Transparency: Bio-Tech Cavern Secrets Untold

by Matthews, D. K.

  The chief slid a card with a phone number at him.

  “Last night a Detective Faulkner at LAPD called. He was impressed by your background with Diplomatic Security. I told him I didn’t want to lose you. He insisted you go down to L.A. for an interview.”

  Halliday had always believed his days were numbered at Santa Reina PD. Everyone was always suspicious of experience beyond a pay grade no matter how many times you told them you were tired of life in the fast lane. Still, he hadn’t expected this to come so soon. “I’ll give it some thought,” he said.

  The chief stared off in the distance. “Rich Gladstone could never replace Leo Bergman. Although Leo’s eligible for retirement next year, he’s not the retiring type. Hell, the only way Leo’s leaving here is on a gurney.”

  Halliday lowered his head out of mutual respect. Leo, a lifetime smoker, had been receiving treatment for throat cancer.

  “Let’s be clear, John. You concentrate on the missing person issue. Let Brad Palmier and Genevive security track the woman down. Understood?”

  Halliday nodded. “I’ll continue to support Palmier and Genevive security regarding the upcoming demonstrations at Genevive.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  That’s all he needed to hear.

  “Rich Gladstone will eventually step on his own feet,” the chief said. “I’ll have to move him to a desk job upstairs. He’s not a bad kid.”

  The chief signified the end of their meeting by returning to the stack of papers on his desk.

  Halliday left the office, disturbed that Brayden had given up on Rich Gladstone. That, and the chief’s eagerness to remove him from the Laurel McKittrick case had hit him like Billy Haskins’s sucker punch.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  In the break area Halliday was relieved to find his battered face in second position to Rich Gladstone’s surprise birthday party.

  Betsy had laid out a white cake instead of breakfast doughnuts. Several of the personnel huddled around the birthday boy hoisting coffee mugs. The receptionist’s smoking match left gray streaks that contradicted the odor of fresh laundered uniforms. Track lights reflected off polished steel buckles.

  “Everyone listen up.” Betsy’s voice twanged above the others, “Hap-py Birthday to you… Happy…”

  Halliday smiled at the hapless attempt of over a dozen officers, mostly male, to celebrate Rich Gladstone on his twenty-sixth birthday.

  “Did you make a wish?” Betsy said, after Gladstone blew out the candles with one mighty blow.

  Whether he had made a wish or not, Gladstone tore into the gift wrappings like a lion that had downed a wildebeest on the Serengeti Plain.

  “Winter will arrive before you know it,” Betsy said, reminding Halliday of the exact sentiments of the charismatic woods woman, Gina.

  Gladstone lifted a heavy sweater. “I’ll wear it on Thanksgiving Day.”

  The unseasonable eighty-five degrees outside had the air conditioners rattling on the walls. The weather was subject to change at a moment’s notice.

  Halliday remained for the small talk for a change. Gladstone cornered him with a plate of cake, pointed the fork at his face and said, “You never did explain how that happened?”

  “I got blindsided by the cowboy, Billy Haskins.”

  Gladstone’s eyes widened. “I’ll arrest the bum.”

  “No, he’s worth more to us on the street. Use the threat of arrest to corral him. Persuade him to be our eyes and ears in regards to the MP’s and missing animals. Play up his ego. You know the routine.”

  Gladstone was feasting on the words and the cake. He stopped chewing. “Yeah, Halliday, I’ll use that angle.”

  The young man stuffed another huge forkful of cake into his mouth. He got along well with people. Gladstone possessed a cleverness that belied his ‘aw, shucks’ looks. Halliday admitted that he had underestimated the lad. With some polish Gladstone could grow into the role here.

  “Do you have any other words of wisdom Halliday?”

  The shuffling of feet accompanied loud voices coming down the hallway. Halliday and Gladstone’s surprised expressions mirrored the other dozen or so PD officials. The trio of individuals approached with serious intent.

  Chief Brayden’s death mask canceled the birthday party. Leo Bergman stood at his side with none other than Sergeant Garcia. The chief said, “The manager out at the hot springs apparently committed suicide this morning.”

  Jillian Andrews.

  The chief looked at Halliday. “I’m taking Leo with me, John. You and Rich investigate Miss Andrews’s residence. We need to confirm the suicide.”

  Halliday, speechless, nodded at the chief. Did Brayden know that he had questioned Jillian yesterday? If so, he knew that Jillian Andrews was linked to the Laurel McKittrick case.

  The chief barked out names who would accompany him. Betsy, who had befriended Jillian after organizing the company picnic last year, looked up at Halliday with mournful eyes.

  The chief and his entourage continued down the hallway. The rest of the officers dispersed. Halliday instructed Gladstone to go check out a vehicle at the motor pool. He offered Betsy soothing words while walking her back to her desk.

  “Jillian wasn’t the type to commit suicide,” Betsy said.

  “I talked to her yesterday,” he replied. “She seemed in good spirits.”

  Betsy wiped away the tears. “What’s going on John? You should be heading to the hot springs with the chief. Even Leo would agree. You should lead the investigation.”

  The chief had moved him out of the picture. “I can’t say, Betsy. It’s complicated.” Isn’t that what he had said to Jillian yesterday?

  Halliday returned to his office. He checked his voice messages with the Bluetooth device hanging off his ear. Three messages from Brad Palmier requested that he return his calls.

  He played the last message, from Jillian Andrews, first.

  “Detective Halliday, what happened last night?” Jillian’s frantic voice pleaded. “I received a call from the Santa Reina fire department this morning. They said a fire had ravaged our main office. I don’t know what I’m going to do. The fire department is claiming negligence on our part. Please call me.”

  Why hadn’t the chief mentioned a fire out at the hot springs? According to his phone the call had come in from Jillian at 6:57 a.m.

  He wrote the time of her call down on a pad.

  Gladstone leaned in at the door. “I’m ready anytime.”

  “Gladstone, I want you to find out the time of Miss Andrews alleged suicide.”

  “I just talked to Leo. He called the officer who arrived on the scene, Sergeant Dan Garcia. She blew her brains out with a hunting rifle. Garcia told Leo that an employee’s statement gave time of death between 7:30 and 7:45 a.m. unless the coroner determines otherwise.”

  Garcia had a talent for showing up at the wrong place at the right time. “Thanks, Rich.”

  “Did you know Jillian Andrews?”

  The phone vibrated on his desk. “Come back in ten, okay? I’ve got an incoming call.”

  The young detective shuffled off.

  “Halliday,” he barked into the phone.

  “Detective Halliday, this is Laurel. Don’t say anything. Please listen. Jillian is in extreme danger. The office complex at the hot springs had a fire this morning. I don’t have evidence. I’m sure Brad gave the order. Genevive scientists showed up after you left yesterday. They wanted to take samples of the hot springs water. Jillian refused to allow them on the property. She threatened to report to the media that the spa water was contaminated.”

  Laurel needed to be told. “Where can we meet this morning?”

  A long pause preceded Laurel’s quivering voice, “Please, detective, go out to the hot springs. Help Jillian, she’s my dear friend. I’m worried sick. Her life is in grave danger. Please don’t delay.”

  “Laurel, there’s something I need to tell you.”

  “They’re coming. I’ll call
again.”

  Who are they? “Wait, Laurel—”

  The line was dead.

  He had another call.

  “Halliday, I’ve been trying to get a hold of you,” Palmier’s voice complained in his ear. “What were you doing on Genevive property at one o’clock in the morning?”

  Palmier’s petty gripe made his head ache. “Genevive has a leaky security network.”

  “You were performing tasks way outside your job description.”

  “It’s your life that’s in jeopardy.”

  He paused to let that set in.

  “A fire broke out at Santa Reina Hot Springs this morning,” Palmier said. “Too bad about the spa manager. Terrible.”

  How did Palmier find out? The headache pulsated. “What?”

  “Jillian Andrews committed suicide,” Palmier said. “The poor thing shot herself in the head with a hunting rifle, which I understand is no easy task. Starting the fire must have pushed the despondent woman over the edge. Bad relationships can lead to people’s undoing, too. I’ve been there, done that one.”

  Halliday felt out of synch. “What bad relationship?”

  “You’re the detective here, Halliday. Miss Andrew’s human resource gal mentioned to one of my employees about a bad breakup. You know how it goes.”

  Halliday filed the fact away. He didn’t commit an opinion.

  “A group of our scientists went out there to talk to her this morning,” Palmier said. “They notified Chief Brayden.”

  Halliday’s head spun, like it had at the end of the Asia detail three years before.

  “The place will be shut down for a few weeks,” Palmier said. “That’s the best course of action. Let everyone heal. Regarding your unannounced visit last night, do I need to report this to my CEO, Bob Gartner? I don’t want to see you lose your job. On the other hand, your actions didn’t make much sense. Have you been under too much stress? Do you need medical help?”

  We should have lunch with the head-doctor Epstein up in San Fran, huh?

  “Halliday?”

  “You don’t need to report anything to your boss. You’re a shrewd exec, Palmier. You’ve learned that you’re better off taking care of matters on your own. No use bothering the boss with the trivial things. Besides, I learned nothing. No harm, no foul. Isn’t that what they say?”

  “When people mess around in other people’s business, there are always consequences.”

  Palmier’s threat caused anger to swell in his throat. “That works both ways, Palmier,” he said. “I talked to Jillian yesterday. She said she was afraid for her life. She said Genevive security men had threatened her. They had been following her 24/7.”

  “Wow that surprises me. Although I’ve never talked to Miss Andrews, I know people who knew her. I promise you no one else holds that theory. Sure, Genevive is concerned with security at the hot springs. We account for a large part of their customer base. To think that our security force has been harassing the poor woman is preposterous.”

  “I’m conveying the facts as she told me.”

  “Given that the woman had planned on blowing her brains out the next day, maybe her mind wasn’t all that clear, Halliday.”

  Palmier’s acidic reply slapped him in the face. “What else does your crystal ball tell you? Does it say that Genevive will close down the public spa across the street from Jillian’s spa?”

  Halliday hung up the phone before he said something really stupid like “Isn’t it true that Jillian discovered that Genevive Labs had been dumping animal carcasses and human remains down a well beneath a science lab?”

  He dropped his aching head in his hands.

  They murdered Jillian Andrews.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Rich Gladstone drove. They headed out to Jillian Andrews’ house on the county road in an unmarked police car. The cloudless sky aided by the summer-like temperature served up a healthy tonic for Halliday’s physical ills. The flat west side of town lacked the picturesque greenery of east Santa Reina. It more represented the San Joaquin Valley that extended from Sacramento south to the Tehachapi Mountains, near Los Angeles.

  They passed the public golf course that should be vacant this time of year. Avid golfers scattered over the faded green like the designs on one of his Korean blankets.

  Gladstone, milking his birthday entitlement upped the music on the FM radio. It annoyed Halliday. He readjusted the volume to a whisper.

  “That’s quite a coincidence. First a fire, then a suicide,” Gladstone said. “You suspect foul play out at the hot springs this morning?”

  “I don’t know. There are several issues involving Genevive Labs. Not all of it adds up.”

  The young detective squirmed, adjusting in the seat. “It must be difficult shooting yourself in the head with a hunting rifle, especially for a woman.”

  The kid’s thoughts paralleled his own. “I’m leaving the perpetrator of Jillian Andrews’ death open until all the evidence is in. Based on her employees’ responses yesterday, I question whether Jillian stuck the barrel of a hunting rifle in her mouth and somehow pulled the trigger. They said she led a full life that began each day with a smile. Genevive Labs’ personnel were the last to see her alive.”

  Gladstone muttered, “Numb nuts,” after swerving around a slow moving vehicle. He glanced at Halliday and said, “As you said, ‘looks are deceiving.’ You’re not the only one that believes Genevive is up to no good. I ran into Tommy Hartnett at lunch yesterday. The crazy Tribune reporter is convinced the biotech outfit is bent on taking over the world. He said their first order of business required flushing Santa Reina down the toilet.”

  Gladstone had defined Genevive Labs’ intentions quite succinctly. “Tommy has a tendency to go overboard. You didn’t mention Laurel McKittrick to him, did you?”

  “Hell, no. The old man should retire,” Gladstone said. “I heard you were out at the hot springs yesterday.”

  “I questioned the deceased. Turns out Miss Andrews employed Laurel McKittrick before she married Brad Palmier.”

  Gladstone gave no comment.

  A few minutes later the young detective avoided potholes as he rambled down the narrow Hillside Lane.

  Jillian’s house lay in a flat unincorporated area northwest of downtown Santa Reina. The few streetlamps were installed by homeowners. The ranch style houses were situated on large lots, up to five acres. Jillian Andrews had lived in an old, well kept home on a cul-de-sac. Eucalyptus trees dominated the one acre plot of land.

  Two large weeping willows draped the front yard of Jillian’s house. Gladstone made a quick U-turn. He parked on the opposite side of the street, as if it would draw less attention.

  An old golden retriever wagged his tail at the unlocked gate. With Gladstone and the dog following, Halliday trudged ahead. His first encounter with Laurel held more importance that investigating Jillian Andrews’s tragic death.

  Jillian’s ranch style house had been built around the time the first astronauts had flown to the moon. Unlike the newer homes constructed on cement slabs, the old house rested on cinder blocks. The two or three bedroom single story house had a new roof. Halliday guessed the cracked stucco had replaced an original wood siding. A row of eucalyptus trees shielded a smaller guesthouse or bungalow in the rear. The long empty driveway ended at a closed garage.

  “No one’s home,” Gladstone said, pointing out the obvious. “I feel like I’m in Kansas.”

  Halliday’s intuition took over. “Let’s begin at the guesthouse.”

  They walked to the rear of the property. Silence prevailed except for the familiar calm wind through the trees. More eucalyptus trees edged Jillian’s backyard. Halliday could barely make out a roof through the rear of the property.

  Jillian had said she lived alone. Halliday had his doubts.

  They stood under a lone walnut tree near the entrance to the guest house. He had seen no vehicles out front. The neighborhood reeked of quiet, in respect to Jillian.


  “Gladstone, I’ll do the guesthouse.”

  “Be my guest.” Gladstone stepped back under the tree. He lit up a smoke instead of chewing a slice of gum.

  Halliday’s phone rang, clearing a covey of birds out of the walnut tree. A young sparrow fluttered above his head before it found its wings. He walked toward the rear of the property.

  “Detective Halliday, where are you? Jillian’s been murdered.”

  The sorrow in her voice sounded authentic. “Laurel, I tried to tell you earlier.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m at Jillian’s house. Where are you now?”

  “I’m in a safe place. I feel terrible… Jillian...”

  “They are calling it a suicide.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Jillian was murdered.”

  “Do you have any proof?”

  “Not yet. Believe me, she was murdered.”

  Halliday listened to her sobs until the sound compounded the ache in his head.

  “I’m sure Brad played a role in her death. “Oh god, did you tell the rat that I threatened to incapacitate him October 31st?”

  “Yes. I had to exercise my professional duty to recommend that he stay on the Genevive campus that day. I believe he’s worried, or at least considering the possibility that you’ll carry out your threat. The downside is that if Palmier feels threatened he’ll use every dirty trick in the book to save himself. Am I wrong?”

  “No, I’m afraid you are spot on. I expect Brad to attempt to ‘take me down’ as you policemen say. I’m prepared for anything. It wouldn’t surprise me if Jillian’s murder got approval from the top. CEO Robert Gartner is every bit as evil as Brad.”

  “Why would Genevive want to do away with Jillian?”

  “Jillian waged a constant battle against Brad and Genevive Labs. You could describe me as her silent partner. She knew that they had been dumping refuse that polluted the underground water system. Her fight grew more personal because she had a much higher visibility.”

  “Laurel, you shouldn’t blame yourself. What made her fight more personal?”

  “Jillian is a direct descendant of the original owner of the property where Genevive Labs stand. Her full name is Jillian Foxworth Andrews.”