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

by Robert B. Lowe

  “Warrington is dead. What’s the difference?”

  Fulmer glanced up and down the corridor again. The snarl was gone. He looked worried. He turned abruptly and began walking down the corridor toward the bank of elevators. Lee followed him.

  “Mr. Fulmer? What’s the big deal? If there are certain things you can’t talk about, fine. Just say so.”

  Fulmer kept walking, moving faster. The last thing he wanted was to have his name appear in print in a story about Warrington. He didn’t even want to be seen talking to a reporter working on a story about Warrington.

  “Look,” said Lee. “For starters, is there anything more you can tell me about the illegal animal research?”

  “Stop following me,” Fulmer hissed. They were nearing the elevators.

  “Well, can you just tell me something about Warrington? You know, personal details. Anything. His family? Where he worked?”

  They were at the elevators. The doors to one slid open. There was no one inside. Fulmer stepped in. Lee stepped in after him.

  “I don’t know shit about Warrington,” said Fulmer. “I only knew him for two weeks.”

  Fulmer dropped his briefcase, grabbed Lee and shoved him backwards out of the elevator. Surprised, Lee didn’t resist. He stumbled back as the doors slid shut. He hadn’t even had a chance to ask Fulmer why a company called Futura Products was paying his legal fees.

  Chapter 17

  SARAH AND LEE sat at the small table on the third floor of Sam Loo’s, a tiny, walk-up restaurant in Chinatown. Sam Loo’s kitchen was on the ground floor and diners passed through it on the way to the tables upstairs. There was one dumb waiter to run food up from the kitchen and two obnoxious waiters who had made rudeness an art form. Lee had written an article about patrons drawn as much by the abuse from the waiters as the cheap, good food: (“All right, you fat, miserable, slobbering cretin. Tonight’s specials are insult ala carte, rudeness on a stick and derisive comments flambed in sarcasm…”)

  Three steaming bowls sat on the table between them. One was filled with hot rice. Another held tender scallops mixed with vegetables in a spicy, red Szechwan sauce. The third was filled with pieces of roast duck and chopped peanuts in a rich, brown ginger sauce. They had already finished the hot and sour soup.

  Lee had just described his brief encounter with Gerald Fulmer.

  “I’ve been a reporter for a long time. I’ve had a few doors slammed in my face,” he said.

  “Rejection is your middle name?” said Sarah.

  “Very funny. Seriously, I can understand him not wanting to talk to me but that wasn’t it. The guy was terrified. Not of me. He was terrified of being seen with me.”

  “Do you think it’s because of his fee arrangement?” said Sarah.

  “That must have something to do with it, Sarah. I don’t know. I just know he would have done anything to get away from me, including shove me out an opened window.”

  Lee picked up a big spoon and transferred heaping servings of the scallops and vegetables to Sarah’s plate and then his own.

  “No Mongolian beef?” said Sarah.

  Lee shook his head.

  “I’ve noticed your carnivorous tendencies,” he said. “What is it with red meat? Is that like carbo stuffing for lawyers?”

  Sarah smiled.

  “No, it’s called growing up in not-very-well-off Middle America where fish either meant deep fried in stick form or something square and limp that you could eat without chewing. I’m still being weaned off meat and potatoes.”

  Lee turned next to the duck.

  “Well, give this a try. They sell this stuff in intravenous form, too, in case you get hooked on it.”

  Lee had his chopsticks in hand, poised to plunge into his plate. But, the sight of the snow peas, miniature corn and mushrooms mixed with the scallops gave him pause.

  “You know, I don’t think I’ll ever look at vegetables the same way again,” he said, setting down his chopsticks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I’ll wonder if someone switched a gene to make that piece of tomato a little more succulent,” said Lee. “Did they chop and dice a chromosome to make the mushrooms less rubbery? And this corn. C’mon, you can’t tell me this tiny thing is natural.”

  “Hmmm. Why all the food paranoia?”

  Lee told Sarah about the trip to AgriGenics. He described the whole scene: the protesters outside; the piles of beautiful yet bizarre food; the tomato-throwing incident; his discussion with the company’s publicist.

  “Well, I would say we’ve got a year or two before genetic engineering reaches Sam Loo’s,” said Sarah, as she picked up a snow pea with her chopsticks, inspected it carefully and ate it crunchily.

  “You’re probably right,” agreed Lee, scrutinizing a miniature corn. “But, it’s just the kind of thing to go wrong. Someone will produce a juicier orange but not realize they’ve altered the gene that produces vitamin C until everyone in Minnesota comes down with scurvy. And trusting government to protect us is a big mistake. We’re better off without the pretense.”

  Sarah picked up another snow pea from her plate and was examining it absently minded. Something about their conversation seemed familiar to her, but she couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was. She had had the same reaction before when Lee had talked about AgriGenics.

  She knew the basics of genetic engineering. She had read about the scientific breakthroughs in the press like everyone else. But, there was something more.

  It certainly had nothing to do with Sarah’s own scientific background. In fact, she had avoided science classes in college like the plague, escaping with a single class in basic biology. Offhand, she couldn’t even think of anyone she knew well who was involved in the biotech industry.

  “I know what it is,” she said suddenly.

  “What?” said Lee. His mouth was full of duck.

  “What you were talking about. AgriGenics. It reminds me of my moot court case.”

  “Your moot court case? The one you’re advising the students about?”

  “No. My case. The one I had during my first year at Hastings,” said Sarah. “The hypothetical involved a company that was very much like AgriGenics. It was supposedly in the business of genetically engineering food products.”

  “Okay,” said Lee. “Now, are you talking about the same case that your Aunt Miriam judged?”

  “That’s right. And Orson was my partner. Why haven’t I thought of this before?”

  “Wait! Wait! Wait!” said Lee. He was no longer thinking about the food in front of him. “Jesus! This is important! All right. Now, start from the beginning.”

  “Like I told you before, every first year student at Hastings is involved in a moot court case,” Sarah said. “They pair up the students to work together. Your opponents are another pair of students. Orson and I went into it as a team. The problem we picked was the one about this company. I’m pretty sure no one else was interested in it, just Orson and me, and the students on the other side.”

  “Okay,” said Lee. “Now, what were the facts in the hypothetical?”

  “The best that I can remember is that the company was doing government work, something secretive. I don’t think it was clear exactly what the work was. And accidents had occurred. Animals were killed. Crops were damaged.

  “The issue was whether the company would be held liable,” continued Sarah. “The case explored the issue of sovereign immunity.”

  Lee looked perplexed.

  “Sovereign immunity,” she said. “It’s the doctrine that protects the government from lawsuits. It comes from the concept that a king can’t be sued by his subjects. In certain situations, sovereign immunity also protects government contractors like the company in the hypo. That was the issue, whether the company was protected or not.”

  “All right,” said Lee. “So we’ve got Orson, you and your aunt at this hearing. Who else?”

  “Let me think. It’s been five…maybe six years now
,” said Sarah, staring off into a corner of the room. “I can picture the other two students who argued the case. I knew them at the time but they weren’t good friends. Two guys. You know, I can probably find them if I dig around at the law school a bit.

  “There must have been another judge besides Aunt Miriam,” she continued. “Probably a lawyer. Possibly a third-year student. I think it was a guy but I can’t picture him at all.”

  “You’re right,” said Lee. “We should have thought about this before. Is there any other time that you, your aunt and Orson were together?”

  Sarah shook her head slowly.

  “I can’t think of any other time,” she said. “Orson and Aunt Miriam obviously knew each other. He probably appeared in her court off and on. But, I’m not involved in that world at all. Offhand, I can’t think of any time that Orson mentioned Aunt Miriam to me, or vice versa, for that matter.

  “What do you think?” Sarah asked, reaching for a fortune cookie. “Is it worth checking out? It was six years ago.”

  “Definitely,” said Lee. “Who knows? Maybe something important happened at the moot court hearing that you don’t remember because it didn’t mean anything to you at the time. A remark made by someone. Perhaps something that had nothing to do with the case itself.”

  Sarah cracked open the cookie and pulled out the fortune. It read: “Life without love is like a day without sun.” She tossed it across the table to Lee and gave him a smile.

  • • •

  WITH THE SCHOOL year ticking down, the George W. Whitey Law Library at Hastings was jammed with students desperately working to complete research papers and class assignments after a semester of successful procrastination. Almost every chair at the oak tables in the main room was taken and there were no openings at the carrels that lined the walls between the tall windows.

  Sarah imagined the cubicles tucked far back in the library stacks were similarly jammed. With more than 1,500 students, there was always a chronic shortage of library space during crunch time. She was glad she would only be there a short while.

  She found forty years worth of yearbooks off in a remote corner of the stacks. She pulled out the one from her first year at Hastings, and started flipping the pages. In 15 minutes she had found the two students who had opposed her and Orson Adams in their moot court case: Robert A. Weiskauf and Brent A. Donsen.

  In the alumni office, on the fourth floor of the main administration building, she had little trouble convincing the secretary to look up the names of her old classmates. Sarah knew from personal experience that the alumni office had the tenacity of Sherlock Holmes when it came to tracking down alums, a fertile source of donations.

  In no time, the secretary came back with addresses and telephone numbers for both Weiskauf and Donsen. Weiskauf was working as in-house counsel for the Giant Burger Corporation in Miami. Donsen worked for the Justice Department in New York.

  The nearest pay phone was in the lobby. Sarah called Miami first. The Giant Burger switchboard agreed to put her through to Weiskauf’s extension. While she waited, Sarah tried to think how she would explain the reason for her call.

  A woman answered.

  “Is Robert Weiskauf there?” Sarah asked.

  There was dead silence for a minute.

  “No.” The voice sounded a little fearful.

  “Do you know when he’ll be in?”

  “Who is this?”

  “I’m…uh…a friend. We went to law school together in California.”

  “Oh. I see. Ummm…Bob has passed away.” The woman sobbed and cleared her throat.

  “He died last weekend in a boating accident.”

  “Oh God,” said Sarah. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Yes…yes. We’re all quite broken up about it here. He was such a nice man. So young.”

  “I didn’t know anything about this,” said Sarah. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “We’re not really sure. He was on his boat alone, fishing. Another boater found it in flames. They found him a couple of days later. His body was quite…uh…damaged by then.”

  Then the woman began crying and was unable to say anything else. Sarah hung up.

  Sarah had the feeling that she was in a horrible dream. She willed herself to open her eyes just in case. When nothing happened, Sarah dialed the New York number, hoping to find sanity at the other end.

  “Hello. This is Janet.” The voice was brisk and businesslike.

  “Oh…hello, Janet. I’m trying to reach Brent Donsen. I’m an old friend.”

  “And, your name, please.”

  “As I said, I’m an old friend…from law school.”

  “I’m supposed to get your name.”

  “All right. My name is Sarah Armstrong.”

  “Oh yes,” said Janet. “They said you might call. I…uh…guess you don’t know then that Brent died.”

  “What?”

  “He died. He…uh…died…are you still there?”

  Sarah’s heart was racing and she was beginning to hyperventilate.

  “All right. All right,” she said. “I just wanted to make sure I heard you correctly. When? And how did he die?”

  “It was two, almost three weeks ago. They say it was a stroke of some sort.”

  “Oh no,” said Sarah. She was standing at the pay phone, stunned. Her mind was reeling.

  “You know,” said Janet. “I was supposed to just pass you right through. Please don’t tell him that we’ve been talking.”

  The line went silent as Sarah was put on hold. Sarah was starting to feel nauseated. She hugged the phone. She wished she had somewhere to sit down and put her head between her legs.

  “Hello. Hello.” The voice was booming at her. “Miss Armstrong? Is this Miss Armstrong?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where are you? Where are you calling from?”

  “Uh…California.”

  “I know that. I can give you some information about Brent Donsen but I’ll have to call you back. Where can I reach you?”

  “I’m staying with a friend,” said Sarah. “Just a minute.” She fumbled in her purse for her address book. “Okay. The area code is four-one-five. The number is eight-four-nine-one-one-three-four.”

  “All right,” said the voice. “Now, what is the street address?”

  “Why do you want…”

  “Please! Your street address! Where have you been staying?”

  “I don’t see why…”

  “Just tell me where you are staying. What is the address?”

  Sarah pulled the receiver away from her head and looked at it, unsure what to do. When she hung up the phone her hand was shaking.

  Chapter 18

  “IT’S JUST UNBELIEVABLE,” said Lee. He and Sarah were sitting in a booth at the Fog City Diner.

  “Enzo, listen. When I called, the secretary asked me who I was so I told her. She was expecting me to call. She said, ‘They told me you might call.’ Someone came on the line. He demanded to know where I was calling from.”

  “What did you say?” said Lee.

  “I gave him Francine’s number. But, when he kept pushing me to give him a street address, I finally just hung up. It’s hard to describe. I just felt very threatened.”

  Lee nodded. “And then you went back to Francine’s?”

  “Yes,” said Sarah. “I called you and Francine, threw a few things into a bag and left. Maybe I’m paranoid, but he was so insistent. I mean why does he need to know where I’m staying?”

  “Okay. Listen. It’s better being too paranoid than the opposite,” said Lee. “And, if they have the telephone number, it will take them about two minutes to get the address.”

  Sarah sighed and rested her face in her hands for a minute. Then, she ran her fingers through her hair and sat up straight.

  “All right. What do we do now?” she said.

  “Okay. That’s more like it,” said Lee. “I was thinking about what to do after you called
. My first reaction was find a remote beach hut, fill it with canned food and stay in it for six months.”

  “Enzo, this isn’t the time to …”

  “I know, Sarah,” he interrupted. “You know I’m kidding. Seriously, I think the place to find some answers is New York. Unless we’re imagining this whole thing, and we wake up tomorrow and it’s been a bad dream, it all started with Donsen.”

  “Because of the timing?” said Sarah.

  “Right,” said Lee. “He died…we’ve got to believe he was killed…more than a week before anyone else. Besides, he was with the Justice Department and there might be a connection there.”

  Lee looked around for the waiter to ask for the check. “In the meantime, I think you’ll feel better if you’re out of the city. I’m overdue for a vacation anyway and I might as well take it in New York.”

  • • •

  THE RED-EYE TO LaGuardia arrived at 9 a.m. The flight had been unusually crowded. Sarah and Lee had only managed to catch a couple of hours of sleep.

  They took a cab through the Midtown Tunnel to Manhattan and got a two-room suite at the Washington Hotel, a moderately priced hotel near Washington Square frequented by foreign tourists as well as visiting musicians and actors who had business in the city. Lee felt he was being excessively paranoid but went ahead and registered them as a married couple, Mr. and Mrs. Darrel Johnson. He paid for two nights in cash. They decided to catch up on their sleep before doing anything else. Sarah took the bedroom and Lee slept on the pull-out sofa in the outer room.

  It was early afternoon by the time they had awakened, showered and finished a room-service lunch of club sandwiches and coffee.

  “Okay,” said Sarah, folding her napkin and setting it on the small game table between them. “I have a suggestion.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, Donsen probably had a girlfriend or a wife,” she said. “Let’s find her if we can. We can pay our respects. At the same time, we can find out more about him and what kind of work he was doing.”

  “Okay. I’ll go along with that,” said Lee. “Let’s put off dealing with the feds until we know a little more.”