by Josh Lanyon
It was in middle school. Brandon Everett had spiked the ball at him on purpose. But when the teacher asked, Justin hadn’t ratted on Brandon. Someone else had, though. Naturally Brandon thought it was Justin, so when Justin returned to school two days later, Brandon and two of his pals had beaten Justin up. Brandon and his thugs had been expelled then.
Years later, Justin had spotted Brandon at a gay club in Orlando. He’d deliberately made eye contact; Brandon had turned eighteen shades of red and run out of the club.
He should get his nose fixed. At the time, his face was so swollen, his parents hadn’t realized his nose would heal crooked until it was too late. Clay had always bugged him to have the surgery—it would have to be broken again—but Justin had never been able to take the time from work. Even if his health insurance would cover it, which it probably wouldn’t.
He sighed. It was too late for any of that now. He comforted himself with what Greg had said. “If I didn’t want to have dinner with you, I wouldn’t have asked.”
The memory made him smile.
***
At three in the afternoon, with a few hours to go before dinner, he decided to attend to the action plan he’d created while mowing, before Clay showed up. He was more curious than ever, now that he knew Roy Shaw was Skyose’s liaison to Ideodax.
Something was going on there.
He called a friend who worked for NASA, to see if she’d heard anything yet. She hadn’t. He composed an email to Valerie DeSoto, his friendly librarian at UCF, requesting any background information she could provide on both companies. Then he logged in to the Hughes-Simmons news archives and began searching.
He already knew most of what was written about Skyose; he’d been covering them himself almost since the company was created. He downloaded for review their history of rocket failures, thinking he could use that as the basis for his next story.
Fortunately, the newspaper in Las Cruces, home of Skyose’s headquarters, was part of the Hughes-Simmons syndicate. Justin had an online acquaintance with Gretchen Holt, the woman who covered their air and space news; she was also the business reporter for her paper. He wondered if Gretchen had heard of Roy Shaw’s disappearance yet. If so, she hadn’t tweeted or written about it.
Once he’d satisfied himself that he’d gleaned everything relevant about Skyose, he turned to Ideodax. The company was based in Sunnyvale, California, in the heart of Silicon Valley. A pair of software engineers named Moroney and Brickman founded it in 2016. They’d taken the company public in 2017.
Huh. Two years of existence, and they were sending a satellite into orbit? That was awfully quick. The average time from design to completion for a satellite was four to seven years. He opened a separate tab for the company’s website and found their mission statement: to provide free connectivity to the world.
Pretty ambitious, to his thinking. Not to mention, a questionable business model. But it explained why they were in a hurry to get a satellite up.
Assuming the payload had been a satellite. But what else could it have been?
Chapter Twelve
Greg was grinning as he drove away from Justin’s house. He’d been delighted to learn that Justin was gay and single. And witty. He chuckled at the memory of Justin’s words to that doofus ex-boyfriend. “It’ll be too late for all of us, because that’ll be the day hell freezes over.” But somewhere along the line, Justin had bought into a negative self-image, and Greg would bet that ol’ Clay had something to do with that.
If he ever saw that Prius again, he’d pull it over. Just on general principle.
He drove back to base, where he found Zach and Mindy in his and Mindy’s office. He asked, “Learned anything?”
Mindy said, “I talked to Cabo Barnes. He said Shaw was a stellar employee, no problems. He gave me a couple of names that Shaw would have been working with at Ideodax. Sam Boone and Glenn Pietras. We’ve added them to the list of suspects.”
Greg’s ears perked up. “No shit. Harris—the reporter—told me he met those two at the Preacher yesterday. Said they were extremely pleased to hear that no word of the payload had leaked out.”
Mindy leaned back in her chair and propped her feet on the edge of her desk. “Why would they care? It had to be a communications satellite, right?”
Zach said, “Call ’em. Put them on speaker.”
Greg dialed Glenn Pietras first. No answer. He left a voice mail: “Mr. Pietras, this is Special Agent Marcotte, AFOSI. It’s imperative that I speak with you within the next twenty-four hours. Otherwise you will be charged with obstruction of justice in a federal investigation. I expect to hear from you soon.” He ended the call.
Mindy laughed. “Go get ’em, cowboy.”
Greg stuck out his tongue at her as he called Sam Boone. No answer. He left the same message.
Zach said, “Maybe they’re traveling. If they were in town yesterday, they might be en route back to California.”
“Maybe. That’s why they have twenty-four hours.”
Mindy said, “You’re in a generous mood.”
“Don’t get used to it. Who else is on our suspect list?”
“Everyone from either company that was in town for the launch. Cabo Barnes, Lyle Briggs, Sam Boone, Glenn Pietras, and two Skyose engineers.”
Zach said, “You need to call Mrs. Shaw.”
Greg spluttered. “Why me? I always have to call the families.”
Mindy said, “Because you’ve got the skills. You’re a kind person, and it comes through. You can ask questions without making it sound like the Spanish Inquisition.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“You know I’m right.”
Greg sighed. “Yeah. I do.”
“So you’re saying I’m not kind?”
“Argh! I can’t win with you.”
Zach laughed. “Use my office.”
“Thanks.” Greg went across the hall and closed the door, took a deep breath, and called Mrs. Shaw from Zach’s desk phone.
A woman’s heavy, tentative voice answered. “Hello?”
She sounded too old to be married to Shaw. Greg said hello and introduced himself. “I’m investigating the disappearance of Mr. Roy Shaw. Are you Mrs. Shaw?”
“Yes, but I’m his mother.”
“Would it be possible to speak with the other Mrs. Shaw?”
“I think so. Hold on.”
Greg waited for a full minute before a younger woman’s voice said, “Hello?”
He introduced himself again. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Shaw. We’re trying to locate your husband.”
Young Mrs. Shaw sounded angry. “I’m glad someone is. Those fuckers at Skyose won’t tell me anything.”
Greg bit back a smile. “What did they tell you?”
“That he disappeared before the rocket blew up. What the hell does that mean? How does someone just disappear from an Air Force base? How dare they keep information from me!”
Greg winced, thinking of the information he was keeping from her. “Mrs. Shaw, do you have any idea where Roy might have gone? Or why?”
“Not specifically, but I know it must be related to the launch. And there wasn’t a soul at that fucking company he could trust, especially that moron Cabo Barnes—”
“That he could trust with what, ma’am?”
“I don’t know.” Mrs. Shaw sighed. “A week ago last Thursday he came home from work highly agitated. He’d uncovered something off with the launch. I don’t know what; he wouldn’t tell me. But whatever it was had him up pacing the floors at all hours of the night.”
“Did he specifically say it was something to do with the launch?”
“Yes. So Skyose must know about it, right? But Barnes won’t tell me shit.”
Greg was growing to like Mrs. Shaw quite a bit. “Does the name Ideodax mean anything to you?”
“No. What’s that?”
“It’s the company whose payload was on the failed rocket. Mr. Shaw never mentioned that name?”
&nbs
p; “No. An odd name like that, I’d remember.”
“Does Mr. Shaw talk much about his work?”
“Only in general terms. I know there’s a lot he can’t be specific about. When he comes home for the day, he wants to leave it behind, you know? Have dinner, watch a movie, help the kids with their homework…” Her breath caught in a sob.
“How old are your children, Mrs. Shaw?”
“Fourteen and twelve. They’re frantic.” She started to cry.
“Mrs. Shaw, I’m going to find your husband. Let me give you the direct line to my office. You can call me at any time.”
She snuffled. “Okay. I need something to write with…” He heard muffled conversation. “Go ahead.”
Greg recited his number. “If I’m not in, leave a message, and I’ll return your call as soon as I can.”
“Thank you, Agent Marcotte. You’re very kind.”
Yeah, I’m the kind one… “You’re welcome, Mrs. Shaw. I’ll speak with you soon.”
He crossed the hall to his own office and told Zach and Mindy about his conversation. “We need to talk to Cabo Barnes again.”
“That’s on my list.” Mindy lifted the receiver of her phone. She dialed, waited, then mouthed, “Voice mail,” to Zach and Greg. She left a message—“It’s urgent that I speak with you”—then hung up. “So no one’s returning our calls. Think we can convince Vernon to spring for a jaunt to New Mexico?”
Greg sighed. “I wish.”
***
By the time Col. Vernon arrived, Zach, Mindy, and Greg had completed their assigned tasks and learned nothing new. Vernon called them together for a report; when he heard of their unsuccessful phone calls, he scowled. “I’ll call Barnes right now. Any of you have that number handy?”
Zach found it on one of Tom’s spreadsheets. Vernon called, but his experience matched the others’. He left a clipped voice mail, then said, “All right. You three, write up your reports, then take the evening off. If no one has responded to any of us by tomorrow morning, we’ll ask our colleagues at Holloman and Travis to visit Skyose and Ideodax. Up close and personal.”
Mindy said, “Aw, Colonel, we were hoping for a road trip.”
Vernon snorted. “Not this time, Agent Leonard.”
It took about an hour for the three of them to complete their reports. Mindy said, “We didn’t get to the Preacher yesterday. How about it? Maybe we’ll find all of our missing executives there.”
Zach agreed enthusiastically, but Greg said, “You two go on. I need a nap.”
Mindy threw an eraser at him. “Hot date tonight?”
“Ha-ha. Text me if there’s actually anyone there worth seeing.”
Zach said, “We will. Come on, Min.”
Greg said goodbye to the others and drove home. He set his alarm for 5:30 p.m., kicked his shoes off, and fell into bed and a dreamless slumber.
It felt like he’d been asleep for only twelve seconds when his alarm went off. He sat up to get his bearings, then texted Justin. Dinner at 6:30? Any requests?
Sounds great. I’ll eat anything.
Siam Orchid?
Perfect!
OK. C U at 6:30.
Justin returned a thumbs-up. Smiling to himself, Greg stripped off his clothes and headed for the shower.
Chapter Thirteen
That afternoon, at around four thirty, Justin had texted Gretchen Holt, the reporter in Las Cruces. Hi, Gretchen, call me when you get a chance. I have a couple of questions re: Skyose. She didn’t respond immediately. Since it was Sunday, Justin figured she might be out having fun somewhere.
He’d spent the next hour writing a story about Skyose’s history of rocket failures and the testing record of the SkyCatcher rocket that had exploded yesterday. He’d just submitted the article to his editor when he received a text from Greg. Dinner at 6:30? Any requests?
Justin’s heart skipped a couple of beats. He took a deep breath and replied: Sounds great. I’ll eat anything.
Siam Orchid?
Perfect! Justin loved Thai food. Clay had hated it.
OK. C U at 6:30.
Justin returned a thumbs-up, then—he couldn’t help it—did a little happy dance.
Then he chastised himself. He was getting too excited about possibilities that didn’t yet exist.
He had an hour left. He checked Twitter again and found nothing useful. The companies involved were still silent, and everyone else was still in speculation mode. He was waking up his computer when his phone rang. Gretchen Holt, returning his call.
“Hi, Gretchen, thanks for calling. I didn’t really expect to hear from you today.”
“Hey, it’s no problem. We’re working on the same story, I think. I’ve been out, trying to track down Skyose people all day. It’s like they’re all in hiding. No one’s returning my calls or texts, no one’s tweeted anything.”
“I haven’t even seen an official statement.”
“They haven’t released one. It’s been over twenty-four hours, for God’s sake. I guess you were there when it blew?”
“Yup. It was impressive.”
“I’m sure. So what did you want to know?”
“Is there anything you know of that could account for this secrecy?”
“Nothing solid. But there’s a rumor that there was something squirrelly with the financing for the payload.”
Justin told Gretchen about his encounter with the Ideodax employees. “I just don’t understand the secrecy.”
“Neither do I. Anyway, I’m working on the financing angle. I’ll let you know.”
“Super, thanks.” Justin said goodbye, then realized Gretchen hadn’t mentioned Roy Shaw. Maybe she didn’t know. In which case, Justin was glad he hadn’t raised the subject. Roy Shaw was going to be his story.
He busied himself in the kitchen, setting out plates, moving beverages to the front of the fridge, waiting for six thirty to arrive.
Despite his anticipation, when the doorbell finally rang, he jumped. Elton and Bernie, who’d been curling around his ankles in hopes that he’d produce food, shot down the hall to the bedroom. Justin went to the door, took a deep breath, and opened it.
Greg looked even better than he had before. He grinned, and Justin nearly melted into the floor. He held up two full bags of takeout cartons. “Hope you’re hungry.”
“Ravenous. Come on in.” Justin closed the door behind Greg and followed him to the kitchen, admiring his cute ass and legs. Greg was wearing shorts, and his legs were toned and tanned. Perfect. Justin was drooling, and it wasn’t all about the food.
They spent a few minutes plating up various dishes. Justin noted with pleasure that Greg had brought pineapple curry, Thai basil fried rice, drunken noodles…all his favorites. Justin unwrapped his chopsticks and was poised to dig in when Greg said, “Um, do you have a fork?”
“Oh, shoot, I’m sorry. Of course.” Justin leaped to his feet and got a fork for Greg.
“Thanks. I never learned to use ’em.” Greg pointed with his fork at the second set of chopsticks. “Every time I tried, it took way too long to eat, so I gave up.”
“My mom taught me.” Justin snared a chunk of pineapple. “I suppose that unless you’re gonna travel in the Far East, it’s not a crucial skill.”
“If I ever get transferred to Japan or Korea, I guess I’ll learn.”
No… “How likely is that?”
“Not very. Don’t worry.”
“Who, me?”
They ate in silence for a moment, and then Justin asked, “Are you from a law-enforcement family?”
“No. My parents and siblings are all college professors.”
“Whoa. What did they think of you being a cop?”
Greg shrugged. “It wasn’t what my parents would have chosen for me, but they’re okay with it. They’re more okay with it now than when I was with Charlotte PD.”
“So they’re progressives?”
“Oh yeah.” Greg chuckled. “The day after I came out to them,
my mom cooked my favorite dinner and baked a cake. It was better than a birthday.”
“That’s amazing.”
“It is. I know I’m lucky.” Greg paused for a moment. “What about your family?”
“My mom is supportive. She doesn’t want to know much detail, though. I think she doesn’t understand how two men would relate to each other without one being ‘the woman.’ I’ve told her that isn’t how it works, and she accepts that, but she doesn’t have another concept map to use.”
“Your dad?”
“He wasn’t thrilled. He didn’t give me a hard time about it, but he really didn’t want to know anything about it. And he couldn’t stand Clay. As you can probably imagine.”
Greg laughed. “Yeah, I can imagine. Did you and Clay live together?”
“Yes, in Orlando. When my mom remarried in 2015, Clay and I used this house for weekend getaways until we broke up. My mom’s new husband wanted to rent the house, but Mom transferred the house to me with a quitclaim deed. The house was paid off, and she didn’t need the money for it.”
“What about the new husband?”
“Pure, unadulterated asshole. We don’t have any contact.”
“What’s your mom see in him?”
“He treats her wonderfully, and they share a lot of the same hobbies.” Justin shrugged. “As long as my name isn’t mentioned, all is well.”
“Hm.” Greg’s expression was studiedly neutral.
“What?”
“Well… I guess I wish your mom would stand up for you to him.”
Justin sighed. “It’s too much to ask of her. I’m used to it. But thank you.”
The scent of seafood—the drunken noodles contained shrimp—had drawn the cats out of hiding. Bernie wound around Greg’s ankles, meowing loudly. Greg grinned. “Who’s this?”
“That’s Bernie. His brother is Elton.”
Bernie stood on his back legs and rested his paws on Greg’s thigh, scrutinizing the food on his plate. Greg rubbed Bernie’s head. “Hey, big fella. I don’t reckon you’re allowed to have people food.”
“No, he’s not. But it doesn’t stop him from begging.”