by Jan Coffey
“I hope you’re not thinking of cutting us out of this, Curtis,” one of the principals of the investment group groused. “We’ve put a lot of preliminary work into a potential deal with you. If you think you can just leave us out in the cold because other firms are interested—”
“No, Everett. That’s not the case, at all,” Curtis said. “I have no intention of leaving you out of anything. This is entirely separate.”
“Well, this isn’t the way we do business here at—”
“I have to ask you to trust me on this, gentlemen. I’ll transfer you now to my secretary to set up the time.”
Curtis didn’t wait for a response. He punched the button on the speaker. “Take care of this,” he said to his secretary.
He looked down at his watch.
“Shit. Shit. Shit.”
He dialed his attorney’s office. The attorney would not be back in the office until Tuesday. Curtis asked to speak with another of the partners.
Fuming, Curtis thought about how much money he paid to this firm, keeping them on retainer. They should fucking jump when he needed them.
Two of the other senior partners were out. And Curtis ended up getting transferred to an associate in the firm. Probably two years out of fucking law school and not a care in the world. No reason to get worried about a simple FBI visit. Of course, he didn’t know anything about what was at stake.
The young lawyer certainly didn’t see why there was a need for someone from their office to be present for the interview, since the FBI had made no indication that Mr. Wells was the subject of any criminal investigation. However, if he’d like one of the attorneys to be present…
“Morons!” Curtis shouted into the phone before hanging up.
His private cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He looked at the display. Two missed calls from his man in California. He should be in Fullerton right now, and he was trying to call him again.
“Tell me you have better news,” Curtis said shortly, answering.
“We want to know what level you’d like us to go to in getting the files.”
“What the hell do you mean? Do you know where the files are?” he snapped.
“We’re still not a hundred percent sure,” his contact said. “But we’ve had our people watching the different places since your call last night. The storage facility on Harbor Boulevard has been getting police attention the past couple of hours.”
“What do you mean, ‘police attention’?”
“There’s a police car parked at the entrance, watching all the traffic in and out. They’re not going in, but they’re keeping an eye on things. It looks like they’re waiting for someone to arrive.”
It had to be done. Curtis couldn’t take the risk of sitting idly by and having them drive him into a corner. Maybe by the time Geary arrived at eleven-thirty, they’d have in their possession whatever files Mitch had stolen years ago.
“I want you to go in. Do you hear me?” Curtis told them.
“The facility is too big to torch in broad daylight, especially with the cops around. If we can get the unit number and wait until tonight—”
“You have to do something. Now.”
“That’s why I called you. We’ll get inside and wait and see if somebody shows up. If it’s the police that come in, it’ll make things more difficult. But one way or another, our financial agreement has to be renegotiated.”
“Nothing is to leave that facility. Do you understand me? You take it to whatever level you need to in order to get the job done. I’m doubling our financial arrangement.”
“Now I hear you.”
“If you have to…you know, take someone out to accomplish your job, you do it. Am I being clear about this?”
“We’ll take care of it, boss.”
~~~~
Chapter 40
Friday January 18, 8:45 a.m.
Venice Beach, California
Hank scanned the morning joggers and walkers on the Oceanfront Walk. It was too early for any big crowds, thank God, but once the stores started opening, it would be a nightmare trying to spot the teenager.
Stopping at the window of a tee-shirt shop, he watched the reflection of the half dozen teens on the multileveled surfaces of the skate park just opposite the row of stores.
The Venice Beach skate park was right next to the Oceanfront Walk and the beach, a fact that was causing Hank added anxiety. There were so many ways for Donald Tucker to approach, if he came, at all. The good news was that school was in session. According to the lieutenant in charge of the LAPD Substation in Venice Beach, on a weekend there would probably be fifty or more kids here, with thousands on the Walk and the beach.
With the assistance of the head of the military institute, Hank had determined that the boy was indeed armed, having stolen a .45 caliber Smith & Wesson SW99 from the shooting range, along with three nine-round clips. That made twenty-seven potential casualties. Donald had put on civilian clothes before disappearing from the school, and there had been no sign of him since.
By the old Pavilion, Hank could see two LAPD officers in shorts and tee shirts sitting and talking. On the Walk, near the skateboarders, more officers in street clothes were wandering inconspicuously through the area. One federal agent was sitting on a concrete wall right next to the skate park.
One of the skaters took a vicious spill and came up bleeding profusely. His friends just laughed, and he went right back to it.
Hank crossed the Oceanfront Walk, searching in the distance for a solitary teenage boy.
As far as places to look, this locale hadn’t been the favored spot with many of the other members of the team. Other agents were covering the school in Carlsbad, his old high school in Santa Monica, the bus and train stations, even LAX and the John Wayne-Orange County airports.
Hank thought this was the most logical place for him to come. He’d learned that Donald and his mother had lived in a luxury apartment in nearby Santa Monica after the divorce, and the teenager had spent a lot of time here in Venice Beach before being sent off to boarding school.
Every one of the other shooters had returned to the place where they’d been comfortable and achieved success. The others had directed their violence almost entirely at people they cared about in the schools they attended. Donald Tucker had never had that success in school. His achievements had come here at the Venice Beach skate park.
Hank looked at his watch—8:58 a.m. He looked up and down and at the beach. He’d flown up here by helicopter from Carlsbad, but the kid could easily have had time to get here by now.
Just then, three boys and two girls, all carrying book bags, appeared on the Walk to the south of the skate park. They had to be on their way to a neighborhood elementary school, but they didn’t appear to be in any hurry to get there. They were coming toward him at a snail’s pace. Hank watched the two uniformed police officers on bicycles ride to them. The two cops urged them along.
Hank’s gaze refocused on a figure coming through a crowd beyond the group of school children. As he was dressed in baggy jeans and a blue jacket, there was nothing to call attention to himself except for his awkward, stiff-legged manner of walking. To anyone looking closely at him, the teenager might have appeared to be stoned. As he stalked along the Oceanfront Walk, he simply stared straight ahead, occasionally pressing one fist to his temple. He kept his left hand in his jacket pocket.
Donald Tucker was left-handed.
The group of children was between the teenager and the skate park. Hank spoke into his mic. The others began to move in to cut off the boy from the skate park.
No one stood between the teenager and the school children. Hank started down the Walk as quickly as he could without drawing the boy’s attention. When he was about ten feet from the children, Hank saw the teenager bump into a passing jogger. The boy staggered slightly, righted himself and looked over at the skate park. He was talking to himself as he walked. The teen was only about fifteen feet from the group of kids when he
stopped, turned his head and looked at the officers. Walking their bikes, they were both talking to the kids and trying to keep them moving. They hadn’t seen Donald yet.
The teenager’s gaze moved slowly from the cops to the skaters and back to the group of children. Hank sensed that the boy had seen the adults moving toward him from the skate park. The agent saw Donald’s left hand start to come out of the pocket. Hank broke into a sprint, yelling at the cops as he passed them.
The pistol went off just as Hank grabbed the boy’s wrist, the bullet missing him and burying itself in the ground next to the walk. Hank’s momentum drove them both to the ground, and the two bicycle cops were on them in an instant. The agent hung on to the gun and the hand as another shot fired.
It took only a second for one of the bicycle cops to wrench the gun from the boy’s hand. Then the rest of the team was swarming around them, pinning the teenager’s arms and legs to the ground.
Just like that, it was over. Donald simply lay there, looking up at Hank through dilated pupils. The agent still had all of his weight on the teen’s chest, and the sound of the boy’s breathing could be heard above the screaming of the school children standing not ten feet away.
Donald’s mouth moved, but no words came out. Hank started to ease himself off the boy.
“Be careful with him,” he said to the others. “The boy is not a criminal. He has a medical cond—”
Before he could even get the words out, he saw the teenager’s body go limp as his eyes rolled back into his head.
~~~~
Chapter 41
Friday January 18, 8:50 a.m.
Fullerton, California
Two FBI agents had been waiting for Lexi and Bryan at the Fullerton Municipal airport. After meeting so many of them over the past couple of days, Lexi no longer felt like an outsider. They all greeted her as if she were on their team. No conversations appeared to be censored. There were no secret handshakes. She credited all of that to the way Bryan treated her in front of them. As a senior Secret Service agent working on the case, he had a lot of clout. And she thought he was using it to get her accepted.
As soon as they got into the car, one of the agents gave Bryan a summary of what they’d found on the storage space in Fullerton.
“This key opens a five-by-ten space that was purchased back in May 1994 by Mitch Harvey. Here’s his address in Fullerton.” He handed Bryan a piece of paper with the pertinent information on it.
“What have you been able to find out about Mitch Harvey?” Bryan asked.
“Age 62, resides at the address I gave you, with Elsa, his wife. He’s a professor of neurophysiology here at Cal State Fullerton. He also teaches courses in…” He looked at his notes. “In nanosystems and molecular machinery.”
Lexi and Bryan looked at each other.
“We have our man,” she said aloud.
“He has a very impressive résumé,” the same agent continued. “This is what we were able to get off CSU personnel files.” He handed Bryan a folder. He started thumbing through it.
“Where is Dr. Harvey now?” Bryan asked.
“He appears to be missing. Last seen two days ago,” the agent answered. “There have been two phone calls from his wife to the Fullerton Police Department. She’s pretty worried, I understand, but no missing persons classification has been made, to date.”
Bryan was still looking through the files.
“There’s some digging that we still need to do here in Dr. Harvey’s files. There’s an employment gap for the years between 1990 and 1994. All that is listed here for those years is a research article, ‘Assent of the Mind: The Evolution of Intelligence.’ No university or research facility affiliation is listed for those years.”
“That article, the time period…everything matches,” Lexi whispered to no one but herself. This was amazing. They had the name of the person who had started the experiment. At least, one of the people, she corrected.
Lexi had mixed feelings about how she felt about Mitch Harvey. She wanted to hate him. He’d been one of the people responsible for all the teenage deaths and for what Juan had done. But at the same time, he’d been trying to reach her. Why had he been trying to do that?
“I also need reports on his cell phone activity for this past month, credit card use, ATM withdrawal locations…”
Bryan’s list of things he’d needed right away continued while Lexi’s excitement grew over what they could find in the files. From her own experience she knew it was so much easier to treat someone when you knew the cause and extent of the injuries.
She hoped her experience proved right.
~~~~
Chapter 42
Friday January 18, 11:55 a.m.
Manhattan, New York
For the past twenty five minutes, Curtis had been unable to do anything but watch the clock.
Special Agent Geary had contacted Curtis’s secretary at eleven thirty-five and told her that he was running late. Curtis wondered if he was doing this purposely to play mind games with him. Try to build up his anxiety. Frighten him.
Well, it wasn’t going to work. With each passing minute, Curtis felt better about the appointment because he was going to cut it short. He had a viable reason for excusing himself. He had luncheon appointment with his grandson, and no government agent was going to mess that up.
He glanced one more time at the clock. It was late enough now that he actually no longer cared when Geary arrived. The federal agent had missed his window of opportunity.
His daughter Liz was going to call him from the lobby when they got into the building. As the seconds hand on the clock advanced, Curtis decided maybe it was best just to go downstairs to meet them. It would be even better for his secretary to make excuses about why Curtis was no longer available.
He draped his winter coat over his arm. The present he’d had his secretary pick up for David was all arranged in a gift bag and sitting on the coffee table. They’d have a substantial gift for the five year old at home tonight, but Curtis thought David would get a kick out of receiving a little package from his grandfather for the airplane ride back home.
Liz hadn’t called yet. The time was twelve noon. Curtis pulled on his overcoat, grabbed his gloves and the gift bag. Coming out of his office, he saw two men dressed in cheap suits and trench coats. He felt something slither around inside of him. These had to be the federal agents speaking to his secretary.
Curtis wished he could go around them and totally avoid the meeting, but there was no way to do it. One of the men looked his way.
Curtis fought the fear freezing his limbs and put on his CEO smile as he approached them. His secretary gave him a helpless look. The agent who’d spotted him came over and met him halfway.
“Mr. Wells, my sincere apologies for being so late.”
He was smooth, but behind the ‘I’m your best friend look,’ Curtis sensed the man was smart and dangerous.
“You must be Special Agent in Charge Geary.”
“Yes, sir,” he said.
They shook hands and Geary introduced the other agent, too.
“Special Agent in Charge sounds important.”
“Just another level of the bureaucracy, Mr. Wells. But if we could step into your office, we won’t take much of—”
“I don’t know if my secretary mentioned it or not, but I have a very important luncheon appointment today. With my grandson. He turned five today,” Curtis explained, not giving them a chance to corner him.
“Yes. Yes, she did mention it. What we have to ask, however, really will only take a few minutes,” Geary said.
Curtis glanced at his secretary. She was on the phone but motioned to him to wait. He didn’t bother to acknowledge what the agent had said until she hung up the phone.
“Your daughter and the kids are downstairs,” she told him.
“Wow! The timing,” Curtis said, shaking his head at the federal agents. “As I said before, this is a very special luncheon for my grandson. S
o unless your questions can be answered on our way down in the elevator, you might want to make another appointment.”
The two agents looked at each other briefly. Geary was the one who spoke. “Sure, I don’t see why not. And if need be, we can always come back this afternoon.”
Curtis had already decided that he was taking the afternoon off, but it would be his secretary’s job to tell them that.
They had to wait for an elevator to arrive.
Geary didn’t wait; he got right to the point. “You received an overnight document from Reno, Nevada, yesterday, Mr. Wells. We were wondering if you could share with us any information you have regarding the contents of the package or any information about the sender.”
Curtis knew exactly what they were talking about, but he gave them a perplexed look. Just then, he realized they had nothing. They knew nothing.
The elevator arrived. The door opened. Three other people were already inside. He nodded to them before stepping on ahead of the two federal agents.
“My company receives hundreds of packages a day—from scientists, would-be inventors, students looking for internships, and faculty members of research universities. All of them are people who’re looking for jobs or something from me. As I’m the president of NanoCure, a lot of them are addressed to me. And as the result, none of them, with the exception of those of a personal nature, reach my desk. I have a competent staff that takes care of those things. So I really can’t help you unless you can be a little more specific,” he told Geary.
“We suspect the package was mailed to you by Dr. Mitch Harvey,” Geary said bluntly. “Contacting his wife just moments ago, we were told you are a very close friend. Wouldn’t you say a package from him would have been considered personal enough to be sent through to you?”