by TG Wolff
She pressed her lips together tightly and gave a quick nod. “I am sure you will find my work is far above those even at more prestigious institutions.”
We walked through the restaurant together. Not friends. Not even colleagues. There was an odd force at work. It felt like when you try to press together the same poles of a magnet. You know, pushing the + side of one magnet to the + side of another. It just doesn’t fit.
I understood what Gavriil had meant about Quili and why he couldn’t put it in words—English or Russian.
On the sidewalk, I offered Quili my hand. “Thank you again for your time, Dr. Liu.”
Hers was small and cold by comparison. “You will call with follow-up questions.” A statement, not a question.
“Of course.” We parted ways and nearly instantly, I had a knot in my stomach. For a moment I thought it had been the chef’s special talking back, but it was my gut instinct. The one responsible for telling me when trouble was too close for comfort.
Slowing my breath, I took measure of the off-campus setting. An urban street lined with shops and restaurants below and apartments above. Younger people plugged into their phones hurried under sagging backpacks to their next appointed rounds. Older people acted as obstacles to the faster moving crowd. And then there was the man sitting at a coffee shop table, not reading his paper, not drinking his coffee. I stopped and followed his line of sight to Quili Liu.
“Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it.” I hurried back from where I came. “Dr. Liu! Dr. Liu!” I shouted her name, bringing lots of attention to the two of us. Men like our coffee guy thrived on discretion. Nothing kept them at bay like the limelight. “One last thing.”
Quili had started walking to me. The simple smile on her face told me she hadn’t sensed she was being watched. “You have thought of something additional?”
“Yes. Is your car nearby?”
“I walked.”
“Perfect. I’ll drive you back to your office. I’m this way.” I threaded my arm through hers and led her down the sidewalk. “Have you had any odd happenings since the conference in Rome?”
She tried to slow, but I didn’t let her. “Odd? Like how?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Anything. Hang-ups. Feeling like you’re being watched. Misplacing things.”
This time she did stop, her brows pressed together. “Why are you asking this?”
A car trolled by with a driver fresh out of the school of hard knocks. His dark glasses didn’t hide his appraising gaze. I read his lips. “Got her.”
“Move it.” I pulled Quili, giving her the choice of being dragged or keeping up. “I’m not a reporter. I’m an investigator, and there are at least two men following you.”
“Me?” She glanced over her shoulder, but finally kicked it in gear. “Why?”
“I suspect because of Gavriil Rubchinsky’s research.”
“It is my research. I have far surpassed anything he had achieved.”
“How much have you shared with Buford Winston and AgNow!?”
“Nothing.” Her words came faster, shorter as she hurried to keep the pace I set. “He pressures over and over, but I tell him the work is not ready.”
We rounded a corner and I broke into a sprint. “Run. Now. We need to take advantage of the few minutes of cover. There. The white car is mine. Get in.” I pressed the fob button, opening the doors for us. I hurried into the street and the driver’s door.
“Is that the man?” From the passenger seat, Quili pointed to where the coffee shop guy stood on the corner searching hard for someone.
“Yep. Recognize him?” I started the car and backed up until my bumper kissed the car behind me. It gave me enough room to clear the car in front of me. Probably.
“No. I’ve never seen him.” Her voice quivered then she gasped as a black Escalade burst past the coffee guy.
“Buckle up.” A break came in traffic and we shot out of the tight spot, paint job intact. We raced past coffee shop guy in the opposite direction of the Escalade. His gaze followed me, his marble face an open book. I resisted flipping him off and got to work sweeping the scene in front of me side-to-side. Left mirror. Windshield. Rearview mirror. Windshield. Right mirror. Repeat. Lots of black SUVs on the road these days. Too damn many. Too damn alike.
I turned right and seconds later, a black Escalade made the same turn. It ate up the ground, growing larger than life in the mirror. Fortunately, I had more than a few ponies under my own hood. “Choke on my performance engine exhaust, asshole.”
I put distance between us, but I needed a better plan. Nobody cleared the streets like in the movies to let us race around the crowded university. There were people and traffic lights and cars everywhere. The winner would be the one who thought fastest on their wheels.
Which would be me because I had a plan. A very good plan.
I started to laugh. This was going to be priceless.
Five pins dug into my arm. “Why are you laughing? Are you an insane woman?” Quili’s face had gone past white to grayish-green. One hand was dry needling my arm while the other had a death grip on the door.
“Trust me.” I slowed as we approached the corner, rolled around the stop sign, and kept turning into a parking structure. “Watch this.”
We both turned, watching the street through the rear window. Five seconds later, Cadillac man barreled around the corner and blasted past us.
Quili’s gaze snapped to me. “He’s gone.” She retracted her claws from my forearm.
“Wait for it.” I hadn’t gotten two words out when a siren blared and raced past. Her eyes widened in awe, maybe she thought I was psychic. “Police station. It pays to know your neighborhood.”
I took a ticket to lift the entrance gate and pulled into the secured structure. I found a nice spot on the roof and turned the engine off. It was time for a heart-to-heart with Quili. “I need to know everything you know about Buford Winston and AgNow!”
Yes, Buford Winston had been pressuring her for her work. He scared her with his yelling and screaming and threatening to pull her funding. She had given him some of Gavriil’s results last October. He had called two weeks ago wanting more.
She had problems in the lab since taking over. Equipment going missing. A break-in damaged the climate control system. A fungus breakout. Bad luck.
Or was it?
“Find somewhere else to stay.” I started the engine and left the roof behind. “Don’t be alone, definitely do not go to work alone until you hear from me.”
Quili pressed her hand to her throat. “Wh-what are you going to do?”
“What I do best.”
“I don’t know what to do.” Her brown eyes glassed over with tears. “Where can I stay?”
Oh, Hell, No
You are bat shit crazy if you think I’m taking her home. Isn’t it bad enough I have a teenager-slash-golden retriever wagging his tail whenever I walk in the door?
I drove Quili to a nearly respectable motel in a place no one would think to look for a professor of agriculture. It was just up the road from The Hideaway. I took a circuitous route as I checked for a tail and, as chance would have it, drove by the house Montgomery Rand once dared me to fuck him in. The motivation I’d created had reduced the wood frame to black ash, increasing adjacent property values by ten percent.
As I rolled down the street, guess who was sitting on a porch smoking.
Inspiration struck, and I swung into the driveway. “Stay,” I ordered Quili then left the car. “Monte. Looking good. Everything back in working order?”
Monte narrowed his eyes, his expression wary as I walked up the walk. Recognition was a cold slap in the face. “You.”
“Me. Nice place.” He smelled of weed and mild body odor. “You live here alone?”
“My uncle lives here, but he’s out of town. Don’t burn it down. He’ll never let me in another house.” There was a healthy amount of fear in his voice.
“No worries. I just need a little favor.”
He snorted. “Why would I do you a favor?”
“Call it fire insurance. You’ll get paid for your time.”
The wheels in his genius head began to churn through the drug-induced haze. “What’s the favor?”
“Babysitting.” I whistled like a construction worker and waved Quili to come out. She did, and Monte’s doughy chin hit the porch. I could see the appeal. Quili was delicate, pretty. “Here’s the deal. One week at most. She stays inside. Job pays two hundred dollars a day.”
She hurried from the car to the house. I opened the front door and ushered her inside. Monte was less enthusiastic as he walked through the door.
“I’ll need some money. You know, gas and food and stuff.”
Good ol’ Monte. “Quili, how much money do you have on you?”
She clutched her purse to her hip. “Forty. Maybe Fifty.”
I drained my own wallet of two hundred. “This should get you started.”
He took the money with one hand, grabbed my wrist with the other. “What kind of trouble is she in?” He whispered the question, as if Quili, standing only ten feet away, wouldn’t hear.
“None if she stays out of sight.” He looked at the cash as that genius brain weighed the evidence. I gave him a little bit more to sway the jury. “She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’m going to straighten it out but need a safe place to park her. Are you my guy?”
He looked at the bills, then shoved them in his pocket. “I got this.”
“I know you do.” He preened under my stroke of confidence. With a wave of my hand, I beckoned Quili away from her inspection of a bells from around the US. “Quili Liu, meet Montgomery Rand. Monte’s agreed to hide you for a few days. This will be easy. You’ll need to call in sick to the university. Make it something good, something that takes a good week to get over. Stay inside. You need something, Monte will go get it.” I turned to Monte. “Stay clear of her work, apartment, anywhere she’s known. You don’t know who’s watching. Is there a room she can use? I want to talk to her before I leave.”
“The one at the top of the stairs.”
I led Quili up the narrow staircase. The house was cut from the same mold as the one that burned. It was in better shape, cleaner. This house was a home, complete with pictures and mementos of a family man. The room at the top was small and furnished in five-year-old girl. The pink walls held thumbtacked posters of unicorns, princesses, and dancing flowers. Hard to be afraid in a room like this. Nauseous, yes. Afraid, no.
“I don’t understand what is happening.” Quili sank onto the bed neatly made with a pony comforter. “Who are you?”
“Like I said, I’m an investigator. I am looking into the deaths of professors Gavriil Rubchinsky and Francisco Thelan. As you know, both died a year ago at the summit in Rome. My team and I are certain the two deaths are connected and related to Professor Rubchinsky’s research.”
Quili froze, dumbstruck. She didn’t move, didn’t blink. Eventually, she swallowed, then opened her mouth to speak. “You know this? You have evidence?”
“Yes, I know this. I’m working on the evidence.”
“Who do you work for?”
“Let’s just call me a freelance investigator.”
She drew her lower lip between her teeth and began to bite at it. She was so small, barely one hundred ten pounds soaking wet. In the child’s room, her age and inexperience showed through.
I covered her clenched hands, squeezed encouragingly. “I will get to the bottom of this. It’s what I do.” She stared at me, right into my eyes. I let my determination and certainty shine through. I returned the probing gaze, seeing a woman who wasn’t nearly as confident as she appeared.
Her gaze fell away, resting on the hands clasped tightly on her lap. “I believe you will.”
I left Quili and Monte with the voicemail number in case of an emergency, then raced home, using technology to get a head start on work.
“Please, say a command.” My car had a British accent. I called her Bridget, slang for British chick.
“Call Black.” I didn’t expect him to answer. We had an arrangement. I left a voicemail with just a call back number. His call would be routed to my cell. Done.
“Please, say a command.”
“Call Dixon.” Him I expected to answer.
“Hello?”
“Dixon, I need those emails you downloaded between Doc and Buford. ASAP. And why are you whispering?”
“I’m taking my trigonometry final. We’re not supposed to use phones.”
“Then why did you answer?”
“Because you called.”
In the distance, a stringy, elevated voice carried through. “Mr. Dixon, I know you are not using a cell phone during a final exam.”
“No, Mrs. Gamulkowicz, I mean, well, yes but not for the test. It’s my—”
“Probation officer,” I said. “Tell her I’m checking if you’re in class.”
“It’s my probation officer. She’s just checkin’ up on me. Here.”
Then Mrs. Gamulkowicz’s voice was in my ear. “Who is this?”
Bernice Gamulkowicz and I got along like water and electricity. I could picture her floral muumuu shimmying with attitude. She did her best to zombify my kids by psychically draining every ounce of joy from their lives.
“This is Karen Murray with the Department of Youth Rehabilitation Services.” Karen was my friend from the old neighborhood and a legit juvie probation officer. “Andrew was assigned to me last week. His record shows chronic absenteeism from school. I was calling to ensure he was in school as reported.”
“He is in the middle of his trigonometry final. It would be to your advantage to understand the student’s schedule and to call at an appropriate time.” She delivered a fine verbal slap to my face.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“In fact, it is completely inappropriate for you to call the student during class time. Call the office to verify attendance. The number is in the phone book.” Snap.
She hung up on me. No wonder Dixon cut.
A text came in. Sorry. Will call later.
“Damn high school.” I had skills of my own. I needed to re-screen the security videos and read through all the emails between Buford and Gavriil and book a plane ticket to Bum Fuck Egypt.
Is that what they still call the middle of nowhere?
In my fancy new media center, I re-watched the security footage. When Carlo and I first viewed the film, we were missing one vital piece of information. What Hugo Franzetti looked like. No way Hugo drove the car; he served the poisoned cocktail. Even if the car was idling in front of the hotel, there just wasn’t time to get into the seat and hit Gavriil. Plus, he would have been seen. Someone would have noticed the uniformed waiter racing into the street, jumping into a car and then hitting someone. The reports said the car came out of nowhere, not a rare thing in Rome. I backed the video up and played it again. This time, I watched Hugo. He delivered the tainted drink. He crisscrossed the room, full tray, empty tray. On the edge of the screen, he paused, hand to his head. He was on the phone. Then he resumed working. Two more trips between the bar and the flock of customers, then he disappeared through a door. One minute later, he came back into view, hands empty and wearing a jacket over his uniform. He didn’t speak to anyone as he crossed the foyer and walked out the door.
Gavriil followed less than ten seconds later.
How could I have missed it the first time? Sloppy. Sloppy. The most important case of my career, of my life, and I was screwing it up. I would have kicked my own ass, but I’m not doubled jointed.
I needed to work smart. I called Carlo Giancarlo.
“Ciao, my American Diamond. You have missed Carlo?”
“Not in the mood. I need you to look at the driver again. Hugo wasn’t driving the car.” I caught him up on what I saw. “Somebody was sitting close by
with the car running. Somebody he could call. Talk to Valentina. Find out who Hugo hung with. Find me the driver. God have mercy if it was her.”
“I will see her immediately. Good?”
“Good enough.”
“Tell me, have you spoken to my uncle Ian?” Ian was not the easiest name to say with an Italian accent. He said it like his mouth was full of marbles and he couldn’t quite get his lips around the back-to-back syllables.
“No. I tagged him an hour ago. He hasn’t called back yet.”
“He hasn’t returned my calls. It is not like him. At least he would text me but nothing since yesterday.”
“Huh. That’s strange.” It gave me pause. We were all creatures of habit and the first clue something was amiss was often a breaking of said habit. “Maybe he’s just on something hot. I have to go out of town. If he hasn’t been in contact by the time I get back, I’ll go hunt him down.”
“Va bene. I will call tomorrow with progress. Ciao, Diamond.”
“Bye, I mean, ciao. Ciao.”
Next, I went to flights. My destination: Buford Winston of Tulsa, Oklahoma. I don’t like booking my own flights. Too many damn choices and not one of them matched what I wanted. I searched and searched again. Impossible as it seems, you can only go from the Washington, DC area to Tulsa in the morning. I didn’t want to go in the morning. I wanted to go this evening but unless I was making the eighteen-hour drive—which I wasn’t—it looked like I was stuck until morning.
Booked it. Paid for it. Moved on.
The twin sixty-inch screens displayed the emails between Gavriil and Buford in a font Helen Keller could read. The first came from Buford two weeks after Gavriil secured the grant. It was friendly enough. Congratulations…blah blah blah…excited about opportunities…blah blah blah…sure we can come to an equitable arrangement.
Ha!
From day one, all Buford cared about was equity, liquidity, and profitability. The triple itys.
There were a hundred exchanges over the years Gavriil had the grant. Just a few each month. Buford initiated the contact, Gavriil responded, Buford closed it. The messages were civil, even when they had strident differences of opinion. Several emails alluded to voice-to-voice conversations; a few made plans to meet in person at conferences.