by Bill Larkin
“Something to do with your lie detector?”
He face froze and he blinked rapidly.
“Up to you whether we chat honestly about this,” I continued, “but if we don’t, you’ll probably end up with this colossal prick of a detective, being detained in a jail interview room that smells like piss and BO. I just need to clear up the circumstances of the boat explosion for my report. That includes knowing why you disappeared.”
I didn’t mention the homicide, so as not to spook him just yet.
“How do you know this?” he asked.
“I visited UCI.”
“I see. Yes, it is related to that.” His eyes were now slightly disengaged. As if he was thinking about how to play it and come out on top.
“Any ideas on what happened to your yacht?”
“No. I am not qualified to know that.”
I stared at him a moment. “How about a guess?”
“I really cannot comment, but I will cooperate fully with you. Can I come to the department tomorrow? The Harbor Patrol offices on Bayside?”
“By then, the Newport Beach cops may have arrested you. I was trying to prevent that.”
“You have to delay,” he said. “I am going to meet with a company later tonight. It is about the lie detector. This is everything to me.”
“Everything? How so?”
“I am going to be brutally honest here, ok?”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” I said. “Keep in mind that I know a lot about you, so do not lie to me. For example, you owe a lot of people a lot of money. Your mortgage, your cars, credit cards. Go ahead.”
He sucked in a lung full of air. “Jesus Christ, it costs me a fortune to live in Newport Beach. I teach at UCI and I have a small biotech business called NeuroDyne Lab Research. Despite making a lot of money in the past, I’ve got fifteen grand in the bank now. That’s it. Everything else has a loan on it. I’ve been working to sell my lie detector technology to a company called Veritas.”
I noticed he never said the word “we” or mentioned Miles Dennison.
“So you need money fast. You don’t want to try to build the business yourself?”
He gave that idea a dismissive wave off. “I need the money and I have no experience building a business. Better to let others do that.”
“You were doing hyperthymesia research and accidently discovered the lie detector?”
He cast an uneasy glance around. “You know a lot. I gave this company Veritas a demo. We’re in talks.”
“How does it work?”
“A lie is a mental operation, you understand that?”
“Sure. Go on.”
“The leading technology is called functional magnetic resonance imaging, or fMRI lie detection. In laymen’s terms, it basically monitors brain activity by blood and oxygen flow. The fMRI has the potential to catch the lie at the source, and it is quite accurate, but it’s not perfect. And it can be defeated by countermeasures.”
“So you perfected fMRI?”
“Not even close. I was testing the hippocampus, an area of the brain that is key in short- and long-term memory. True memories are stored away. Lies are constructed from memory or other stimuli. It’s a subtle, but different, electrochemical process in the brain to recall or to lie. Candidly, I stumbled across a way to determine which is which.”
“Lucky you. How much is Veritas going to give you?”
“None of your business.”
“Must be a lot for you to think your life is in danger. Who is it trying to kill you?”
“I don’t know. Could be anybody who got wind of it. So, as soon as I sell this technology and the patent pending, the danger is off me and I will return home. I am glad to cooperate in your investigation, or Newport Beach’s investigation. I just need another day.”
“Have you been enjoying your stay here while your wife thinks you’re dead?” I asked.
“I think maybe our phones are tapped. April is fine, I’m sure. She’s my lovely little coconut, brown on the outside, white on the inside. Spends money with every other gal in Newport Beach.”
Marital strife, or was he just being a dismissive ass with a bad sense of humor?
Then he asked, “Has a service been set for Miles Dennison yet?”
I knew, in that moment, that Barry Tremayne had killed his business partner and co-professor.
“How do you know that it was Miles who died in the explosion on your boat?”
He flinched like a spider, pretending not to show anything. “We were together that night. Drinking. I offered to let him stay on the boat.”
“You didn’t bother to notify any authorities? And you hide away in a swanky hotel while your wife thinks you might be dead too?”
He stared away, brow glistening. I could smell his rush of fear.
I said, “Miles Dennison dying on your boat was tragic for your company and the lie detector, don’t you think?”
Before he could answer, two Asian guys appeared next to us. They both flashed pistols. Both unassuming, ordinary looking. I’d noticed them enter the lobby, but hadn’t paid too much attention. Now I was regretting it. I guessed they were both Chinese. Dressed in long sleeved shirts and dress pants.
One of them had a dark sword-shaped scar or a birthmark on his neck. He spoke in accented English, “Gentlemen, we all have a meeting to go to. Neither make a sound or make a run. You’ll receive at least three bullets. Nod if this is clear.”
Were these guys for real?
I looked at Tremayne. “Your buyers?”
The Asian guy with the scar kicked me. “Shut up.”
Tremayne wasn’t panicking, but he was starting to fall apart. I decided to play along and make a move when I could. The meeting would lead to at least one other player.
After demanding our cell phones, our group walked out, with the two Asian wanna-be gangsters behind us. A minivan pulled up past the center fountain to the turnaround. The valet held the sliding door for us with a smile.
“Have a good day, gentlemen.”
“Thanks,” I replied to him.
He slid the door shut and I found a third Asian guy driving the minivan. We headed away from the Island Hotel.
Chapter 11
Tremayne and I were in the middle seats, with guns now directly pointed at us. One guy had his finger on the trigger, which was an accident waiting to happen. I flashed to the scene in Pulp Fiction where Vincent accidently shoots Marvin in the face and they have to hide the blood-splattered car at Jimmy’s, and bring in Winston Wolf. I didn’t want to be Marvin.
Based on their weapons handling, demeanors, and not searching either one of us, I doubted that any of the three Asian guys were military or police trained.
“You want to take your finger off that trigger? We’re cooperating here.”
He just raised the gun and said, “Shut fuck up.”
I smiled at him.
Glancing toward Tremayne, I said, “These are the guys you were trying to sell the lie detector to, huh? The Chinese?”
Tremayne was now tuned out. His plan was crumbling. He nodded hazily in the affirmative.
We were driving north on PCH, over the bridge, then we turned up Dover.
“How much are they giving you to kill your business partner and get the lie detector technology?”
Tremayne spoke softly, “Miles wanted to pick a VC backer and build a business.”
The Asian guy raised his gun again. “No more talking! No more.”
I figured I could grab the guy’s pistol before he could fire it, but I didn’t want to risk a messy gunfight in the minivan. We pulled into a church parking lot near Castaways, a tract of multimillion dollar homes on the bluff overlooking the Back Bay and Newport Harbor. We parked in the back of a deserted church parking lot adjacent to Castaways. A couple of the nice homes had some windows facing the parking lot through some trees, but otherwise we were in a secluded pocket. A black chain link fence separated the parking lot from Castaways Par
k.
It wasn’t really a park. More like paved trails circling through native vegetation. The whole Castaways point was an open area overlooking the bluffs, and one of the nicest pieces of real estate anywhere in the world. A panoramic view of the mountains, Fashion Island, the Back Bay, and most of the islands within Newport Harbor.
A red-haired guy wearing a loud button-down shirt and jeans stood next to a Mercedes a space over. He stepped closer, opened the minivan door, and stared at Tremayne, then at me.
“The fuck are you?”
The Asian guy with the scar spoke up. “They sit together at hotel. Another buyer.”
“Get out of there,” the red-haired guy ordered.
A Glock 17 was jammed into his waistband. We all got out of the minivan. One of the Asian guys jammed his pistol in my back. They still hadn’t bothered to search me.
The red-haired guy eyeballed Tremayne. “Why have you been in hiding when people thought you died in the explosion on your yacht? And who is this jerkoff? You trying to sell it to him?”
“This guy? He’s a cop!”
The red-haired guy smiled, then a few laughs all around. I joined them.
Red continued, “We were going to give you five million dollars for this thing. Now we’re just going to take it from you. We tracked you down by your credit card, you fuckhead. Island Hotel. Shit.”
Five million? I was beginning to understand it was much more than a polygraph.
Tremayne took off in a blur, blasted through a gate in the fence, and into Castaways Park. He started running along the paved trail toward the point. The Asian guys were caught by surprise, but two of them raised their pistols.
“Fuck! Don’t shoot him. Grab him,” Red yelled.
They took off in pursuit. How could Tremayne move that fast? He must be a runner, with fear and adrenaline turning him into a gazelle.
Red put his gun on me and said, “You’re stayin’ here.”
As he glanced out to the park and looked for the chase, I snapped my compact Smith & Wesson M&P 9mm from my waistband holster and simultaneously pushed away his gun muzzle.
“Drop it! Police!” I said.
In the split second he took to register it and decide to aim at me, I fired a round into the center of his chest. He managed to squeeze his trigger once, but the shot was off as he was falling. His eyes registered fury, then total shock.
I grabbed his gun, threw it on top of the minivan out of his reach, and tore off through the gate toward the point.
The driver of the minivan was behind the others, which meant closest to me. He’d stopped and turned around at the sound of my gunshot. He tried a poor shooting stance and fired three rounds that missed me. I crouched and took him down with two shots.
I’d fired thousands of rounds on shooting ranges, but never in the field. Never in real life or at a person. And never without ear protection. My eardrums rang after the shots. The familiar smell of gunpowder hit my nostrils.
The other two Asian guys were near the point, and Tremayne was at the tip of the point. I could see the war memorial there, which was a metal sculpture of a soldier, in full gear with his M4 rife, and a flag flying overhead. A wooden fence ran along the top edge of the bluffs.
An older couple and two women walkers hurried away from the crime in progress and dialed their cell phones.
As the guy with the scar realized I had just shot two of his buddies, he came at me along the trail, firing rounds haphazardly. He was still a good 40 yards from me and as I was putting my front sight on his center mass, when two shots hit him in the chest and he fell like a sack of potatoes. What the hell?
I looked behind and there was a guy with a scoped sniper rifle, crouched on a slight rise in the native vegetation 15 yards behind me. I had no idea who he was. Three others were near him on the paved trail behind me and they started running our way. Whoever they were, they’d been following us.
I figured if they were going to shoot me, they already would have.
Tremayne and the last Asian guy were in a physical struggle on the outside of the fence above the bluff. The Asian guy was trying to grab him and hold him as a hostage, but Tremayne was trying for his gun.
I looked behind again, and the others were advancing. Two men and one woman, guns drawn. Plus the sniper. Had to be law enforcement.
“FBI,” one of them yelled.
The sniper was trying to get a shot on the last Asian guy, but he and Tremayne were a blur of movement.
What were they doing here? I moved toward Tremayne, hoping I would get an opening. Tremayne lost his footing and went flying down a cactus-covered embankment. He yelled out in pain, then disappeared over the cliff. The drop to the Back Bay had to be about 50 feet. Maybe survivable, but it depended on the landing area.
The Asian guy noticed all of us and immediately threw up his hands and dropped his gun. He gasped for breath.
I raised my gun, not wanting to be mistaken for a bad guy and turned to the small posse.
“Sheriff’s department.”
I pulled out my badge, then ran to the edge of the cliff, while two of the FBI agents took the Asian guy into custody.
I didn’t see any way to climb down the steep vertical to get to Tremayne. I found a side angle where I could see his body. He was crumpled in an unnatural position and not moving, lying on a small strip of sand that had built up at the base of the bluff. Unfortunately for Tremayne, there were a few rocks protruding and it looked like he’d hit his head.
An FBI agent stood near me. “What were you doing with these guys?”
“Give me your cell phone,” I demanded.
“Why?”
“I’ll get the Harbor Patrol down there. He could be alive.”
He handed me a cell and I dialed the Harbor Patrol office. There was a fireboat patrolling the turning basin, about a half mile from the scene. After my call, it surged our way, heading under the PCH bridge, lights and siren going, and leaving a huge wake that sent paddle boarders and kayakers into the water. As the fireboat neared the base of the cliff, I could see a deputy I knew, Roger Herruda, jump off the stern and wade through the shallows to the sand. He examined Tremayne, then looked up at me and shook his head. No pulse, no breathing. Tremayne was dead. For real, this time.
Chapter 12
The sirens and police cars kept coming. Castaways Park was filling up with cops, paramedics, and federal agents. The only thing missing was news copters. Because we were in the departing flight path of John Wayne Airport, the copters weren’t allowed.
FBI Special Agent Mosher led the FBI team that had been following the Chinese. Mosher was in his 40s and now sported a blue FBI windbreaker. We chatted for a while as the paramedics covered the three bodies. He had ordered an FBI Evidence Response Team to come down from LA, and also insisted on taking custody of the last Chinese guy.
After I explained that I was on Harbor Patrol and had been there to put out the fire after the boat explosion, then tracked Tremayne to the hotel, he gave me his summary.
The FBI surveillance team had been spread out in two cars, following us from the Island Hotel. Once we turned into the church parking lot, they had set up in a park about 200 yards away and used a long-range directional microphone to listen. When Tremayne took off and I shot the red-haired guy, they came after all of us.
“We’ve been building a case on Veritas for nine months now. Supposed to be a venture capital firm and a private equity firm funding new technologies in Silicon Valley, LA, and Orange County.”
“It’s China-backed?”
“Not even backed. Actually an extension of the Chinese Government. They started out in 2009 stealing secrets from several U.S. solar companies, then undercutting them with cheap solar panels, transformers, and other technologies built in China. Put at least ten U.S. companies out of business or bankrupt. They have twenty-six people working for them in the U.S. They go to trade shows, conferences, and meet with all sorts of start-ups looking for money.”
“How did Tremayne find them?”
“They had a guy working the professors at UCI for deals and information. We have emails and phone calls between them and Tremayne. Tremayne claimed to have a new lie detector for sale. We were tasked to follow the crew. Freddy Sinclair is the red-haired guy you popped. He’s spent time in Tehachapi for armed robbery. The other guys are, or were, Chinese nationals here on visas. Corporate snoops. We didn’t even know they had guns.”
“Lucky for me they didn’t know how to use them.”
Lt. Rudy, the commander of Harbor Patrol, and Sergeant Fergus both approached us. I hoped they were not going to ask why I was here.
“Schmitty, you’ve been a busy guy,” Rudy commented.
“Yes, sir.”
Rudy, Fergus, and Mosher all introduced themselves. They sorted out the jurisdictional stuff quickly. FBI would handle all forensics and share with OCSD. OCSD and the DAs office would have to investigate my officer-involved shooting. And the FBI would make its own shooting report.
I glanced around and got a better look at the female FBI agent. She wasn’t bad looking. Then my mood soured as detective Van Ness hurried through the crowd, agitation all over his face. He zeroed in on me and came our way.
I said, “This is what you’ll be working with if you want Newport PD in the mix. I’d advise against it.”
Rudy said, “We can’t shut them out.”
Van Ness got to us and opened with, “This is my investigation. I need to know everybody’s status here. Except you, Schmidt. I know yours. “
He got a bunch of hard stares back.
Mosher told him, “Who said it’s your investigation?”
“Hey, Mister Bigshot, look around. This is the city of Newport Beach. That’s me. Why are federal agents here without notifying my department?”
Rudy stepped away and walked over to a couple guys in suits.
Mosher looked like he wanted to push Van Ness over the cliff. “It’s a federal investigation. Take a Prozac and we’ll send you a report.”
Van Ness’ face grew more florid.
I turned to Van Ness and said, “Van Ness, your investigation is done. Tremayne set up the boat explosion and killed Dennison. Write it up. You don’t need to bother with preparing a case for the D.A. Look at all that time we saved you.”