Runaway Heart

by Stephen J. Cannell

  And then his mind bolted, and with a fast-beating heart and shortness of breath, he escaped this nightmare and was back in the safety of his office in the Virginia shopping mall. He hasn't been there," he whispered, thinking of Herman Strockmire. "He hasn't heard the screaming. He doesn't know what he's trying to destroy."

  Chapter Seventeen.

  The Jet Propulsion Laboratory was nestled in the

  foothills of Pasadena at the head of the Arroyo Canyon, near Devil's Gate Dam. The buildings were a mixture of styles, from Old California Mission architecture to a collection of two-story, no-frills additions that resembled giant air-conditioning units because of their boxy shapes and huge perpendicular louvered windows. The complex sat protected in the shade of a hundred oak trees, under the looming San Gabriel Mountains.

  Herman thought Dr. Gino Zimbaldi was too lean, too intense, and, okay, too geeky. He stood in front of his tiny office in a white JPL lab coat, complete with plastic penholder. He was a "buzzword" specialist, and Herman had to constantly interrupt him to find out what the hell he was talking about.

  Example: "Sorry I kept you waiting, but the BDB working our APOGY program was bit-busting and came up with garden salad."

  "Huh?" Herman said. Gino gave him a tight little grin before translating.

  "The brain-dead bozo who wrote the program we're running on the satellite screwed up and wrote some bad code."

  "Oh." Herman handed him a disk containing fifty pages of encryption. "Roland asked if you would decode this for him, Dr. Zimbaldi."

  "Everybody calls me Zimmy," the nervous little man said, then smiled. "So how is that oP placenta head?"

  "Not very good," Herman said sadly. "He was murdered in San Francisco while he was retrieving this. I guess I should warn you it may be dangerous for you to even work on it."

  "Murdered?" Zimmy repeated. His expression caved in. His cheeks and eyes went hollow.

  "It happened yesterday morning."

  "How? How did he…" Now blood drained. His face went as white as his lab coat.

  "He was attacked in his hotel room and was sort of…" Shit, Herman thought. He didn't want to tell him this, didn't want to scare him off. But he owed it to the doctor to at least give him the scope of the problem. "He was mutilated," Herman continued. "More or less shredded. The police up there don't know what could've done it. It was something with superhuman strength."

  "Shredded?" The buzzwords were gone. Panic hovered. And then, while Herman watched, Dr. Zimbaldi visibly pulled himself back together. "Fucking unbelievable," he wheezed, color slowly returning.

  Then Zimmy surprised him. He squared his scrawny shoulders and said, "If Rollie died getting this, then we damn sure gotta find out what it means. I'll get rid of the NCG who's on the workstations right now and get going on it myself."

  "The who?"

  "New college grad. He's the one who snarled up the system by writing all those spaghetti codes." He flipped open the sheaf of paper, and began riffling through the fifty pages packed with encryptions. "It's a lot, but if I get lucky I'll have it done by tomorrow night."

  "Here's my new number and a private e-mail address." Herman handed him one of his cheap Institute cards.

  Zimmy shook Herman's hand. "You know what I always liked most about Roland?" he said unexpectedly.

  Herman waited.

  "Absolutely no phase-jitter, y'know? He was never afraid to throw it over the wall."

  But that was Zimmy.

  Chapter Eighteen.

  When Jack Wirta finally met Herman Strockmire Jr.

  he was disappointed.

  After hearing Susan talk about her father he was expecting a cross between Clint Eastwood and Clarence Darrow. What he got was a short, squat man who looked like he was in his fourth week of chemo. The only encouraging thing was the pad he was living in. It was a beautiful guest house that fronted a French Provincial mansion, with an Olympic-size pool on one side, and the rolling blue Pacific on the other.

  The pool house decor was modern lots of beige leather and polished chrome furniture. Small, round glass-topped tables were sprinkled here and there like art-nouveau mushrooms. A billiard table with a red-felt playing surface dominated the main room,

  squatting amidst the chrome and glass like a carved oak mistake. There was also a state-of-the-art entertainment center that put most studios' screening rooms to shame. Susan had mentioned that Whoopi Goldberg and Steven Spielberg were Institute friends, and that this was Barbra Streisand and Jim Brolin's house so, if it was true, it seemed Herman Strockmire was in a high-celebrity orbit.

  After the introductions they went out onto the back porch or was it the front? Anyway, the one overlooking the ocean. They sat on Brown Jordan deck furniture watching the afternoon sun sparkle off the windblown surf. Jack took out the copy of the San Francisco ME's report and handed it to Susan's father, then watched his face while he read it. Herman didn't screw up his features or grimace like most civilians as he went through the gruesome passages detailing the mutilation of his friend.

  When he got to the stomach contents and the note Jack could see a puzzled look cross Herman's face.

  "You know what that could stand for?" Jack asked.

  "Octopus," Herman said. Not a statement or a question, just a statement. Then he shook his head.

  "It's probably some kinda acronym. The government loves acronyms," Jack theorized. "Operational Center to Protect the U.S. or something."

  Herman leaned back and sipped on his Diet Coke. "What if it stands for exactly what it is?" he finally said. "Octopus: an eight-legged creature with tentacles."

  "Why put that in code, Dad, if that's all it is?"

  "Because it doesn't stand for a real octopus, but for something with the same properties: eight legs, tentacles, uses ink to camouflage itself like a spy apparatus of some kind. Lemme get on my computer, maybe it's listed on one of my favorite conspiracy sites."

  Jesus, Jack thought. This guy has "favorite" conspiracy sites"

  "Those domains get lots of classified stuff. They have great antennae." Herman wandered into the house.

  "Sounds like a great idea," Jack said to Strockmire's back as he left. Then Jack looked over and saw Susan glaring at him.

  "Don't patronize him." There were sparks in her eyes.

  Shit, Jack thought. She's reading me. I used to be better than this.

  "Herman Strockmire Jr. is the most courageous, brave, dedicated person you will ever have the privilege of meeting." She was pissed.

  "I'm already sensing that," he lied. "Really. I'm getting that loud and clear."

  "And he is one of the few people you'll ever meet who has actually committed his life to making a difference. He's trying to stop the corruption of our national values."

  "Right. Right. That's obvious to anybody who even looks at him." Jack was falling back, cursing his transparency.

  He sensed that he was just seconds away from being fired. If he wanted to stay on the clock he needed to instantly find a way to make himself indispensable. He got up and went into the house before she could terminate him.

  Once inside he saw Herman hunched over his portable computer. "Mr. Strockmire, I've got good federal contacts in L.A., and if this is a federal program, I think I can get a quick rundown on this Octopus thing for you. I have a buddy who's on the LAPD Anti-Terrorist task force. Guy's got top Pentagon and White House security clearance. Be no problem for him to punch it out for me. 'Course, it will mean you'll have to keep me on for at least another day. But I think it's probably a good investment, given what's happened."

  Herman looked up at Jack and heaved a heavy, tired sigh. "I couldn't find anything about Octopus in here," he said.

  "Whatta you think?" Jack prodded. "Should I stay on this one more day, see what I can turn up?"

  Herman looked at Susan, who had just entered from the beach and was standing by the door frowning.

  "If you have a good contact I guess we don't have much choice," Herman said.
"Susan, write Mr. Wirta another check."

  "Certainly, Dad." She turned to Jack. "I'll show you out."

  She took Jack's arm and led him firmly through the guesthouse, out to the side of the pool.

  Once there, she spun him around. It was surprising how strong she was. His back spasmed as she forced him to pivot.

  "Stop trying to milk this," she said. "I'm trying to get him to go into the hospital. He's got a heart problem."

  "Milk it? You kidding? You don't want me around, I'm gone. Just say the word."

  They stood there glowering at each other. Actually Susan was the one glowering; Jack was just trying to look indignant. For some reason, his assortment of oft-used street expressions so devastatingly effective on skid-row junkies were useless with Susan Strockmire.

  "One more day," she warned.

  "In advance," he reminded her.

  "One thousand dollars." She pulled out her checkbook and started writing him another rubber check.

  "Uh not to be troublesome, but how 'bout twelve hundred. Don't forget the two Benjies I advanced you."

  "What a bargain," she growled as she ripped it off and thrust it at him. "Listen," she said as he put this check into his wallet, "this is important to him, okay? This is what his life is about and "

  "Don't rip him off. I know." Jack finished, trying to end the conversation. His back felt more tender than pounded steak. He needed to get the hell away from here and take two more pills.

  "If you take advantage, if you try and play him or con him, I swear I'll find a way to kick your ass." That unfriendly thought hung there until Jack turned and walked through the gate at the side of the house.

  Chapter Nineteen.

  Once he was in the car, Jack called his friend

  Chick O'Brian at the LAPD Anti-Terrorist squad and asked him what he could find out about Octopus. "Will do," the big, bullheaded detective agreed. Jack gave him his new number and address, then rang off.

  An hour later Jack parked in his office lot, locked his primered and patched Fairlane, then walked around the corner past the 4:00 P.M. fishing party. Ten guys sitting on the wall in front of the Hollywood Sports Connection casting their lines at the cruising whitefish.

  "Hey!" a short blond man with a sculpted upper body and a mesh T yelled at him. "Don't I know you?"

  "Don't think so," Jack said as he kept moving.

  "Do you have a little Scandinavian in you?"

  " 'Fraid not."

  "Want one?"

  It drew a laugh from the others.

  Jack hurried on.

  He climbed the staircase to the third floor because there was a new Out of Order sign on the elevator. Although he had taken two pills at the beach just an hour earlier, his back was again beginning to spasm.

  He arrived at the third floor at the far end of the hall and froze. His office door was ajar. He knew he had locked it when he left. He reached around and unpacked his AMT Hardballer. It was a lightweight forty-five that had seven in the clip and a burnished 125-mm barrel. He slid it from his belt-mounted Yaqui slide holster, chambered it silently, and crept slowly down the hall toward his office. As he got closer he could see that the lock on his door had been shattered. Wood splinters decorated the yellow linoleum corridor.

  He paused next to the door and listened… Someone inside was talking in a low voice:

  "If you don't, I'll have to do it for you… that's no damn way to act," the voice whispered.

  Jack took a deep breath, then kicked the door open. It slammed against the inside wall hard and he came in fast behind it. A man he had never seen before was sitting at his desk.

  The guy yelled: "Yeeeeeekkkkk!", threw the telephone receiver over his head, and jumped to his feet. He was wearing iridescent plastic blue jeans and a silk pirate's shirt.

  "Who the fuck are you?" Jack demanded, pushing the Hardballer into his face. Jack guessed he was about twenty, but his eyes were ageless.

  "I'm Gary. Miro told me to sit in here and answer phones and shit," the boy shrieked.

  Then Jack heard footsteps in the hall and Casimiro Roca came running sliding actually into the room. He had to grab the door frame to keep from falling. "What? What? What!" he squawked as he skidded to a stop in the threshold. He was wearing ballet slippers. "What is it? What's going on?" Miro demanded.

  "Jesus, Miro, who the fuck is this?" Jack holstered his Hard-baller and looked at these two guys who were dressed from the beach bonanza section of the International Male catalogue.

  "When I came in about two this afternoon your little office had been broken into," Miro said. "I figured you'd want it, so I called a man to fix the lock, but he said the door hadda be replaced. So I asked Gary to sit in here to watch your stuff,'cause those nasty people from the herbal place down the hall kept looking in. I thought they might steal what was left."

  "That's really nice of you, Miro," Jack said, feeling bad that he'd pulled his gun. "Sorry I scared you." He looked at the narrow-shouldered, panicked boy in the iridescent jeans and billowing pirate shirt who, on second glance, looked more like an ice skater than a pirate.

  "Jack Wirta, meet Jackson Mississippi," Miro intoned delicately.

  "My God. My God," Jackson whined. "My heart is pitty-patting like a little bunny."

  "I'm really sorry, guys… I'm having an off day." Then Jack sat in the guest chair and began looking around his office, taking inventory.

  His clock radio was gone, along with his old desktop calculator. The calculator was a candidate for the Smithsonian anyway. His two police certificates were missing, along with his formal Academy graduation picture. He wondered why the picture was gone. "Not much of a heist," he muttered softly.

  "Beg pardon?" Jackson Mississippi huffed, hands on his slender hips.

  Miro glanced at Jackson. "It's okay, Honey, thanks. I'll take over now."

  "I would say 'any time,' except I'm never coming in here again. Here's your only message." He handed Jack a slip of paper. "That lady from your bank called. I put her name and number down, but she said they close at five… so they're closed." He snapped this off savagely. Then he got up and flounced out of the office.

  "I hope you didn't scare him back into the closet." Miro grinned, then sighed theatrically. "This neighborhood… there's a lot of drug use and break ins. Some of these boys have deep sexual anger and depression. They do all kinds of bad shit."

  "Maybe it's only that, maybe it's something else."

  "Something else?"

  "Yeah. Look, thanks for keeping an eye on the place." Jack opened his bottom desk drawer and found a bottle of Blue Label scotch that, surprisingly, had not been lifted during the robbery. He pulled it out and showed it to Casimiro Roca. "Do you think a seasoned drug bandit would leave a good, fifty-year-old downer like this behind?"

  Casimiro looked at the bottle and shrugged. Jack pulled two chipped jelly glasses out of the bottom drawer and set them on the desk, just like Sam Spade.

  "Join me?"

  "I never refuse a drink from a handsome, well-intentioned gentleman."

  "Listen, Miro, if we're gonna be friends, we gotta get past the sexy repartee, okay? I'm not used to it from guys."

  "I'll try, but in your case it's gonna be hard… no pun intended." He smiled and nodded at Jack, who poured him the drink and then handed it across the desk to him. They clinked glasses and sipped scotch, both thinking separate thoughts.

  "Tell Jackson I'll pour him a shot if he needs something to calm his nerves."

  Miro tossed off his drink like a Singapore sailor and went next door to fetch Jackson Mississippi and bring him to the party.

  Chapter Twenty.

  When Chick O'Brian-the policeman's policeman

  and one-time LAPD heavyweight boxing champ entered Jack Wirta's office it was a little past 6 P.M. He was surprised to find his old bud with his shoes off, sitting behind the desk, feet up, drinking scotch with two nutsack chorus boys. Chick was massive and kept things simple: guys were guys, girls were
pussy. Everything else was perverted. He had shoulders like an American buffalo. His face was pink and oily and he always looked like he just finished running two miles a condition he blamed on acute dermatitis. Miro looked up at the huge, glowering apparition in Jack's doorway and set his jelly glass down quickly. He knew homophobic intolerance when he saw it.

  "Well, it's been ever so…" he said, getting up

  from the chair where Jackson Mississippi was perched on the arm like a parlor ornament. Then the two of them hit the road, grinding their way out the door.

  "Jesus," Chick said, watching them go. "Whatta you doing hangin' with those two sternwheelers?"

  "In this neighborhood you have to adapt. Come on over here, big guy, and give your little Jackie a sloppy, wet kiss."

  Chick actually took a step backwards.

  "That ain't funny. Don't even joke about that shit."

  "You find out what I wanted?" Jack asked. "You coulda just called."

  Chick moved over to the chair that Miro and Jackson had been using and looked at it cautiously, inspecting it for the AIDS virus. Then he sat down carefully, like an Episcopalian taking a dump in a public toilet.

  "I ran what you wanted through my secure contact in D.C. He called back two hours ago and said Octopus is a black op computer lab."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah, he found only one mention of it, but it was in a secure Pentagon computer. This lab is located out at Pepperdine University, in room 212 of the Computer Science building, if you can believe that. It's being supervised by something called Echelon which my friend tells me is like a satellite spy network real hush-hush."

  "No kidding. That's what my client thought."

  "Yeah. But that's all he could find on it. He said it was buried under a layer of UP codes. That's Ultimate Priority. It's supersecure. But here's where it gets interesting…"