Project Moses - A Mystery Thriller (Enzo Lee Mystery-Thriller Series)

by Robert B. Lowe

“Excuse me,” said Sarah. “Were you a friend of Orson Adams?”

  The attractive woman with long, blond hair had a quizzical look on her face. She had put on skin-tight jeans and a white stretchy top that showed both a lot of cleavage and that she didn’t have an ounce of excess fat. Sarah felt Diana give her a quick once over. Although Sarah considered herself fit and athletic, she had to resist the urge to throw her shoulders back and pull her stomach in just a little.

  “I’m an old friend of Orson’s,” Sarah continued, giving Diana a sincere smile. “I heard he was dating someone from the club and I thought it might be you.”

  “Yes, we were seeing each other,” said Diana in her French-accented English. “Until, of course, the accident.”

  “Yes, the accident,” said Sarah. “You see, Orson told another friend about you. And, he said that he had been having trouble with someone, perhaps an old boyfriend?”

  Diana nodded her head knowingly.

  “Yes. Yes. A pig. He is a pig.” Diana jammed her athletic shoes into her bag for emphasis.

  “Here. Let me walk you to your car while we talk about this,” said Sarah. She carried a smaller bag while Diana picked up the larger duffel and they left the locker room, walked through the lounge, and went out the door.

  “Raymond,” said Diana, as they walked around the club to the parking lot in back. “His name is Raymond. We dated a short time. It was a mistake. When I started to see Orson he was…how do you say?…abscess?”

  “Obsess…I mean obsessed.”

  “Yes. He called me many times at my home and say…said horrible things to me. He say, ‘That nigger. That nigger. I will kill that nigger.’ He say horrible things about sex…‘having sex with niggers.’“

  Diana was standing beside her Lexus, fiddling in the duffel for her keys when a big man walked up behind her. Even wearing street clothes it was easy for Sarah to see that he was a weight lifter. He was good looking with black hair and a mustache. His chest was huge. Sarah saw acne on the sides of his neck and immediately thought of steroids. He put his hands on Diana’s arms.

  Diana dropped her bag and spun out of his grasp. But, he grabbed her again, holding her face-to-face this time, and pushed her against the car.

  “I’ve been waiting for you, you bitch!” he yelled at her. “You fucking cunt! Where are you getting it now that your nigger is dead, you goddamn slut!”

  “Stop! Stop!” Diana screamed. “You are hurting me!”

  Sarah could see that his fingers were digging deeply into Diana’s arms. Diana’s eyes were wide with terror. She looked at Sarah, silently asking for her help.

  Sarah thought about running into the club for help. But, she didn’t want to leave Diana. The weight lifter looked enraged, totally beyond control. With one shove he could easily toss Diana against the car and break a few ribs or worse.

  The crazed weight lifter wasn’t paying any attention to her. Sarah dropped the bag she had been carrying for Diana and moved behind the weight lifter who continued to yell profanities. She planted her sore left leg carefully and then launched her right, punting perfectly into his crotch.

  The weight lifter froze for one second then grabbed himself as he began a slow, twisting collapse to the ground. Sarah tried to ignore the moans.

  “Is this him? Is this Raymond?” she asked Diana, who was crying and massaging arms that were already showing bruises. Diana nodded. Raymond was still retching on the asphalt when Sarah retrieved her own car and followed Diana’s Lexus out of the Run N’ Racquet parking lot.

  Chapter 14

  THE LECTURE HALL was constructed like a Greek amphitheater with steep tiers rising from the blackboards in front to the doorways in the back. Each semicircular tier held long desks that were shaped to follow the curve of the tier.

  When Lee arrived wearing jeans, a cable-knit sweater and a black peacoat, he slid into a seat in the top tier. Several students were gathered at the bottom, sprawled on chairs and desks. A young woman wearing tattered blue jeans stood at a podium, gently pounding her fist into a yellow legal pad in front of her as she concluded her argument.

  “Liability based on market share is not an appropriate remedy in this case,” she said. “This is not a situation where several suppliers of an identical product have put them on the market, exposing the user to an identical risk of cancer. This is like the facts in Johnson versus Beck Construction where the court concluded that asbestos was not an undifferentiated product. It comes in insulation, paint, ceiling tiles. Each form, and even differences in how it is mined and processed, create different risks.

  “Therefore, the court should require the plaintiff to identify the source of the tainted blood. Any other result will turn the traditional notion of liability on its head and open a Pandora’s box of uncertainty.”

  When she finished, the other students clapped, hooted and stomped their feet.

  After they had quieted down, Sarah, sitting directly in front of Lee, halfway between him and the law students, began her critique:

  “That was good Emily. My main criticism is that all the numbers you presented were too confusing. Most lawyers are morons mathematically. You had good points there, I think, but you need a chart or, better yet, distill the numbers to just a few that tell the story. Also, when you are addressing the court, don’t say ‘you.’ It’s ‘your honor’ or ‘the Court.’ And finally, let’s leave Pandora and her box out of this since she isn’t a party.”

  Then Sarah addressed all of the students.

  “You all seem to be on track. Just keep practicing. Spend some time in front of the mirror. Remember, it’s just moot court. If you make a mistake, it’s not fatal. You won’t actually lose the case and no one can fire you. Good luck. I’ll see you in a couple of weeks.”

  The students gathered up their books, legal pads and backpacks and filed out of the hall. Sarah put her legal pad into her briefcase and turned to walk up the stairway to the back of the hall. She saw Lee above her at the top of the stairs and waved.

  “Hi. You’re here.”

  “I didn’t want to disturb Emily. She was pretty convincing. She had my vote anyway.”

  Sarah walked up the stairs toward Lee. She was wearing a linen jacket, over a white blouse and brown slacks. Her hair was pulled back into a short ponytail in the back. She wore large silver earrings that nearly dangled far enough to brush against her jacket. They drew Lee’s attention to her strong jaw line and graceful neck.

  They drove to Max’s Opera House, the nearest thing to a New York delicatessen in San Francisco for an early dinner. Sarah ordered a corned beef sandwich. Lee had chicken salad which turned out to be almost a whole chicken on top of a huge green salad.

  Sarah pulled out a slip of paper and slid it across the table to Lee.

  “Here’s the guy who was threatening Orson,” she said.

  “Did you get this from the girlfriend?”

  “Well, he and I had a run-in at the club,” said Sarah.

  “You’re kidding. What was he like?”

  “Big. Good looking. A bodybuilder,” said Sarah. “I think he’s on steroids, though. He went after the girl, Diana, when I was there. He grabbed her and started screaming at her. I thought he was going to hurt her.”

  “Jesus. So, what happened?” said Lee.

  “Well, like I said, I really thought he was going to hurt her. No one else was around. So…I…uh…kicked him.”

  “You kicked him?” said Lee.

  “Yeah. Between the legs.”

  “Sarah. My god. What happened?”

  Sarah opened a jar of Dijon mustard and began spreading it on her sandwich.

  “I had to do something,” she continued. “It was very effective. Afterward, he wasn’t really in talking-to condition. So, we left.”

  Lee looked at Sarah with an expression filled with surprise, amusement and imagined pain.

  “Actually, it felt pretty good,” Sarah said as she got ready to take her first bite. “I kinda imagined ri
ght behind him all the jerks who ever groped me in a bar and a couple of ex-boyfriends.”

  “Uhh…yeah,” said Lee. “Glad you got it out of your system. No, really. Good move. I’ll pass this along to Connors. We’ll let her talk to him. Without Warrington as a suspect, I expect she’ll want to run down any decent leads.”

  The waitress came back and they both ordered coffee.

  While they waited, Lee told Sarah about Gerald Fulmer, Warrington’s attorney, and his suspicion that Warrington’s legal bills had been paid by either the mysterious Futura Products, Inc. or the AgriGenics biotech company. He showed her the law firm’s bill that he had received in the mail.

  “I can’t tell you that I see how everything fits together,” concluded Lee. “There are two things I find intriguing. The first is that there is a hell of a lot more to Warrington than meets the eye. The second is that someone, including whoever sent me the legal bill, is going out of their way to point the finger at Warrington.”

  Sarah nodded her agreement but said nothing. Lee had said something that somehow seemed familiar to her, but she wasn’t sure what it was. She stirred her coffee absentmindedly while she tried to think of what had flashed in and out of her mind while he was talking.

  Lee noticed that Sarah seemed distracted. He guessed that she was overwhelmed by everything that had happened to her.

  “So, how is it being back on campus?” he said, trying to turn the conversation to a less stressful topic. “Does it bring back some pleasant memories?”

  “Some,” said Sarah. “Some painful ones, too. I remember spending time with Orson. I half expected him to burst into the classroom. Aunt Miriam, too. When I did my moot court argument my first year, she was there.”

  “That was nice of her.”

  “Yeah. She was wonderful,” said Sarah. “The law professor who was supposed to be a judge was sick at the end so she volunteered to fill in. Afterward she took me out to dinner to celebrate. It meant a lot to me. There was no one else around.”

  Sarah’s eyes filled as she thought about her aunt. Every once in a while, something would happen that reminded her of Miriam Gilbert and all the emotions came flooding back. It seemed like the smaller or more distant memories hit her the hardest, sneaking through her defenses.

  Lee reached across the table to squeeze her hand.

  “Look, Sarah. We’ll get to the bottom of this. It won’t bring her back. But, at least we’ll know what happened and that will bring some peace of mind. And we’ll figure out what’s happening to you, too. I know things seem very bleak to you right now. They’ll get better.”

  Sarah looked up and nodded. She pulled some tissues out of her purse and blew her nose.

  “So, tell me about this moot court,” said Lee. “How does it work?”

  “Moot court?” said Sarah, clearing her throat and welcoming the change of subject. “Well, it’s really just a mock court case. Someone comes up with a hypothetical fact situation. The students research the legal issues, write briefs and argue the case. They choose sides and go at it like they are really arguing before an appellate court. Briefs, oral argument, the works. At the end, there will be a couple of judges, including a law professor or a practicing lawyer, and they’ll fire questions during the argument.”

  “Sounds like fun,” said Lee. “How do they come up with the hypotheticals?”

  “I assume the instructors and perhaps some of the second and third year students write them. They try to come up with some cutting edge issues, areas where the law isn’t fully developed. I’ve heard of law professors writing them based on cases they’ve been hired to consult on, just to see what kind of arguments the students use.”

  “I see. Free research,” said Lee.

  “In a way. Remember, sometimes there are judges on the panels and seeing how the pretend cases play out can help guide the real thing.”

  “And all the students do this?” asked Lee.

  “Right. Every first year student,” replied Sarah. “In a couple of weeks they’ll be holding twenty sets of moot court arguments a night. Different problems and facts, of course.

  “The students who want to can keep at it,” she went on. “There’s a competition for second-year students, like a tournament. It culminates in oral arguments between the top two teams. It’s a big deal. Real appellate judges sit on the panel. There are hundreds of people in the audience.”

  Lee turned in his chair to find the waitress. He caught her eye, signaled for the check and turned back to Sarah. “So, you must like working with the students,” he said.

  “I love it,” said Sarah, nodding. “I think I’d like to teach eventually, once I’ve learned something worth teaching. I love the students’ enthusiasm. It actually makes me more enthused about being a lawyer.”

  “Yeah?” said Lee. “Maybe I should try that. I could use a little enthusiasm in the workplace right about now.”

  • • •

  LEE HAD JUST returned from San Jose the next afternoon where he had covered his first “miracle” story for the News. A sighting of the Virgin Mary in the bark of a tree had turned ugly overnight. All that remained in the morning was a stump and a bunch of guys selling holy wood chips at $1 a pop. The archbishop had been relieved that the tree wasn’t a protected species: (“Praise God it was only a ficus…”) Lee found a note on his chair telling him to call Bobbie Connors.

  “Hello, Mister Lee,” said Connors. Her tone put Lee on his guard.

  “Hey, Bobbie. What’s the news?”

  “You want to tell me some more about your ideas? Your grand conspiracy theories?”

  “Uh oh. Why so interested now?”

  “You know who they found last night with three bullets in the head?”

  Lee shot to his feet.

  “Who was it? Not Sarah Armstrong?” he said.

  “Who? Oh, the niece? No, not her. But it’s nice that you care, you sweet thing.” Connors laughed. “No, it was Warrington. Found him last night outside his house. It looks like a .22. Killed a dog, too.”

  “Who did it?” asked Lee.

  “Listen to him. ‘Who did it?’ I wouldn’t be soliciting your wisdom if I knew who did it, now would I? They didn’t leave much behind. No witnesses.”

  “Hmmm. Listen, Bobbie. You met the guy. He could have been into anything. Drugs. Religious cults. Extortion. He was slime. Pretty smart slime. But still slime.”

  “So, now you’re the one saying it’s coincidence. But, you got me convinced now, Mister Lee. I still don’t know about the judge and her niece. But, we pick Warrington up for possible murder one day and he’s blown away a few days later. That’s just too much coincidence for me. How about you?”

  Lee was quiet for a minute.

  “Yeah,” he said. “As much as I’d like to think these are random events, it’s too unbelievable. You’re right. I mean I’m right. It’s got to be connected. Someone wanted to shut him up, right?”

  “That’s what I think,” said Connors. “Whoever it was that killed Orson Adams. Maybe Warrington could ID him. Maybe Warrington tried to negotiate a little something to stay quiet.”

  “Could be. The other possibility is whatever might have come out in Warrington’s trial.”

  Lee explained what he knew about Warrington’s burglary defense, that his claimed motive for breaking into the medical school laboratories was to find evidence of improper experiments involving animals. He left out his suspicions about Warrington’s legal fees. He wanted to find out more about AgriGenics first.

  “Maybe there was some truth to what Warrington was saying,” said Lee. “Maybe there was some research being done off the books. Maybe he was making people nervous. The surest way to avoid a new trial is to kill the defendant.”

  Chapter 15

  LEE’S FIAT SPIDER sped south on I-280, through the brown rolling hills and reservoirs at the base of the Santa Cruz Mountains south of San Francisco. The top was down and the cool, late afternoon air swirled through the car.
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br />   In the passenger seat, Lorraine Carr in her signature black-on-black ensemble, held a shiny report in her lap that fluttered with each new gust of wind. Over the noise of the motor and the wind, she read the final paragraph aloud.

  “‘Since its inception in 1978, AgriGenics has cultivated the best that nature has to offer. Our goal has been to enrich the earth’s bounty through an age-old farming technique. We choose the hardiest, the best tasting, the most abundant - simply, the finest in the world - and make it the industry standard.’“

  “Wow!” said Lee. “That’s what I call an annual report. Is it my imagination, or did they get through that whole thing without once using the term ‘genetic engineering?’“

  “They must believe that people don’t want to know too much about what they eat,” said Carr.

  They turned off on Page Mill Road, and took a right two miles later onto a recently paved street.

  The sweeping drive that led to the new AgriGenics complex was two lanes wide with a thick median landscaped with turf and sharp-looking succulents.

  A flat gray and silver building sat at the end of the mile-long drive. It was three stories high, but a grass berm surrounded the structure, flattening its visual impact. In front of the block-long structure sat a smaller building, one-third the length of its neighbor.

  When they drew close, Lee could see that the back building was of more functional design, made of gray concrete and aluminum-hued reflective glass. The closer building was modern but with classic touches. The facade was white granite. Massive arched windows wrapped around the building, reflecting the outside world in metallic blue.

  On the sidewalk in front of the building, Lee saw a line of people. There may have been two dozen, mostly young but joined by a few with gray hair, walking back and forth in an elongated circle. They carried white placards with black and red lettering.

  “Reengineer AgriGenics,” read one. “Don’t Play God,” read another. “Keep Your Genes Out of My Jeans” read a third.

  Lee and Carr parked in a lot across the drive from the white and blue building. As they neared the front entrance, they could hear the crowd chanting: “…two, four, six, eight, we don’t need to replicate…”