Broken Genius

by Drew Murray

  As if reading my mind, Dana looks over at Webb, asking, “What if he doesn’t sell?”

  “We have enough to bring him in. But questioning takes time. It’s better if he sells.” Better for me, anyway.

  My pulse pounds so hard in my ears, I almost miss the woman behind us ask if we want a painting before she closes.

  “It’s too hard to decide,” Dana says apologetically, laying a hand on my arm. “Will just loves your work. We’ll be back tomorrow for sure.”

  “Yes, we will, I promise,” I say, putting my hand on top of hers to maintain the illusion. She doesn’t move or pull away.

  “All right then,” says the young tattooed woman, closing up the arms of the display. “I also do commissions, so if there’s something you want that you don’t see, let me know.”

  Back at Webb’s booth, Ace is shaking his head and backing away. I’ve seen him do the same thing to close a deal in the Valley. Letting Webb think he’s lost the deal cements in his mind that he wants it.

  Dana tenses up under my hand. Instinctively, I grip tighter with my own.

  The young tattooed woman finishes closing the display of water colors, leaving us exposed. Dana leads us to the next booth over, this one filled with overwhelmingly cute stuffed animals from Japanese arcades.

  Under Webb’s pleading, Ace has returned, and with the crowds gone, we’re close enough to hear the final part of the negotiation. In the end, ten thousand dollars is all it took.

  Ace removes a bundle of cash from the bag and hands it over, asking Webb if he wants to count it. But he only wants to fan through the money with his thumb, as if he could tell the difference between ninety-nine and a hundred bills by the breeze on his face. Stacks of cash make people behave in strange ways.

  Satisfied with the money, Webb lifts down the statue, producing a bag from under the table that catches my breath in my throat. Printed on the side is the same logo for a video game as the bags under Caplan’s tables.

  In an impressive display of forearm strength, Webb lifts the statue with one hand and slips it inside the bag before handing it to Ace.

  “Go. Now.” I say to Dana. “Hard.”

  We break apart, drawing our weapons and holding them safely at our sides as we close the gap to Webb’s booth.

  “Gordon Webb, FBI, you’re under arrest!” I bellow the words, forcing my voice to stay low and intimidating as I raise my gun.

  “Hands in the air where we can see them!” Dana commands from beside me, M&P held out in front of her.

  “What? Who? Me?” asks Webb, his left hand pointing at his chest. His right drops below the table. Oh shit.

  Ace bolts out of the booth, with the statue in a bag, his security detail swooping up to surround him.

  “Hands! Now!” says Dana, staying cool while leveling the M&P at Webb’s chest.

  “Okay, okay,” says Webb, his voice wobbling on the edge of panic. Being at the business end of two pistols will do that to a person, and it’s exactly how I want him. He manages to get both hands up in the air, empty.

  “Gordon Webb, you’re under arrest on suspicion of terrorism,” I say, reciting his Miranda rights as Dana pulls his hands behind his back and into cuffs.

  Webb’s eyes widen from beneath his unruly brows. Genuine surprise. Not what he was expecting me to say.

  “Terrorism? What? No, you’ve made a mistake,” he says. “I’m not a terrorist.”

  “Then what’s this?” I ask, waving Ace back over with the bag.

  Taking a pair of nitrile gloves from my pocket, I make a show of putting them on. Dana keeps a grip on Webb’s arm, in case he tries to run. He won’t. Not understanding what’s happening yet, he still believes he can talk his way out of it. Time to crush that belief.

  “A statue. Just a statue,” Webb says nodding at it in relief. “Take a look. What did you think it was?”

  Sliding the sculpture of Solo out of the bag, I carefully set it on the table. With an app on my phone, I zoom in with the camera like a magnifying glass, examining the surface of the statue.

  “Where did you get this?” I ask.

  “I bought it,” says Webb irritably.

  “Where?”

  “From a guy.”

  “What guy?”

  Webb hesitates.

  “What guy?” I repeat, more forcefully.

  “Another vendor.”

  “Does he have a name?”

  Webb is silent again. He doesn’t want to say. I don’t blame him, because I know why. Standing up straight, I make eye contact face-to-face.

  “This is going to go a whole lot better for you if you answer the questions. You say this is a mistake? That this is just a statue? Then help me sort it out. Who sold it to you?”

  “Roger Caplan,” says Webb. His eyes dart ever so briefly to the floor and back to mine. “But what does that have to do with terrorism? It’s just a statue.”

  “You didn’t buy a statue. You bought materials for a bomb. A dirty bomb in fact.”

  “A what? A dirty … no! What are you talking about?” Webb shuffles his substantial weight back and forth. His lips are pressed together in a thin line, but his eyes are red and puffy.

  Having called the shot, I have to deliver. With the magnifying glass app, I focus in on the small, rectangular representation of a control panel for the carbonite. It’s perched on the side in the perfect position. It has to be here somewhere. I turn on the flashlight and move it in an arc, watching how the beam slides around on the metal. The light catches on a fine vertical scratch beneath the miniature control panel.

  I’ve done it.

  With my trembling hand, I gently push down on the control panel. At first nothing happens, but gradually I increase the pressure until it snaps open, revealing a button, which I push.

  “Everyone, step back.”

  “Are you sure that’s safe?” Dana asks, taking a sharp step backwards, dragging Webb with her.

  “Wait a second. Safe? Dirty? Is that thing radioactive?” Webb’s bravado vanishes with a squeal as he shuffles around, knocking over delicately stacked merchandise on a chair.

  “It’s safe enough,” I answer, ignoring Webb. “Like getting an X-ray. I’m only going to open it for a few seconds.”

  Ace slips away from his security, coming over to stand next to me.

  “Is it really there, Will?” he asks.

  “Let’s find out,” I whisper.

  Holding my breath, I lift the top edge, splitting the statue in two like a coffin. Inside is a secret compartment, filled with foam, except for a precisely cut-out space, just like the Pelican case. Unlike the Pelican case, the space is filled.

  There, nestled into the center, is a long, rectangular object made from metal, glass, and silicon, bristling with plugs and contacts plated in gold.

  The Fukushima Unicorn.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  A relief so deep it reaches my soul washes over me. After eluding me for months in Japan, followed by years of being God only knows where, the Fukushima Unicorn has found its way back to me.

  If I can fix this, there’s hope the rest isn’t out of reach either. Maybe the life I left behind isn’t gone forever after all. While nothing can bring Kate Mason back, there’s still time to save Amanda Caplan, and maybe that’s enough.

  Ace claps a hand on my back, but doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. Looking over at Dana, a frown still creases her brow, but the traces of a smile flicker at the edges of her mouth. Her nod is almost imperceptible, but I read it loud and clear. Congratulations.

  Conscious of the invisible radiation coming off the Unicorn, I close the statue’s lid. Pressing down firmly, I’m rewarded when the button pops out, sealing the lead-lined sarcophagus.

  Now, there’s only one thing left to do. This one’s for Dana.

  “Mr. Webb,” I say, meeting the roly-poly man’s gaze. “This is radioactive material suitable for use in a weapon of mass destruction, namely a dirty bomb.”

&n
bsp; “What? That? I don’t know anything about that. I didn’t even know it opened. I thought it was just a statue, I swear!”

  He pulls suddenly away from Dana, lurching to break free, but her grip stays firm. Like a trapped animal he’s searching frantically for any chance of escape. I’m going to give him one.

  “If that’s true, then why did you sell a bronze and lead statue for ten thousand dollars? A little high for a statue, don’t you think, Detective Lopez?”

  “Just about right for bomb materials though, Agent Parker,” she says.

  “No, no, no!” howls Webb. “It’s supposed to be just a statue. That was the deal! That’s what I told him I wanted!”

  “Told who?”

  “Roger Caplan!” says Webb, leaning forward. “There’s this sculptor in Japan. Every year he does a new design, and every year Roger brings them back. This year, it’s the Solo in carbonite freezing. I told Roger to get me one. I’m a huge fan of the original trilogy.”

  “How much did you pay for it?”

  “Five hundred dollars.”

  Rolling my eyes and shaking my head, I let him know I don’t buy any of it. “You expect me to believe that this thing’s worth ten grand, and Caplan just walks away for five hundred?”

  “Wait! He didn’t just walk away,” says Webb.

  Got him.

  “He didn’t?”

  “No. He tried to steal it back. He tried to screw me!”

  “I don’t buy it,” says Dana.

  “I can prove it,” says Webb. “I have him on camera.”

  “You said that camera wasn’t even connected,” Dana says. Of course, she knows that it was, because Farber saw it powered on.

  “That was just a misunderstanding. I got the motion alert on my phone, while I was at Karaoke,” he says, hanging his head. “That’s when I saw Roger stealing the statue. He must have been after what was inside it! He’s the terrorist!”

  “What did you do about it when you saw him stealing it?” I ask.

  Webb doesn’t answer. He’s confused. Not sure which way is out.

  “Is that why you left this Klingon Karaoke thing? To confront him?” Dana asks.

  “Yeah. Besides,” Webb snorts in disgust, “there was another guy there with the same uniform. I hate that.”

  That explains the sketchy alibi when Dana asked around. People only remembered seeing that type of Starfleet uniform there all night, but because no one actually talks to each other at these things, they assumed it was one person. I shake my head.

  “When you found Caplan, what did he say?” I ask.

  “He said he needed to hold onto it a little longer.”

  “Did you believe him?” Dana asks.

  “In the middle of the night? No! He was stealing it. I told him if he wanted to hold onto it, then I wanted to hold onto my money. But he wouldn’t give that back, either. He gave me some story about needing it for his daughter and he’d give it to me later. But I’m no sucker. I’m not going to fall for it. Roger was always looking for an angle. If he got a better offer, he’d take that deal, but hold on to my cash in case it fell through. I told him a deal was a deal and he had to stick to it!”

  “And that’s when you killed him,” says Dana, plainly.

  “What? He’s dead?” Webb’s mouth hangs open, but he’s lying, and not very well. Time to wrap this up.

  “Let me explain something to you. Just now, you put the statue in a bag that matches the type used by Roger Caplan and handed the whole thing over to my associate.”

  “So what? Those bags were giveaways a couple of years ago at Super-Con. Anybody could have the same one.”

  “Anybody could have one that looks like this one, it’s true. But it wouldn’t be the same.” I pick it up with two gloved fingers, looking closely at the logo and pointing. “See the smear right there? That’s blood. I’m willing to bet my beach house that when the lab lifts it off, they’ll match it to Roger Caplan.

  “You fought with Caplan over the statue,” I continue, watching Webb turn an alarming shade of deep red. “Not only did he take it back, he found another buyer. One that could have been yours. Leaving you a chump, with no statue, and no cash. So, you killed him.”

  “It was an accident,” says Webb hoarsely. “I just wanted what’s mine.”

  “Accident? It was no accident,” Dana says. “You smashed his head in.”

  “That’s not what happened!”

  “Then tell me what did happen,” I say.

  “I found him in the bathroom with the statue,” says Webb, letting a little whimper slip out, shoulders rolling forward. “We fought about it. He shoved me, I shoved him. Back and forth. He slipped and fell. Cracked his head on the sink. I grabbed the bag and left.”

  “You left him dead on the floor?”

  “No, I swear.” Webb looks up, terror in his eyes. “He was up and staggering around when I left. I thought he’d shake it off and I didn’t want to be there when he did. I took the statue, and I went home.”

  “You didn’t tell anyone? You didn’t say anything?” Dana asks.

  Webb drops his eyes to the floor, slumping forward. “No. I figured if it was really bad, the place would be closed down. When everything was open, I thought he must be off getting stitches. Or nursing a bad headache.”

  Dana and I exchange a look. It never ceases to amaze me the stories people tell themselves. Based on the spatter in the bathroom, Caplan would have been gushing blood like a hose.

  And if Farber hadn’t been in debt up to his eyeballs with his Israeli investors, maybe the Con would have been shut down, giving Webb time to flee, taking the Unicorn with him.

  “Gordon Webb, you’re under arrest on suspicion of murder in the death of Roger Caplan,” she says.

  Though the Convention Center is almost empty when we walk him through, we leave the cuffs off to minimize the scene. He clams up on the way, refusing to say another word. But it’s too late, he’s said enough. He’ll go down for Caplan’s death. And even though a lawyer with a mail-order degree should be able to get it reduced to manslaughter, it’s still a case closed for Dana and someone brought to justice for Roger Caplan.

  Outside, Dana hustles Webb quickly and efficiently into the back of her car. Ace hovers a discreet distance away on the sidewalk, surrounded by his detail, the red bag still over his shoulder.

  Popping the trunk, Dana takes out a large plastic evidence pouch and hands it to me.

  “Put it in there,” she says, waving at the video game bag in my hand.

  When I don’t move, she glares at me warningly.

  “It’s evidence, Will.”

  “It’s the rightful property of my old company.”

  “Don’t say ‘old,’” she says, tilting her head. “You still own a big piece of it. Big enough to get the CEO to fly out here with a million dollars in a backpack.”

  “Doesn’t change that it belongs to CastorNet.”

  “Doesn’t change that it’s evidence.”

  “Not the Unicorn.”

  She hesitates.

  “The statue and the bag it was bundled in are evidence,” I agree. “But not the Unicorn. Webb didn’t even know it was there.”

  Dana looks down at the bag, her brow creased in a frown as she thinks it over.

  “You know how dangerous it is,” I add.

  “Which is why it should be in custody, where no one can get it,” she says, latching her eyes onto mine.

  “Only that’s not true and you know it,” I reply. “Someone shows up with a national security warrant, you hand it over, it disappears forever.”

  “Will, that’s a little paranoid.”

  “Is it? You’ve seen what people are willing do to for it.” Reaching out, I softly put a finger on her torso where the bullet hole was yesterday. “Ace will keep it in a sealed container. That way we know it won’t disappear before we need it for the ransom drop tomorrow. Think of Amanda.”

  “Are you?” she asks, putting her hands on
her hips.

  Fair question. Finding the Unicorn wasn’t about Amanda Caplan. I could walk away right now with the Unicorn, and go back to the life I had before. Only, it wouldn’t be. Bruce Sterling, Kate Mason, and Jack are all dead. Amanda’s not—she still has a chance.

  “Yes, I am,” I answer, letting out a deep breath. “This is the best way.”

  Dana bites her lip, deep in thought for what seems like an eternity.

  “All right,” she says. “But just the Unicorn. The statue goes in for evidence.”

  Without taking my eyes off Dana, I wave over Ace. He opens another pocket in the red bag to pull out a thin, sleek carbon fiber case. The weight of the lead inside is unmistakable. He opens an app on his phone, and a small touch screen on the case lights up red. I put my hand on it for a second until it turns green. The lock is now coded to my handprint.

  The case opens with a quiet snick to reveal a padded compartment, filled with foam, already cut out in the exact shape of the Unicorn, based on CastorNet’s schematics. Setting the statue on the trunk of Dana’s car, I quickly transfer the Unicorn to the carbon fiber case. When I close the lid, it snicks again as the lock engages, the screen flashing red for a moment before going dark.

  “There you go,” I say to Dana. “Secure. Only I can open it. Ace’s security will keep it safe until tomorrow’s drop.”

  “I hope you’re right about this,” she says, watching Ace walk away, surrounded by his security.

  “Trust me, no one will get their hands on it.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  When Dana pulls up to the hotel a few hours later, it’s deserted. Through the window we see the lobby is empty, save a single employee at the front desk. A lone valet outside. Even the Hawaiian coffee shop is closed for the night.

  “Let me see that picture again,” says Dana, turning off the car.

  I hand over my phone, open to the third and final photo from Han. An overhead shot from a camera in the ceiling, set up to peer straight down into the inspection area. Nestled in the center of an open carry-on bag between Caplan and a guard is the sculpture of Han Solo in carbonite.

  “Why didn’t they make him open it?” she asks.