Old Poison

by Joan Francis

  With my lack of technical expertise, I was trying to work through that, but my expression evidently looked accusatory rather than simply confused. His voice became defensive.

  “By then all hell was breaking loose. The day before Evelyn had gone ballistic. She was calling me, wanting to know why some woman named Diana Hunter was talking to everyone on the expo staff about her. I had a Caretaker come up to me at lunch and tell me in person that I could never reveal the Martian Diary. The day after your email was terrible. Even though Victor cleaned all the bugs from my office and set me up with state-of-the-art counter-surveillance equipment, the society still knew, before I did, that Evelyn had let herself in and stolen the disc and new access code from my safe.”

  “Evelyn broke in here?”

  “She didn’t exactly have to break in. I’m afraid I trusted her with everything, including my office key. She knew where I kept the combination to the safe.”

  “I don’t understand. Why did she give it to you and then steal it back? Why didn’t she publish it herself in the first place?”

  “She had tried, but I wasn’t told that until after she had taken it back. She made two hard copies of the diary and sent one off to a regular print publisher along with accusations against Blue Morpho. The publisher sent it to his legal department, and somehow a copy was leaked to Morpho Petroleum. A week later, three people in Costa Rica were dead. Both copies of the manuscript, one in the Costa Rica house and the one with the publisher, disappeared. At least that’s what I am told by The Caretakers.

  “My contact even showed me ‘evidence’ that Morpho had ordered the ‘novel’ destroyed and any witnesses silenced, but I never knew whether to believe that. I did verify that an editor at Martino Press read the diary, but all she would say was that their company had decided not to publish it. Under the circumstances, I figured the most prudent thing was cut off all communications with you, and hope that neither the Caretakers nor Morpho knew you had seen it. I had planned to never contact you again.”

  “So why did you?”

  “As far as I knew, Evelyn had simply stolen the disc and gone underground. After that day on the river, she never contacted me or anyone I knew. I figured that the next thing I would hear of her would be when the diary hit the Internet. Strangely, perhaps just selfishly, I never really thought of the possibility that she was in danger. I was too angry with her for choosing the diary over me and leaving me.” He pulled a stack of paper from the file, hesitated a few moments, then handed me the papers.

  I leafed through them and realized that it was the entire FBI file on Evelyn’s “Jane Doe” murder. The top memo noted that a business card and been found on Jane Doe’s body and suggested that a private investigator named Diana Hunter be contacted to identify the body. Across the memo in red ink was a hand-written note saying, “No mention of the disc by FBI. Find the disc. New Caretaker has been chosen.”

  “That was just sitting on my desk one morning when I came in. The description of Evelyn’s murder was so . . . I knew you needed to read the diary about Antia and . . . That’s when I sent you the next excerpt from the diary. I thought that any day you would get the call from the FBI. A hellish week went by before they called. My last message had to wait until you heard from them or . . . I knew you would wonder how in the hell I knew.

  My old suspicions about my pal Borson/Nate came flooding back. I had him in a lie. “Yes, and there is something else I wonder. I wonder just how you sent me excerpts from the diary if Evelyn had stolen the disc?”

  From his file he pulled a compact disc. “This is my program that I used to interface with your computer. The original disc was protected, so I had been hand-typing the files on this CD. I programmed your disk to self-destruct when you reached the end of the file, so you couldn’t do the same thing. I swear to God, Diana, I had no idea I would be using it to tell you about Evelyn’s death. I . . . loved her.”

  I looked from the disc to his face. His moist eyes and his expression full of genuine pain made me give up the last of my suspicions. “I’m sorry, Nate. I wish I had been better able to help her. I’m sorry I–”

  “Don’t. She was so driven by this vision, this damn diary, she might as well have been possessed. Neither of us could have done anything to stop her. I just don’t want anyone else hurt. I just want to give the disc back and forget I ever heard of it. Please, Diana, tell me. Did you find the disc?”

  * * * * *

  TWENTY

  “Nate, who killed Evelyn?”

  His voice changed from pleading to yelling. “I already told you, I don’t know! It doesn’t matter now. Weren’t you listening to anything I said? Whether Blue Morpho or the Caretakers did it, they just want that diary kept secret. Let’s just give it to them and get the hell out of it.”

  “Fine. You ready to give up your identity, your looks, your job, your friends and family and disappear permanently?”

  “Of course not. Why should I?”

  “Suppose your first suspicions were correct. Suppose the Caretakers killed Evelyn and her three coworkers because they had seen the diary. You and I have both seen it too. Maybe all they are waiting for is to get it back before they kill us. Even though you debugged your office, they knew before you did that Evelyn had stolen the disc. How did they do that? Someone managed to get a complete FBI file and place it on your desk. Who did that, and how was it done? They defied both your security and the FBI.

  “Suppose the information the Caretakers gave you is the truth, that Blue Morpho killed Evelyn’s friends in Costa Rica. It’s quite possible. That boat that tried to grab Evelyn was registered to one of Morpho’s corporations. What if they also found and killed Evelyn after she stole the disc from you. What else do they know? How did they find out? What would keep them from killing you and me?”

  “Damn it, Diana! I thought you were going to help me, not scare me senseless.”

  “I’m trying to help you, but you have to deal with reality here!”

  He looked totally defeated. “How? As you have already pointed out, they can get to me no matter what security I have.”

  “That’s why we have to know which group was willing to commit murder in order to possess the diary. If it’s the Caretakers, and they are some sort of weird cult, they could be very dangerous to deal with because they will believe that anything they do is justified by their cause. But the one thing they want is to keep the diary safe and silent unless they choose to reveal it in their own time and their own way. That is our bargaining chip. Our safety is in keeping the disc from them with the threat that it will be exposed if anything happens to us.”

  He thought that through, his own mind now beginning to work in analytical mode. “What if Morpho murdered Evelyn? What if they really are experimenting with a product that would destroy our atmosphere and make this world as barren as Mars?”

  “Is that what Red 19 is supposed to do?”

  He nodded, then shrugged. “Something like that. I don’t really understand it or know if it’s even possible. Evelyn said it was like the ozone hole, only it would eventually deplete all gases in our atmosphere, even water vapor, and dissipate them into space.”

  I was silent for a moment while I tried to digest that one. “Well, that’s two problems. Let’s deal with the immediate one first, murder. If Morpho thugs committed murder, it wasn’t the executive floor that ordered the hit. That would be done by a black operations group buried somewhere within the security or PR branches, like those who supply silent muscle or bribery to coerce countries that refuse to supply them with the oil leases or –”

  Diana saw Nate’s jaw drop, and new concern registered on his face.

  “What?”

  “No wonder he’s been so helpful!”

  “Who?”

  “Harriman Woods, Morpho’s vice president for public relations. For the last two weeks he has been all over me offering every sort of assistance in preparation for this global warming conference. He was in the audience today
. I just figured Morpho was covering its bases so it could counter anything we said here with the usual disinformation. It never . . . I just wouldn’t think . . . I mean, he’s PR, I would expect disinformation, but murder? He’s a member of the Brentwood Country Club, for Christ’s sake.”

  There was a knock at the door that made us both jump. I followed Nate to his desk and watched as he pushed a button on the surveillance monitor. A video of the hallway appeared, showing a man in electrician coveralls standing at the door. I smiled. “I guess Sam is hungry.”

  Nate went to the door, opened it, and Sam strode in with a wide grin on his face. “Hello, boys and girls. Someone call for an electronic sweep of this place?” Without waiting for an answer, he started unloading equipment. He checked everything in the room, including us, and came to the same conclusion Nate’s desktop unit had. The only bug in the room was on my lapel.

  “Okay,” said Sam as he walked to the desk. “Mind if I take a look at your system here?”

  “Help yourself,” replied Nate, but Sam already was.

  His fingers danced over the computer keys as he ran the specs on the security system. “Okay, can be only one thing. Nate, when you come in you check in on that alarm pad by the door and assume surveillance control, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And when you leave you check out again, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And when you’re not in the office, who monitors the security?”

  “Our corporate security monitors the whole building.”

  “Right, and central security takes manpower, usually people who are paid just slightly above minimum wage. No mystery here. No matter how fancy the gadgets, security eventually depends on people. Someone in your central security either belongs to the Caretakers or has a lucrative sideline supplying them with information. When Evelyn broke in, your security videos were feeding into central security rather than your own desktop monitor. Someone saw Evelyn on the monitor and reported it to the Caretakers. Maybe not just the Caretakers. Someone who’s dirty might not have any qualms about collecting for information twice.”

  I mentally tallied a few of the disasters that complication could cause. “Nate, who sent the FBI file, Morpho or Caretakers?”

  “Oh, that was definitely the Caretakers.”

  “Why so certain?”

  “Because I was contacted by the same Caretaker I have dealt with all along. He showed up at lunch the next day and asked if I got the file and gave me instructions to contact them if I heard anything about the missing disc.”

  Sam looked over his half eye-glasses and in his fatherly tone said, “So you have this Morpho guy hanging off your flank at the conference and the Caretakers entering your office at will and joining you for lunch.” Sam turned to me. “I think it is a very good thing you left Diana Hunter out there in Arizona, and I believe Mr. Niedlemyer should leave immediately, for a quiet, secluded vacation.”

  * * * * *

  TWENTY-ONE

  It took a bit of doing, but we managed to convince Nate to report in sick, send his assistant to complete the afternoon conference, and leave unseen in Sam’s car. Then Sam and I helped him with a disappearing act. I called Richard and borrowed his cabin at Big Bear, while Sam rented a car for Nate under an alias. Promising it would be only a few days, we bundled a worried, depressed Nate into the rental car and pointed him toward Big Bear.

  Next I picked up my few belongings at the Yellow Umbrella, moved to Sam’s house in San Pedro, and settled in to work the case. The only solid lead I had was the boat, and I decided to trace it and see where it led. To help with the task, I used the scanner, computer, and printer to create a bit of helpful paperwork. I decided to maintain the Shimmerhorn persona, but peeled off the padding and costume and put on the more comfortable pant suit I had taken to Arizona. It still had a few suitcase wrinkles but was serviceable. Armed with the paper tools I had created for the Shimmerhorn Insurance Agency, I headed out to Terminal Island.

  Like a divided fiefdom, Terminal Island is partitioned down the middle, providing domain to the two great ports of Los Angeles and Long Beach. Side by side they sit, in constant cutthroat competition to wear the title of the busiest port in the country. It was late, but I had a couple hours before businesses closed for the day.

  As I drove down several small streets, the rather shabby-looking buildings belied the fact that much of the world’s wealth passed through here. A few oil wells still dotted the island, but now it was mostly occupied by huge stacks of cargo containers. A forest of giant gantry cranes and smaller mobile cranes moved inbound containers from freighters to railroad cars and truck trailers and loaded the outbound ones onto the freighters. A friend of mine who works for the U.S. Customs office says they get a chance to inspect less than five percent of those big boxes. Pretty good odds for smugglers.

  Winding my way past older-looking office buildings and warehouses, I spotted the names of several oil companies, freight-forwarding companies, chemical companies, and other business that make high use of the harbor. None of them seemed to feel that their port buildings were the place to put forth a highly polished corporate image. It was therefore somewhat of a shock when I pulled up in front of the address for Blue Morpho Global Investments. I double-checked the address. Here in the midst of this dingy port sat a palace of smoky gray glass surrounded by a Japanese garden that was manicured and sculpted like cut green jade. There were oddly shaped gray glass towers jutting out at unexpected angles, creating a surprising, pleasing, and unique building. It must surely have won an architectural prize or two, but what was it doing here?

  There was no name on the building, and the place was surrounded by a security wall with a buzzer at the gate. I pressed the button, and a woman’s husky voice said, “May I help you?” This phrase is one of the most fallacious utterances in the English language. The speaker almost never means to offer assistance of any kind. In this case, I translated the words and the tone as, “Who the hell are you and what do you want?”

  When my Maker deprived me of visual memory, She tried to make up for the deficit by providing me with superior auditory and olfactory memory. My ear for accents was honed by a nomadic childhood, as my dad moved us from mine to mine around the world. It developed into a pretty fair talent. I conjured up an audio memory of my college friend Carolyn Larson, and appropriated her light Norwegian accent.

  “Good afternoon. I am sorry to trouble you, but I am Clara Shimmerhorn of the Shimmerhorn Insurance Agency and I would be grateful if you could assist me with some small information on a claim.”

  “What kind of claim?”

  “Only a little one, a slight boat bumping. Please could I come in and talk to you? I will only take two minutes of your time.”

  There was no further answer, but the gate lock buzzed and opened. I followed the walkway to the building and heard another click as I reached for the door handle. Behind a large wooden desk in the atrium entry sat the gatekeeper. She was at least fifty-five, had dry, badly bleached hair, and a face so hard I would expect her to be tending bar in one of San Pedro’s tough little taverns, not running the front desk of a corporate office. I checked her name plate.

  “How do you do, Mrs. Fagan. I am Mrs. Shimmerhorn.” I presented my business card and an accident claim form I had created at Sam’s. Fagan picked them up, glanced briefly at the form, then looked at me impatiently.

  “I just need to get one small piece of information from you, please, Mrs. Fagan. My clients were boating in the inner harbor over by Seal Beach and had a slight run-in with another boat. It caused some damage to the hull and the electronics. Nothing major, no injuries, just . . .”

  “Mrs. Shimmerhorn, get to the point. What do you want?”

  “Oh, well, as I was explaining we are trying to settle this claim, but we can not seem to find the other boat or the boat owners. We have learned that at the time of the accident the boat had been stolen but . . .”

  “Was this a boat owned b
y our company or what?”

  “Oh, no, Mrs. Fagan, but you see, you hold the lien on the boat and I am hoping you might be able to give me the current address of the company that owns it or the marina and boat slip where it is kept.”

  “Then I am sorry you wasted your time. You should have called. It is against company policy to give any information regarding our accounts. Good day.”

  “Oh. Then I am so sorry to have to waste your time. I hoped we might do this the easy way. I apologize, but I must then present you with these subpoenas. Here is one for you, one for your company president, one for your accounts manager, and a subpoena duces tecum for the specific records of the boat and–”

  “Hold on, hold on. Let me see what I can do.” She grabbed back the claim form, pressed the intercom and searched the form for details.

  “Charlene,” she bellowed in her rusty, cigarette-alto.

  “Yes, Mrs. Fagan?”

  “Look up Offshore Deep Driller, Inc., and give me their address.”

  “Just a moment.” Voices, laughter, and paper shuffling played over the open intercom while we waited.

  “Here it is. I only have a U.S. address for them. They’re based out of Venezuela, I think. It’s just Box 1902, 1792 East Martinez Street, San Pedro, California.”

  Fagan and I both scribbled down the address. Before she could hang up I asked, “Does she have the boat slip?”

  “Do you see a loan for a boat?”

  “Four of them.”

  Fagan grimaced. I pointed to the CF number on the claim form, and she read it to the clerk who then gave us the name of a marina and a slip number. Success in less than five minutes. I gathered up my fake subpoenas and gave Fagan a smile. “Your company is lucky to have someone as efficient as you to cut through the red tape for them. Thank you so much.”