that’s it.”

  “What causes EMI?”

  “Like this?” He shrugged. “Don’t know. You might get it around electrical substations, but even then, not to this extent.”

  “What, then?” I asked agitated.

  “Don’t know, man,” he said more firmly.

  “An electromagnetic weapon?”

  “Sure, I guess that’s possible.”

  “How long does it last?”

  “Altogether, about four and a half minutes.”

  He reached for the mouse again and skipped forward four minutes. The image began to clear, the black rolling bars becoming less and less frequent until the image behind them was visible again. Then the interference was gone and all that was left was a static image. The timer was still going but no one was moving. The shopkeeper was crumpled behind the counter, headless, and only the big guy’s legs were visible on the floor on the other side. It didn’t matter. I knew what the rest of him looked like. I still had it still fresh in my mind.

  “Pretty sick stuff, huh?” he asked.

  “It’s impossible,” I said, glowering at the screen. “Are you sure it was less than five minutes?”

  “That’s what the clock says, man.”

  My frustration turned to anger. Four and a half minutes to kill two people and tear open a deposit box and get out. “That’s impossible. Can you clear it up?”

  My cell rang as Aaron began shaking his head.

  I fished it out of my jeans. “Yeah?”

  “Oh, Blake, it’s Pam. Is now not a good time?”

  “It’s fine, Pam. What’ve you got?”

  “Sorry it took so long. I’ve got the information on that plate you wanted.”

  “Yeah?”

  “The car is registered to a company called Bach Optics.”

  I got off the phone and left the CFU making my way out of the building. The sky was drizzling a little and the breeze was cool against my face. A cold front had come in, just like Schultz had said it would. The clouds were getting darker.

  I was frustrated by the lack of answers I’d found in the building. In fact, all Calloway and Aaron had given me was more questions. But I did leave the building with one other thing, too. A confirmed lead. Malcolm Bach had been keeping tabs on me. And I needed to find out why.

  I pulled my cell out and called Schultz, w
alking to the parking lot as it rang. He answered and I filled him in on the latest and told him to give SFPD the heads-up that I was coming. Then I told him to make an appointment for me to see the CEO of Bach Optics.

  I got in the Road Runner, started the engine, got the wipers going and pulled out of the lot.

  I started thinking on the drive to San Francisco. Thinking about Malcolm Bach.

  Nicholas Hartmann had been murdered and the tech stolen. I couldn’t say for sure if Malcolm was behind the theft, but perhaps he had motive. Elise had told me they had ended the partnership prematurely. Was he so impatient that he just had to have the tech, so he stole it?

  I thought about what Aaron had said about the interference. That it could have been some kind of electromagnetic weapon. The military had access to that kind of thing. But then, what was it that Malcolm Bach’s company did? The man’s business was about developing military-grade equipment. I thought about what his website said about providing the latest in frontline technology to armed forces. If the military had a weapon like that, it was only logical that Bach might have it as well.

  I wondered if he had a weapon that removed heads, but I couldn’t see the point of something like that.

  If Malcolm was involved, he’d had plenty of time to prepare himself for the questions of a detective, which meant I might not get far at all with my visit. I needed to start thinking evidence. If Malcolm stole the tech, he would have had to put it somewhere. Somewhere safe and hidden away. And if I managed to find his hiding place, it’d prove his guilt.

  I didn’t think Malcolm would be stupid enough to keep the tech somewhere the police could trace back to him, but I had to rule it out. If I found the tech, it might be enough to get an arrest, or at least enough to start making a solid case against him.

  At a red light, I grabbed my cell and made a call, then clicked on the speaker.

  “IRS Criminal Investigations, Special Agent Vicky Saunders.”

  “That’s quite a mouthful,” I said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Vicky, it’s me. Blake.”

  “Oh.”

  “Aren’t you gonna say hi?”

  There was silence for a moment. I thought I’d lost her, but then I heard a phone ringing in the background. “Blake. Hi. I just wasn’t . . .”

  “It’s okay. Hey, do you think you could help me out with something?”

  “Like what?”

  “Got a case I’m working. Looks like a company is involved in a possible robbery-homicide.”

  “Okay?”

  “Company’s name is Bach Optics. The CEO is Malcolm Bach.” I could hear a pen scribbling.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “If you’re not too busy, I’d like you to do some digging for me. I’m after addresses, businesses, storage lockers . . . anything belonging to the company, or Malcolm Bach.”

  “That might take some time, but I can give it a go.”

  “I really appreciate it.”

  “Okay, Blake.”

  I hung up, then took the Bayshore Freeway to San Francisco and I didn’t need Google Maps to tell me it’d take the better part of an hour to get there.

  TEN

  Bach Optics’ head office was located in the Transamerica Pyramid building. It was San Francisco’s tallest structure and was, like the name suggested, in the shape of a tall narrow pyramid.

  I waited in the lobby on the forty-second floor as the attractive blonde at the front desk fetched Malcolm Bach for me, walking away on six-inch red heels.

  The lobby wasn’t a large space. As pretty as a pyramid-shaped building may be, there’s one obvious downfall: the higher you go, the less floor space there is. I remembered reading about it one time. The architect had wanted to reduce the overshadowing mass of a traditional building on the San Francisco cityscape. The way I saw it, in a city as sardine-packed as SF, you’d think floor space would have been the priority, not reducing shadows.

  The lobby was only big enough for a couple of black leather two-seaters and a coffee table stacked with three neat piles of high-end magazines. While the chairs looked comfortable, I preferred to stand at the window, looking out at the north-facing view. The clouds were dark over the Bay and the drizzle was a little heavier now, painting the city in a gray mist.

  Coit Tower stood between me and the distant rocky mass of Alcatraz, protruding from the murky waters of San Francisco Bay. The rain over the Rock made for quite a view, but that’s not where I was looking. My eyes were focused somewhere between Coit Tower and Alcatraz. It was the very reason I didn’t like coming to San Francisco.

  I used to take my boy to Pier 39. Back when I was married. Back more than a decade ago. We’d go there as a family every once in a while for day trips. An old memory was playing over in my mind.

  Will was two years old. I was holding him on my hip as we watched the sea lions jumping into the water. One of the sea lions on the pier started barking and Will thought it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen. He laughed his little head off. The kind of laugh that comes up from the belly, his small teeth showing. Molly and I were laughing along. I remember thinking how happy I was. It was a good memory to have. But that was a long time ago. The rain started pattering the glass and the image of Pier 39 became a blur.

  “Detective Gamble?”

  The voice pulled me out of my reverie and I turned around.

  A tall, heavyset man wearing a shark-gray suit and a maroon turtleneck stood in the lobby. His auburn beard had grown longer, but he was just as bald, and his smile was just as bullshit, as in his photo.

  “Mr. Bach, I’m Detective Gamble.”

  “I know,” he said. “Your superior called. Told me you were coming.”

  I shook his hand. It swallowed mine whole. It was a big hand from a big guy. He looked me over with hard pale green eyes, revealing a hidden disdain. It could’ve been my outfit, or maybe my hair, or maybe my stink. Or maybe it was the fact I was a cop. It was hard to tell.

  “What can I help you with today, Detective?”

  “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  He paused a moment, no doubt thinking about whether he wanted his lawyer present or not. Then his teeth showed in his auburn beard. “Of course.”

  He turned and I followed him down a narrow hall, stopping at an open doorway. He opened a palm for me to go inside and I stepped into a boardroom with an oval-shaped mahogany table, surrounded by presidential leather-upholstered chairs. The view was now facing the other side of the city. The floor space was smaller than I’d thought, up so high in the pyramid.

  Along the end wall was a buffet, complete with tea and coffee provisions, and above it sat the gold logo of Bach Optics. I took a chair while Malcolm made his way to the buffet, opening one of the four cabinet doors. “Care for a drink, Detective?”

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  “Hope you don’t mind if I do.” He pulled out a crystal bottle filled with an amber liquid. Single malt, no doubt. He poured it into a tumbler, the thick glugs making my mouth ache for a taste. The way your throat burns for lemonade in the summer, only mine was burning for whiskey in the winter.

  “What’s that for?” he asked.

  “Mr. Bach, I want to ask you some questions in regards to the murder of Nicholas Hartmann. I hope you don’t mind if I record the meeting.” I pressed record on the app and left the cell on the table.

  He thought about it for a moment, smiled broadly, then dropped the stopper into the whiskey bottle and placed it back in the cabinet. “No. Of course. I’m not sure how I can be of help, but I’ll do my best.” He unbuttoned his suit jacket, then took the seat at the end of the table, crossing one leg over the other.

  “The victim, Nicholas Hartmann, was working on a project with Elise Daniels and Stuart Arnold, out of a garage in Los Altos.”

  He nodded. “Ah. I know the name now. It threw me because I never met Nicholas before, only his partners. Stuart and Elise came to me a couple of months a
go, wanting to partner on their project.”

  “How was the deal going?”

  “I admit at first I was skeptical about their idea.”

  “But they won you over?”

  “The more they explained it, the more they piqued my curiosity. I told them that if they could provide a demonstration, we could start talking business.”

  “But they didn’t do that.”

  “No. They told me they were experiencing some technical issues. That they needed to work them out before I could have my demonstration.”

  “How long ago was that?” He took a sip from his tumbler while I asked him.

  “A week or so. I was waiting to hear back from them. I must say I am disappointed to hear this news.”

  “Disappointed someone was killed, or disappointed the deal’s hit another speed bump?”

  “Both,” he said.

  “What would something like X-ray vision do for your company, Mr. Bach?”

  “If it works, and it can be retrofitted across our range of tactical goggles, then I’d imagine it’d do quite a lot for the company.”

  “You must be more than a little disappointed to hear they’re having problems, then. The last few days must’ve been quite tense, waiting for the phone call to tell you everything’s okay.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” he replied, his eyes looking down at his glass.

  “No?”

  “No. This entire thing is very speculative.” He waved a hand nonchalantly. “I’ve never seen the technology in action. I’m still not sure I believe it’s even possible. At this point all they have is my curiosity.”

  “You find out a group of scientists may have made X-ray vision, an invention that’d potentially make your company billions of dollars, and you’re only a little curious?”

  “As I said, the so-called technology is unproven and speculative at best.” His pale eyes moved between me and his whiskey and an uncomfortable smile pulled across his lips. “I’m not sure where you’re going with this, Detective.”

  “I’m just trying to get a grasp on the situation is all. Tell me, Malcolm, what if the tech got into the hands of your competitors?”