“Smooth,” Denzel said.
Kotler grimaced a bit, shaking his head. “I’m new at this part.”
“It shows,” Denzel replied, a small smirk on his lips. Any chance to show up Kotler—multi-doctorate, multi-disciplined, world-renowned archeologist—would be taken without mercy. Kotler was aware of the sibling-like rivalry he and Denzel shared, and it made him smile. Even if his ego might take a bruise from time to time.
They were shown to a secured elevator, and escorted to the executive floors by a trim guard with a military haircut. “Fresh out?” Denzel asked the guard.
“Got home two months ago,” the guard replied. “Spent six years in Iraq. My brother got me this job before I’d even left the desert.”
“Must be a nice change,” Denzel said.
“Not a grain of sand for miles,” the guard smiled.
The doors opened and the guard—Jared Partano, as he introduced himself—led them to a secretary seated behind a large desk. He introduced them, and then returned to the elevator.
“This way, gentlemen,” the secretary said, as he led the three of them down a corridor and into a large conference room. “Mr. Miller and Mr. Chandler will be here in a moment. There is water and coffee at the bar.”
The secretary left, and the three of them milled about, waiting. Kotler poured himself a cup of coffee, and when he looked up Holden was giving him a look. “We’re not here for book club,” the Detective grumbled.
Kotler nodded, smiled, and sipped the coffee, which was excellent. As he knew it would be. Even better, somehow, with the detective’s disapproval.
Kotler looked around the conference room, gathering details to see what story this place could tell. An occupational hazard, but also a habit that served Kotler well. You never knew when a tiny detail could have a very large impact on your day.
It was obvious how much influence Ashton Mink’s personality had on the business. There were framed and signed concert posters and photographs on the walls. A signed Gibson Les Paul was mounted in a glass case, positioned on top of a credenza and lit from behind to further accentuate its glory. Just about everywhere Kotler looked, in fact, there were signs of Ashton’s career, displayed proudly, and meant to make an impression.
It was very personal, Kotler determined. It showed how invested Ashton had been in this place. It made clear that this wasn’t the result of advice from a money manager, intending to diversify and boost Ashton’s portfolio. The company was, in every way, a part of the man himself. A legacy.
Seeing Ashton’s reflection in every corner of this room gave Kotler a profound respect for the man, and a troubled heart over his murder.
The door opened and two men entered. Each was young, tan and trim, dressed in slacks, but each wearing only button-down shirts, and no ties. Not what one would expect from executives of one of the most profitable technology firms in Manhattan, but still a bit formal for the company of a rock star.
Middle ground, Kotler thought, as he shook their hands.
“I’m Ross Miller, CEO,” the taller one said. His hair was jet black and cut short in a messy, spiked coiffure. “This is Garret Chandler, our COO.”
Chandler may have been the younger of the two, with a boyish face and brown hair that lay a bit longer than his CEO. He had a slightly softer look, compared to Miller, particularly around the eyes. And unlike Miller, Chandler’s bearing was poised, almost like a dancer. It was a curious bit of body language, from Kotler’s perspective. Chandler seemed almost feminine, as if he were a woman forced to dress in the trappings of a male-dominated corporate culture.
Both men seemed somber, even a bit haunted, indicating that they’d already heard the news. Kotler watched their faces, looking for signs of—well, anything, really. There were details about all of this that weren’t quite jelling yet, and anything could be a clue.
Holden held up his badge. “I’m Detective Holden, NYPD. This is Agent Denzel with the FBI, and Dr. Kotler, who is consulting on this case.”
“FBI?” Chandler asked.
“I’m also consulting,” Denzel said. “There’s no Federal jurisdiction, at the moment.”
“I’ve brought them along because they’re experts on certain aspects of the case,” Holden said. “But the NYPD is running this investigation.” With this last, Holden gave Denzel a sidelong glance.
Denzel gave a brief nod.
“I see,” Miller said, quietly. “Well, we were devastated to hear about Ashton’s murder. We haven’t announced it to the rest of the company yet. The board members and the shareholders were informed by email just after we got your call.”
Holden nodded. “There won’t be much chance of keeping this quiet. Mr. Mink was a big name.”
Miller nodded, then motioned for everyone to take a seat around the large conference table. The secretary entered then, and prepared a pitcher of water and several glasses. He even refreshed Kotler’s coffee, which earned Kotler another disapproving look from Holden.
Kotler sipped.
“Mr. Miller, in our investigation we’ve uncovered a few strange details. What can you tell me about the phrase ‘the devil’s interval?’”
Miller and Chandler exchanged glances. Chandler’s eyebrows were raised, and both men seemed to Kotler to be near panic.
“Detective …” Chandler began, but he was cut off as Miller raised his hand.
“Detective Holden,” he said, “how private is the information we share here? There are … well, there are details that are classified, and they could be dangerous if they got out.”
“Everything you say to me, here and now, is part of an ongoing investigation. We don’t share details with the public.”
“But we can never share these details with anyone,” Miller said, his face becoming hard. “They would represent a …” he paused, looked at Chandler, who nodded. “A public danger.”
Denzel glanced at Kotler, who nodded. This was all true—no games. Whatever it was these men had to share, it was dangerous. But they were above board, and hiding nothing.
Holden had turned to Denzel, and had seen the exchange between him and Kotler. His own expression was more curious than anything. He wouldn’t be aware of Kotler’s skill at reading body language, of course, and would wonder why the FBI agent seemed to defer to the consultant.
Denzel spoke next. “Go ahead, Mr. Miller. I can assure you that anything you say will be kept in strict confidence. If there really is a public threat, we should know about it.”
Miller nodded, though he didn’t look altogether assured.
“The Devil’s Interval is a codename for research conducted by one of our team, Dr. Simon Patel. It’s part of the development of a next-generation cochlear implant.”
“Hearing aids?” Holden asked.
Miller shook his head. “Not really. Not what you’re used to. These are devices implanted in hearing impaired patients, often giving them the ability to hear for the very first time. Research into improving this technology is at the heart of AMSL. It’s why Ashton founded the company in the first place. The rest,” he waved off toward the walls of the conference room, a gesture meant to encompass everything that AMSL did as a business. “Everything else we do is really a support system for making that technology better. Ashton wanted it that way.”
“But you’re not a charity,” Holden asked. “You do this for profit?”
“Yes,” Chandler said. “We’re a hybrid charity. We patent what we create, and license our technology to other industries. We use profits from those licenses to fund more research and development. It allows us to hire top talent, and to better serve the community. From those profits, we can provide high-need services, such as donating equipment and medical procedures to people who need it. Particularly kids. We’ve helped a lot more people with this model than we could have otherwise.”
Holden noted this in the small pad he carried.
Kotler leaned forward then. “You mentioned Dr. Simon Patel. I’ve heard that name.�
�
Holden shot Kotler a sidelong look, which Kotler ignored.
“He’s an outstanding scientist,” Miller said. “He has a background in the history of acoustic research. He’s studied every great discovery in the field throughout recorded history. We actually fund sabbaticals for him twice a year, so he can travel and find new resources to bring to his work.”
“What’s his connection to the ‘devil’s interval?’” Holden asked.
“Dr. Patel was following a line of research from the 1700s,” Miller said. “At the time, the tritone was considered evil, because of the way it made listeners feel. It is kind of creepy, when you hear a series of them. Like listening to the soundtrack of an old horror film. Dr. Patel was intrigued by what he was learning from the historic records, and saw a connection with some of our current research.”
“What is the current research?” Holden asked.
Again, Miller and Chandler exchanged wary glances, and Miller said, “We were trying to determine a way to transmit sound directly to the brain, without the need for surgical implants.”
Kotler sat back. “Incredible,” he said. “That would certainly revolutionize the technology.”
“In what way?” Holden asked, now looking at Kotler.
“Cochlear implants, and pretty much all assisted hearing technology, would become obsolete,” Kotler said, glancing back at Miller and Chandler.
Miller nodded in agreement. “Dr. Patel uncovered research from Newton, who was constructing his principles of physical acoustics.”
“Newton?” Denzel asked. “Isaac Newton? The guy who had an apple fall on his head?”
Miller smiled a bit wistfully. “That’s exactly what Ashton said when he heard it. But yes, the same. That apple story is about his work on the theory of gravity, but he explored many more facets of physics, in his lifetime.”
Denzel nodded.
Holden was jotting down more notes. “What did Dr. Patel find?”
“The answer,” Chandler said. “The exact answer we needed. Newton had measured the impact of certain frequencies on the brain, though he didn’t have the technology to make his measurements directly. His study was observational and anecdotal, but it provided enough data to give Patel a starting point. There were reams of records, studies of deaf people who had volunteered as subjects. Newton had experimented with a variety of tones and frequencies, generated from equipment he built himself. He had done quite a bit of research into the field, before moving on to other things. When Simon uncovered his research, it was like a treasure trove. The research was incomplete, and had a lot of gaps. But Simon is brilliant, and it didn’t take long for him to make several intuitive leaps, and create a series of new patents. We made rapid progress after that.”
“So, you’ve developed the technology?” Denzel asked.
Chandler shook his head. “We’ve buried it.”
“Buried?” Kotler asked. “Why?”
Miller spoke up, “We never expected the results we’d get. The … well, it was horrible.”
“Tell me about it,” Holden said, his voice becoming grave.
“The trials went well. The technology worked exactly as we hoped. But there were side effects. The subjects gained the ability to hear, some of them for the first time in their lives. It took a bit of practice for them to understand what they were hearing, and to connect language and other symbolic acoustics with the visual cues they were used to. But they could hear. It was a victory. And then the first subjects started to experience dementia.”
“They went crazy?” Holden asked.
Miller shook his head. “No. Not exactly. Memory loss. Confusion. Disorientation. Some of them started telling us about things they were seeing or hearing or experiencing, none of which ever really happened. One subject held a half-hour conversation with her mother while in one of our labs. Her mother died nearly twenty years ago.”
“So, the technology was causing hallucinations,” Kotler said.
Miller nodded. “And things got worse from there. We went back to the basics with it, trying to find where things might have gone wrong. That was when one of our technicians discovered they could …”
He stopped, looking at Chandler, who was looking at the table, staring at manicured hands.
“What could they do?” Denzel asked, and Kotler heard a note of dread in his voice.
“They could implant suggestions. Memories. Emotions.” He paused, and said, “Commands.”
“Wait,” Holden said, looking up from his note pad. “Are you telling me you people invented a mind control device?”
Chandler was shaking his head, but Miller simply said, “Yes. And more than that. Devil’s Interval could implant new memories. In effect, the technology could rewrite the personality of a subject, even overcoming their basic instincts.”
“Basic instincts,” Kotler said, “like self-preservation?”
Miller said nothing but stared at Kotler, as if trying to determine whether acknowledgement might mean incrimination.
Holden sank back in his chair, then looked to Denzel and Kotler.
Kotler arched his eyebrows, and put a hand on the back of his neck. “My God,” he said.
Denzel leaned forward. “You did this, and then buried it? Did you report your findings?”
Miller shook his head. “No. We destroyed everything but the most basic research. All the findings, all the prototypes. Everything is gone. We wiped all the data regarding the project and had everyone sign NDAs. But we’re a private company, Agent Denzel. We have no government contracts. Everything we do is funded by our own patents and licensing. We did nothing illegal or even unethical. We did the morally and ethically responsible thing, and buried this so deep it couldn’t come back.”
“Except you didn’t,” Kotler said, leaning forward.
Miller looked at him, stunned. “What? What do you mean?”
Kotler looked at Holden, who had a grim expression. “The data card,” he said.
“What data card?” Chandler asked.
“Gentlemen,” Holden responded, “I’m going to need to see all of your security records from the time you buried this thing until now.”
Chapter 3
The security offices of AMSL were potentially more impressive than any Kotler had seen before. They resembled nothing less than mission control for some clandestine spy organization, with a curved bank of screens dominating an entire wall of the wide room, wrapping around a central set of tables that were themselves festooned with monitors and other devices.
Dozens of guards sat before consoles, monitoring the ins and outs of laboratories, streams of data running between terminals and mainframes, and even feeds from exterior cameras covering the building’s entrances, the roof, and the operational facilities.
“I don’t think the NSA has this much tech running at once,” Denzel whispered to Kotler, leaning in so only he could hear.
“I feel like we’re about to see a drone strike,” Kotler replied, grinning.
“Detective Holden,” Miller said, reaching out to put a hand on the shoulder of an older man, dressed in shirt and tie, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “This is Nick Peters. He’s our Head of Security. Former CIA.”
“Former CIA?” Denzel asked. “You left the Company to run operations for a private firm?”
“I did 45 years in service and retired with a decent pension and a nasty divorce,” Peters said, his voice all gravel as he smiled and shook Denzel’s hand. “I needed something to keep me sharp. And I haven’t been shot at once since coming on here, which has been nice.” He turned and shook hands with Detective Holden. “We’re happy to help, any way we can, Detective.”
“I appreciate that, Mr. Peters.”
Peters turned to Kotler. “Dr. Kotler,” he said, taking Kotler’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I saw that special on Discovery Science, about the Vikings.”
Kotler nodded. “I hope it met with approval.”
Peters shrugged. �
��It was interesting. Some of my buddies at the Agency filled me in on a bit of what happened behind the scenes. You and Agent Denzel are national heroes.”
Kotler glanced at Denzel, who seemed suddenly to want to move the conversation along. “There were a lot of heroes at that site,” Kotler smiled. “My role was mostly to avoid getting shot and to consult on the unique details of the case.”
This earned him a chuckle from Peters, who nodded, then motioned for them to follow to one of four small rooms at the far end of the security suite. Each room had glass walls and doors, floor to ceiling, and no blinds or shades. There were table tops built into the walls, and on these were laptops and monitors, all facing the outer glass. “Screening rooms,” Peters offered. “Nothing is private here. There are microphones recording all conversation in these rooms as well, just so you know.”
“Very thorough,” Holden said.
Peters shrugged. “Some habits die hard. When I was approached about heading security here, I took the job seriously.”
“And we wouldn’t have it any other way,” Miller said, smiling. “Nick has helped us keep corporate espionage to a minimum. We’ve had only six occasions where someone tried to steal research or data, and Nick’s team took them out of commission before any damage was done.”
“We monitor everything in and out of this place,” Peters said. “Digital and physical.”
“Sounds pretty tight,” Denzel said.
“Like a drum,” Peters nodded, with no hint of a smile. This was his baby, Kotler realized. This suite, the measures he’d put in place, were an extension of himself, in the same way that the company itself had been an extension of Ashton Mink. Unlike Ashton, however, Peters was a buttoned-down guy, and this was a buttoned-down operation.
Holden turned to Miller. “You said you locked down everything regarding the Devil’s Interval. Does that include Mr. Peters and the rest of these security guys?”
Miller nodded. “Nick has full access. Maybe even more security clearance than I have,” he smiled. “He knows about the project, and about what we found. He personally helped us lock it all down.”
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