Lee waited. He fought the urge to bolt. Any second he expected someone to come barreling through the kitchen door headed straight for him. It was cool but he could feel sweat dripping down his back. He felt an overwhelming need to empty his bladder.
Finally, he saw the man in the car straighten, probably in reaction to a signal from Spreckel. He saw him get out of the car. He was bareheaded and wearing a gray jacket. The man paused, waiting for traffic to pass on Columbus, and began walking quickly toward the restaurant entrance.
As soon as the man disappeared from his line of vision, Lee started sprinting down 84th Street. He ran as fast as he could but it felt excruciatingly slow. He was conscious of his feet slapping the pavement. He wished like hell he had worn running shoes rather than the leather loafers he had on. He wished he were 20 again.
He reached Amersterdam Avenue, the next street over from Columbus. He looked up and down. Dammit! There was no one on the street. He had hoped for a crowd to get lost in. The first places they would look would be on Columbus and Amsterdam. On the empty street he wouldn’t last long.
Lee looked back down 84th toward the restaurant and saw no one running toward him, no car speeding his way. He ran across the street, dodging traffic, and continued at a run down 84th Street again. His only chance was to reach the next alley - he hoped there was one - before they caught sight of him.
Lee was winded when he reached the alley. His head was pounding and he struggled to get air into his lungs. He looked back and saw the Cougar coming after him. It was heading his way but was still on the other side of Columbus. They might not have seen him this far away. He trotted further down the alley which ran all the way through the block to 83rd Street. Cardboard cartons, trash cans and two dumpsters were scattered along the way.
When he reached the dumpster at the end of the alley, where it opened onto 83rd Street, Lee debated whether to climb in. He liked his chances there better than being on the street with unmarked cars scouring the neighborhood. He looked in the dumpster and saw boxes full of lettuce leaves and other produce. He realized he was at the back of a small grocery store.
Lee looked both ways down 83rd Street. Then he quickly walked through the entrance of the grocery.
It was a small mom-and-pop store, maybe twenty-five feet deep by fifteen feet across. Except for the shopkeepers, a man and his wife, Lee was the only one in the store. He moved to the back, toward the coolers and away from the front windows. He pulled open a door and began to slowly inspect every bottle and can on the slotted shelves. Finally, he grabbed a quart-sized bottle of Colt 45 malt liquor, walked to the front counter, set it down, and returned to the coolers.
While he rummaged in the coolers some more trying to kill time, Lee contemplated how he had gotten into this predicament. He couldn’t believe he was actually running from the feds. It felt surreal. A few days ago he had been living a pretty normal life writing his frothy, uncomplicated fluff. No matter. Today was today. He had to focus on the problem at hand: Getting back to the hotel without having his ass tossed into the slammer.
After 20 minutes, Lee had the malt liquor, a quart of orange juice, a six-pack of Squirt, a bag of Fritos, a four-pack of toilet paper and two extremely nervous shopkeepers at the counter. He managed to waste another couple of minutes buying some lottery tickets. He saw the Cougar go by once, moving fast. He saw another car speed by soon afterward.
He insisted on a paper bag and the shopkeepers searched frantically to find one to get him the hell out of their store. With his purchases piled inside it, Lee held the bag high enough to partially shield his face. He stepped onto the sidewalk on 83rd Street and began searching for a subway that would take him downtown.
Sarah answered the door with an armful of clothes she had been trying to shove into a suitcase. She found Lee leaning against the doorway, totally spent and clutching the bag. He set the bag down on a table and they embraced. Then, Lee pulled away. He was rank with sweat and fear. He sat down and chugged half the bottle of Colt 45 without a pause.
Then, Lee went into the bathroom, stripped, turned on the shower as hot as he could stand and braced himself against the side walls as the water cascaded over his head and down his body. After a couple of minutes, he heard the shower door open and close. Then, Sarah began scrubbing his back with a soapy washcloth. Lee was fully aroused when he finally turned around to hold her while the shower washed the soap off their bodies.
They were still dripping when Lee threw a towel on the bed and they made love with an intensity that bordered on desperation.
Chapter 22
LEE CALLED BARRY Templeton the next morning. Templeton was a reporter at the New York Times with whom Lee had become close friends during his New York years. Templeton agreed to loan Lee $5,000 in cash, no questions asked. They made an appointment to have lunch at Pascal’s, an out-of-the-way restaurant on the western fringe of the theatre district.
Then Lee called Bobbie Connors.
“Bobbie. It’s Enzo Lee.”
“Hey. What it is, Enzo?”
“You tell me. What is this all about? They have a warrant out for me on some bullshit drug charge?”
“That’s what I hear,” she said. “You know that as a sworn officer of the law, it is my duty to advise you to turn yourself in. You should, before somebody gets hurt.”
“What gives, Bobbie? You know this is related to the investigation. What’s going on?”
“If you’re referring to the Orson Adams investigation I cannot comment on that because that is no longer in my…uh…jurisdiction. All I can say is that the next time you decide to leave an ounce of cocaine in that Fiat Spider of yours, you should consider what the strong arm of the law will do to you.”
“Okay, Bobbie. I hear you.”
“I will give you my home phone number in case you decide to do the smart thing and turn yourself in,” said Connors. “Call any time.”
“Okay. I’ll remember the offer.”
Lee hung up the phone.
“What was that all about?” asked Sarah.
“Connors couldn’t tell me much. She wanted to, but all those calls are taped and she had to be careful. But, she let me know that they planted coke in my car. God knows what trumped up excuse they used to search it. She also said the feds have taken away the Orson Adams investigation so they’re controlling everything now.”
“So you’re a federal fugitive?”
“Yeah. I’m afraid so,” said Lee.
“And I suppose I’m aiding and abetting your flight,” said Sarah.
“Sounds right.”
“Which must be a felony.”
“You can probably plea bargain to a misdemeanor,” said Lee. “Look, I don’t like this either. Someone’s working overtime to cover up this whole thing and bury you and me with it. One way or the other, they want to shut us up. If it’s not with a bullet, they’ll lock us up for awhile. No one would listen to us. There’s must be a million cons in prison trying to sell a government conspiracy theory to get out.”
“So, what do we do?” said Sarah.
“Well, I guess we keep trying to get to the bottom of it,” said Lee. “We could turn ourselves in. Hopefully, the feds would keep us alive to spend the next few years in prison. I can’t speak for you, but I’d rather take my chances on the outside. If things get too hot, we can always throw ourselves on Spreckel’s mercy.”
“What a fate,” said Sarah. “Somehow, I don’t think we’d see the light of day for a long time if were up to him. All right, Enzo. I agree. Let’s keep going. But I have a suggestion.”
“Go ahead,” said Lee.
“Well, when we were at Pamela Donsen’s, she said something interesting. I think we were outside in the garden so you didn’t hear. She said she wanted to have a private physician perform an autopsy and the people at Justice resisted it. They insisted on having one of their people do it. They threatened to cut off her death benefits. She felt like she had no choice but to go along.”
> “So, what are you thinking about?” said Lee.
“Well, she may know something. She’s a paralegal. They must have talked about the cases they were working on. The point is that I don’t think she trusts her bosses. If we tell her what we suspect about her husband, I think she may tell us whatever she knows.”
“Well. Okay. Let’s try her tonight,” said Lee.
Lee had two more calls to make. He decided to call Benjamin Nussbaum first. The biology professor said he had a message from Arthur Sendaki but wanted to deliver it personally. Lee told Nussbaum to be at the Broadway entrance to Columbia University at 3 p.m.
Next, Lee called Lorraine Carr at the News.
“Hey, Lorraine. It’s Enzo.”
“Enzo! Are you still among the free?”
“Still roaming, alive and free, Lorraine. Thanks to you.”
“Well, it’s the least I can do for half a Pulitzer,” she said.
“Does Pilmann know about this drug thing yet?” said Lee.
“Judging from the fact that I’ve only seen him in a Code Yellow stage of apoplexy this week, I’d say no,” said Carr.
“Well, if he reaches Code Red, tell him it’s all a big mistake and I promise to clear it up before I return,” said Lee. “By the way, how did you make out on that question I had about Sendaki?”
“Well, in a lot of ways, his story is typical for the founder of a Silicon Valley company,” said Carr. “He starts out with eighty percent of the stock. After three or four rounds of venture capital financing in the startup years, he’s been diluted to twenty percent. Sendaki’s case was a little different in that he’s considered a genetics genius. For a long time, the entire credibility of AgriGenics was based on what’s between his ears.
“So, as long as Sendaki was AgriGenics, he ran the show,” continued Carr. “But, eventually, he brought in enough other hotshot microbiologists and geneticists to make himself expendable, at least in the eyes of the finance people. At the same time, the venture capitalists became impatient. AgriGenics was producing great science but no profits. On reputation alone, it was ready to go public but it lacked the numbers to do it.”
“Enter Brian Graylock,” said Lee.
“Exactly. He was already running the business side of AgriGenics. Graylock and the money people sit down one day and…surprise…Sendaki is sent packing to his fabulous home in the Santa Cruz mountains. He becomes something of a recluse. He’s supposedly working on some fantastic new theory of genetics, something that will make Darwin spin in his grave. Meanwhile, Graylock slashes the research budget, pumps up sales, and the underwriters are offering their first-born children to take them public.”
“So Graylock can do no wrong,” said Lee.
“It seems that way,” said Carr. “The analysts are mystified at how he keeps earnings up. You were right about consumer resistance to genetically engineered food. The food industry is very nervous about it. Everyone agrees the science is great, but if people won’t buy it, what have you got? Privately, some analysts worry that Graylock may be massaging the numbers. He still runs the finance side of the company so it’s possible. But, Wall Street is in love with him for now.”
“Like, wow, Lorraine. You came up with some great stuff. Say, have I ever told you what a great writer you are?”
Carr laughed.
“Gotta go, Enzo. Just remember. Lorraine and Carr both have two r’s. For the Pulitzer.”
“You got it, kid.”
• • •
BARRY TEMPLETON WAS from Kentucky and had cut his journalistic teeth at the Louisville Courier-Journal. He still had a Kentucky twang and invariably laced his conversations with earthy anecdotes that began, ‘Now, when I was down in Kaintucky…’
Lee had heard other reporters at the Times, say Templeton dressed like a color-blind used car salesman. Templeton wasn’t above wearing polka-dot pants. In temperament and dress, he was about as un-Times-like as they come. That was one of the reasons Lee liked him. Templeton was also a great national political reporter who was always a threat to upset anyone’s campaign for president.
Lee had introduced Templeton to a former girlfriend, Judith, who ended up marrying Templeton. Lee reminded him of this debt whenever they talked.
Templeton was contemplating the Mediterranean menu at Pascal’s when Lee arrived ten minutes late. His already plump physique looked a few pounds heavier than the last time Lee had seen him. He wore a rumpled jacket over a sweater vest.
“Barry.”
“Hiya, Enzo. How are ya, boy?”
“‘Been better, Barry.”
“I gather. Not that it matters, but what is this sudden need for cash about? Your ATM broken?” He reached into his inside jacket pocket, pulled out a fat envelope and slid it across the table to Lee.
“Thanks, Barry,” said Lee. “Believe me, you’ll thank me for not telling you.”
“Oh, c’mon, Enzo. You must be on to a story. I didn’t believe for a minute you would go back there and commit Californiacide. The alarm went off and you’re on to a good one, right? You wouldn’t be using this to indulge in a little checkbook journalism now would you? C’mon. ‘Fess up.”
“Barry, I didn’t realize you were a Californiaphobe.” Lee picked up the envelope and slipped it into a jacket pocket. “You know the kinds of stories I do now. I’m a feature writer. You know. In one ear and out the other.”
“Naah,” said Templeton. “Don’t sell yourself short, Enzo. You’ve always had the right instincts. That bullshit here was just a hiccup. Could have happened to any of us, especially with that excuse of an editor you had. I knew sooner or later you’d be back in the hunt. Got a big one, huh? What is it? You can tell me.”
“Okay, Barry. Maybe I am on to a hot one,” said Lee. “I can’t tell you about it now. I guarantee you that when it’s time to go national, you’ll have it first.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” His appetite whetted, Templeton rubbed his hands together eagerly. “And, I guess lunch is on you, huh?”
• • •
LEE ARRIVED AT Columbia University 20 minutes before his scheduled appointment with Benjamin Nussbaum. After his encounter with Spreckel the previous day, he wanted to reduce the chance of another setup.
Lee waited until he saw Nussbaum leave the Biology Department on his way to Columbia’s Broadway entrance. When he was convinced that Nussbaum was alone, Lee intercepted him. He steered the professor away from their intended meeting spot, hailed a cab on Amersterdam Avenue, and told the driver to head downtown.
“So, Sendaki didn’t waste any time,” said Lee.
“No. He was quite interested. His curiosity was piqued, to say the least, by your inquiry. And, he said he is quite eager to speak with you and Ms. Armstrong.”
“Good. Will you act as our intermediary, our cyberspace go-between, as it were?” asked Lee.
“No. Arthur insists on a face-to-face meeting. I cannot enlighten you as far as an explanation. He seemed to feel it was quite crucial.”
“Where would this meeting occur?” said Lee.
“I have the particulars here.” Nussbaum handed Lee a sheet of paper half filled with printed instructions. “I assure you these are Arthur’s directions entirely, not mine. Arthur was quite insistent that you follow them in every detail, dot every ‘i’ and cross every ‘t’.”
Lee studied the instructions for a couple of minutes. Then he told the cab driver to pull over. They were in Times Square. He handed the driver a $20 bill and told him to take Nussbaum wherever the professor wanted to go.
“Thank you, Professor,” he said. “Tell Arthur he’s got a date.”
“I will certainly relay that message. By the way, Arthur asked me to give you this.” Nussbaum handed Lee another sheet of paper. Lee read it as the cab pulled away. It was the message that Brent Donsen had sent to Sendaki. It read:
“A. Sendaki: Prof. Nussbaum has kindly assisted me in sending this message. I urgently desire to speak to you re: Hastings
Law School moot court question No. 15 of six years ago, and related matters. Please reply via Prof. Nussbaum. Brent Donsen.”
Chapter 23
SARAH AND LEE arrived at the Donsens’ apartment in Brooklyn shortly after dark. They had decided against calling ahead. Pamela Donsen answered the door wearing a blue and white shift with a floral pattern and looked surprised to see them.
“Hello, Sarah. Enzo. What a surprise.”
“Hello, Pamela,” said Sarah. “May we come in for a few minutes. There’s something we need to discuss with you.”
They sat in the living room with the gray slate floor and Persian rug.
“Pamela,” began Sarah. “There is something that we didn’t mention when we came before?”
“Yes?”
“Does the name AgriGenics mean anything to you?”
Pamela bit her lower lip and nodded her head.
“It’s something Brent was working on, wasn’t it?” she asked softly.
“Yes. He was looking into the company,” said Sarah. “We don’t know all the particulars. But, we believe it was something very sensitive, something that people wanted to hide. I remember you telling me some of the doubts you had about Brent’s death and the way the Justice Department handled it.”
Pamela nodded again.
“We think that Brent’s death, and perhaps some other people’s deaths, are connected to that investigation,” said Sarah.
“You know about Bob Weiskauf,” said Pamela. “You knew when you were here before.”
“Yes,” said Sarah.
“I found out today. Bob and Brent talked all the time. They stayed in very close touch. We visited Bob and Julie every winter. He took us out fishing in the boat…the same one, I guess.”
“Did you hear them talk about AgriGenics, or someone named Arthur Sendaki?” said Lee.
Project Moses - A Mystery Thriller (Enzo Lee Mystery-Thriller Series) Page 14