The elevator stopped, the doors slid open, and Dr. Spears led the way into a glass-walled room suspended in space by lattices of color-coded steel bars. I saw that the entire level was made up of a number of glass-walled rooms secured to the main structure and suspended eighty or so feet above the ground. All the people I could see were wearing business suits.
“So where do all the people in white coats work?” I asked Spears.
The doctor handed me a towel that had been placed on the boardroom table. “All this is just admin, accounting, sales, marketing. Below us—underground—is where most of our research is done. Please have a seat,” she said. “Water?”
I declined. I'd had enough of the stuff already. I took the digital voice recorder from my pocket and placed it on the table. “Hope you don't mind, Doc. I've been known to forget my own mother's name.”
“No problem.” Spears wore an executive smile that packed as much warmth as a cardboard box in November. “How can I help you today?”
“Doc, I spent last week in Japan, investigating the possible murder of Dr. Tanaka—”
She blinked and leaned forward in her seat. “Murder?”
“I said possible murder.”
“But I thought… Hideo had been attacked by a shark.”
“A witness has come forward.”
“Oh, my god… who—”
“What sort of relationship did Dr. Tanaka and Professor Boyle have?”
The doctor frowned. “You believe Professor Boyle could have had something to do with Hideo's murder?”
Spears was no dummy. “Don't infer too much from my questions, Doc. I'm just following lines of inquiry.”
“I knew Hideo better than I know Sean. He was vocal about his passion—a real fanatic. The deep sea was his life and he was determined to imbue everyone with a sense of wonder about what a special world it was down there. Sean is more reserved—keeps pretty much to himself. They were both great scientists, at the very top of their respective fields. I believe they got along, but more because they were opposites attracting than because they were best friends.”
“So they were buddies.”
“They weren't enemies,” she corrected.
“What were they working on?” I asked, knowing exactly what the answer would be.
“Can't tell you that, Special Agent. You'll have to find out through channels at your end. All I can say is that they were working on something for you, or rather, your employer. But as a DoD investigator, you know that, otherwise you wouldn't be here, right?”
Doc Spears might have been surprised to hear how little I actually did know. As for the secrecy issue, there was always the chance she might forget about all the agreements she'd signed to keep her mouth shut. Yeah, about as much chance as I'd have of waking up married to Penelope Cruz. Next question. “How long had Tanaka and Boyle been working together?”
“Their research program had been running around two and a half years.”
“Is it unusual for two specialists from completely different branches of science to work together?”
“Not so long ago, I'd have said yes, because until recently there was very little collaboration between the branches of science. But that's changing these days. There's a growing realization that intuitive leaps in one field can sometimes come from another entirely different one. The newer branches of science, like genetics, are helping this along. Here at MG we have geneticists working with medical doctors, agriculturalists, infectious disease specialists, and so on.”
I threw a curve ball. “Why's it necessary to arm your security personnel?”
“What's that got to do with Dr. Tanaka's death?”
“At the moment, Doc, as to what's relevant, I don't know what is and what isn't.”
She gave a barely perceptible shrug. “There are a large number of people who don't agree with what MG does. We gained a public profile from the work we did eradicating the varroa mite. You know about that?”
“Yes.”
“Well, not all the attention was helpful or positive. We've had our fair share of threats and demonstrations. Some from religious fanatics—the sort of people who are convinced Galileo should have been burned at the stake. Others from environmental extremist groups. And then there are always the animal rights activists. Finally, there's the possibility—remote though it may seem in these days of wireless information transfer—of industrial spies sneaking around. The weapon you're referring to is the Taser, I assume?”
“ Uh-huh.”
“Which is purely defensive and nonlethal. We have a duty of care to the people we employ to protect us. They require their own protection.” She tilted her head and put a finger to her lips as if she was considering both her answer and the question. “You might not know what's relevant or not to your investigation, Special Agent, but would you mind telling me at least why you're asking?”
“Arming your security with NLWs like Tasers seems a little at odds with your public profile—the friendly, socially aware, politically correct one you push so hard. I checked out your Web site, Doc, and you're greener than green, with a halo Mother Teresa would have envied.”
“Welcome to business in the new millennium.” She said it defensively.
“I'd like to talk to some of the people who worked with Tanaka and Boyle.”
“I'm sorry, Special Agent, but that's impossible. Unless I get the proper security clearances. Provide them, and you can talk to whomever you choose.”
I doubted that I would get those clearances without a ton of forms signed in triplicate, by which time everyone would have lost interest—at least on the subject of who did what to whom, especially when “who” was now, in all probability, every bit as dead as “whom.” But my gut told me people at the Pentagon were worrying about something going on here at Moreton Genetics, only no one wanted to turn on the lights and give me a good look at whatever it was. “So tell me, Dr. Spears, what happens with the Tanaka/Boyle research program? Do you shut it down, file it away? Or does someone else take it over?”
“Much of their research program was backed up. We've got their hard disks but unfortunately we've lost their genius. Professor Boyle and Dr. Tanaka were unique, Agent Cooper. They are irreplaceable. Nevertheless, we're hopeful of being able to pick up the threads.”
The doctor might have been hopeful, but she didn't seem all that certain. Maybe without Tanaka and Boyle on the job, the program was dead in the water. No pun intended. I waited for more information but none came. Spears glanced at her watch, and then at the door of another glass box across the void, impatient to be someplace else. “Special Agent, I'm sorry, but I have another appointment. If you have no other questions… ?”
“Just one more, Doc, for the moment. Can you think of any reason why Professor Boyle would want to murder Dr. Tanaka?”
“Oh, my god… so you really think that's what happened?” Spears leaned forward and wrung her hands. “You think Sean threw Hideo into the jaws of a shark? Is that what your witness saw?”
“As I said, I'm just checking lines of inquiry.” I ignored her questions and reiterated mine. “So—any reason?”
The doctor shook her head slowly. “No … no …” But the way she said it, the fright in her face as she stared back at me, I wasn't so sure.
ELEVEN
At the MG security gate, I gave Jacki and Jill a parting wave and earned scowls and folded arms in return. The drive back to town was slow going. Twenty minutes out on the 101, the traffic ground to a halt in a snarl that trapped me between two exits. Also, either the fuel gauge was broken or the engine was running on fumes. It didn't look like I was going anywhere for a while, so I killed the ignition. The motor kept going, though, rumbling and coughing until it finally made up its mind to stop with a knocking sound that also violently shook the vehicle.
There was nothing to do but sit and think. I had a dead Dr. Tanaka, murdered, according to an unreliable witness, by a now-dead Professor Boyle, who was himself killed by an appar
ent attack of either karma or bad luck—I could take my pick. I had the company they were working for, Moreton Genetics, saying nothing, as mute as the people back in Washington who were paying all the bills. I also had ice-rain slanting in through the broken window like a shower of little razor blades. I needed something to stuff in the gap. There was plenty of rubbish on the floor of the passenger side—disposable cups and burger wrappers—but nothing that wouldn't get turned to instant mush by the deluge, so I shook the pages out of the manila folder Arlen had given me and used the folder. Then, with nothing better to do than watch the steady stream of emergency vehicles making their way up and down the lanes closed to all other traffic, I flipped through the material itself. I'd already skimmed most of it, except for an addendum about the latest in NLWs—nonlethal weapons.
That was intriguing in itself. Arlen had included it for a reason. Did it confirm, in an oblique way, that what Tanaka, Boyle, and Moreton Genetics were developing was some sort of biological nonlethal weapon? Or was it included because MG had developed NLWs for the military in the past? As for NLWs, generally speaking, the “nonlethal” part was a misnomer. It implied some caring for the target on the part of the targeter. From my knowledge, however, no one had ever been disabled by a nonlethal weapon that carefully placed them in a comfy chair with a hot dog. More often than not, NLWs were used to set up the target for a sucker punch, which was, in most instances, lethal in the extreme.
Arlen's notes confirmed this. There was a description of the Taser, which I already knew about. There was also a page about the missile that fried all electronic circuitry within a three-hundred-yard range so that an air base could be approached and stealthily overwhelmed by an attacking force and, theoretically, wiped out without one of our people breaking so much as a fingernail. I had no ethical problem with this—if someone was going to get killed in a battle, I was all for it being the other guy. But, being in the language police, the term “nonlethal” made me want to reach for my handcuffs and call for backup.
I checked the traffic situation. No one in front or behind was moving. It occurred to me that it was the night before Christmas and nothing was stirring except for San Francisco's entire fleet of emergency services vehicles. I went back to reading.
Here was something I didn't know: stuff called “Liquid Ball-Bearings” containing hollow smart particles that released an ultraslippery agent in response to heat. The idea was that you could spray it on a doorknob, making it impossible to twist open by anyone not wearing special gloves. It could also be sprayed on floors, saving a fortune on banana skins. It was totally non-toxic and water-soluble. I could see it being placed in kids' Christmas stockings sooner or later, along with the next item, called “Spray ‘n' Stay.” Cute. Again nontoxic and biodegradable, this was a substance created by the genetic modification of a protein used by the orb-weaving spider in the production of its web. The spray, which came out of the nozzle as a kind of string, quick-dried as strong and fine as fishing line. Who came up with this shit? Silly question. I knew that already and two of them were dead.
The car behind me honked. I hadn't noticed that the traffic had started to move. I turned the key. The starter motor ground out a dirge. I gave it another try. Same result. First it didn't want to stop and now it didn't want to start. I tried again and it rumbled into reluctant life.
I turned on the headlights. The tourist blurb I'd found in my hotel room said night didn't fall around here till five o'clock at this time of year, but it was only four-thirty and it was already dark.
As the section of traffic jam I was in nudged toward the city, I could see the smoking Transamerica building, helicopters circling it, spotlights on full flood. I rang the cell number Eugene Metzler had given me. After half a dozen rings, he answered it with a snarled, “Yeah?”
“Eugene, Vin Cooper.”
“Yeah, Cooper, what can I do for you? Haven't seen you around here.”
“Wanted to keep out of your hair.”
“Please, no hair jokes. What can I do you for?”
“Just checking in. You still thinking it was a hit on a wise guy made to look like something else?”
“Yeah. Be honest with you, Cooper. Some things don't fit but it's still the only theory that makes any sense to my people. We got no one sticking their hand up to take credit, except for the usual bunch of crackpots. But no one did for 9/11, right? Also, we've got a preliminary report in from the FBI forensics teams. The gas leak at the Four Winds was intentional. The gas main was tampered with and they've found the ignition system—an electric spark unit straight off a barbecue, wired to a pager.”
“Would you know if my guy has turned up yet?” I asked.
“Remind me. Who's your guy again?”
“One of the residents at the Four Winds. Sean Boyle.”
“No, he hasn't turned up. What floor was he on?”
“The third.” I gave him the apartment number.
“OK, well, I'm just gonna tell you again what I might have told you already. Where the gas explosion originated meant those bottom floors were the worst hit. Unless your professor happened to be out splitting the atom someplace else, you can cross him off your Christmas list, because only Jesus and the angels are gonna be on his.”
Or maybe the other guy would be on his list, I thought, the one downstairs with horns and a pitchfork.
“Take down this number,” Metzler said. “It's for one of my people, Detective Sergeant Ed Rudenko. Tell Ed I told you to call. He's coordinating the missing-persons angle. It might take a bit of persistence to get through as he's kinda busy right at the moment.”
I jammed my knees under the steering wheel while I dug a pen out of my jacket and wrote the number down on the back of Arlen's notes. “Listen, Captain,” I said, feeling a little guilty about the prospect of having a lazy tumbler of Glen Keith by the fire back at the hotel bar, “you need a hand with anything? Happy to help—”
“I appreciate the offer, Cooper, but we got enough cooks spoiling the broth down here already. Hey, maybe there is something you could do,” he said. “You being a fed an' all… could you come up with a strategy to get this CIA guy off my back?”
“Is this CIA guy like a dose of stomach flu dressed up as a Brooks Brothers model?”
“I get the clothing reference, but stomach flu?”
“He gets up your nose and then gives you the shits,” I replied.
“Yeah. That about nails him.”
“So, Bradley Chalmers … what's he up to?” I asked.
“Making life difficult. He's looking for someone or something, but won't tell us who or what. We got a crime scene down here and the guy's jumping all over it like it's a trampoline while he orders people around in the name of national security.”
I had no jurisdiction over Chalmers. If anything, the jerk outranked me, the CIA being a lead agency at the scene.
“Sorry, can't help you, Captain. All I can tell you is that the guy's a known asshole wanted in Japan for crimes against his spouse.”
“Hey, stop right there. You're speaking to a happily divorced man—three times. I'm liable to break out in sympathy for the guy. Look, gotta go, Cooper. Good luck.”
I thanked him and let him get on with his day, which would probably keep stretching through the evening and into the following weeks. I wondered why I was so down on Chalmers. The man was a philanderer, but then, as a famous guy once said, go ahead and throw a stone if you reckon you're any better. Maybe I was still hurting over the way my own marriage ended.
I steered with my knees again while I thumbed the number for Detective Rudenko into the cell's keypad. I got through to his answering service. I did what the recorded message said and left a name and number.
Finally off the freeway and into town, I went against the signs and took the long way round to the San Francisco Hilton, figuring that with the traffic situation in the crapper, it'd probably end up being the short way. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn't. All I knew was that a drive I tho
ught would take ten minutes soaked up two full hours. I reminded myself that it was only an inconvenience. There were plenty of people who were far more in convenienced than I was, folks who'd be spending their Christmas Eve at various city morgues identifying loved ones who wouldn't be coming home to hang up their stockings.
My cell rang. I recognized the number. Rudenko. The man had a big, slow voice. I pictured Johnny Appleseed. I told him what I wanted and he said he'd have to call me back. I was OK with that. I was pulling into the Hilton parking lot and the drink I'd been thinking about was only two floors away, calling.
The bar wasn't full by any stretch but the people there, including the barkeep, all had their eyeballs glued to wall-mounted television sets where the events downtown were playing out. Having seen enough devastation firsthand, I decided to pass on the bar and headed for my room.
Fifteen minutes later I was showered and feeling human again. My cell rang. “Special Agent Cooper? Rudenko. Good news. I could have your guy down here, but it could also be a very large sausage someone left on the grill about a month too long.”
* * *
There were several makeshift morgues. The one I wanted was in the foyer of a building owned by a large insurance company, taking over the space usually occupied by an expensive restaurant, which possibly accounted for the slant of Detective Rudenko's humor. Rudenko, the man, was about five suit sizes smaller than his voice. His Adam's apple bulged like he'd swallowed one whole. “So, you want fries with that?” he said when he pulled back the plastic sheeting.
I had to admit, the body—if it could be called that—appeared less than human. The heat generated by the explosion and subsequent fire had been so intense that this person, whoever it was, had had their arms and lower legs scorched clean away. The detective handed me a plastic bag. Inside was what appeared to be a toasted sandwich. Only it wasn't.
“It's your guy's wallet,” he said. “It was found under the body.”
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