Coldwater Revenge

by James A Ross

  “When was that?”

  “About three weeks ago. I’d just come back from a speaking engagement in Chicago and I stopped here on my way home to pick up some mail.”

  “What time?”

  “About midnight.”

  “Do you come here often at that hour?”

  “No, thank God. When I’m traveling, I usually have my mail sent to my condo so I can read it when I get back. But our part-time mail room person was out sick that week, so I stopped on my way in from the airport to pick up my mail.”

  Joe tapped the blown-up photo. “What did this guy say when you walked in on him?”

  “Nothing at first. I asked him who he was and what he was doing, of course. He told me to ask my partner.”

  “And who is that?”

  “Was. A man named Michael Sharp. He’s no longer with the company.”

  Joe made a note in his pad. “And this intruder was looking for him?”

  “I don’t know that for sure,” said Willow. “He just said to talk to my partner, as if that’s all the explanation I needed. So I told him just what I told you, that I no longer have a partner.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then he left.”

  “And you didn’t report the break-in?”

  “I wasn’t sure there’d been one. He didn’t seem to be doing anything. He was just there. And he did mention my partner.”

  “How can I get hold of this partner of yours?”

  “Former partner.” Willow took an embossed business card from his wallet and slid it across the top of the desk. “I wrote his new address and phone number on the back.”

  “You call him yet?”

  “I called him the day after I found that man here.” Willow pointed to the photocopied license.

  “And what did he say?”

  “That he didn’t know anything about it and had no idea who he was or what he might have been doing.”

  “Anything else?”

  Willow paused. “Some business loose ends. Nothing about the man in that photo.”

  “Have you spoken to your former partner since you saw the picture in today’s Gazette?”

  “I assumed you wouldn’t want me to.”

  Tom interrupted. “He said check with your partner. Did he use his name?”

  Joe frowned at the interruption.

  “No, he didn’t,” said Willow.

  Joe opened the leather-covered notebook, looked at some notes and made a few. Willow watched and waited for him to resume, which Tom understood was the point. I’m in charge here. My brother’s along to keep his ears open, not his mouth.

  Joe closed the notebook. “It might be helpful if you give me some background on this company of yours. What it does for example. No offense, but I thought Neutrogena was a women’s face cream.”

  Willow forced a chuckle. “NeuroGene, Sheriff. We do gene research, primarily as it relates to brain chemistry.”

  “Anything I might have heard of?”

  Willow smiled. So did Tom. Asking an entrepreneur about his company was like asking a mother about her children. This wasn’t going to be short.

  “We’re not a household name yet,” said Willow. “But I believe our research will get us there, eventually. What we do is attempt to unlock the genetic determinants of human behavior: why people smoke tobacco for example, or drink alcohol even though they know it to be harmful. We try to identify the specific brain chemistry at work in making the body want what the brain knows to be toxic or reject what it knows to be beneficial. Then we try to come up with things that enhance or block those impulses.” He went on to give several examples.

  “So you’re a drug company?” Joe asked.

  “No. We’re a research company with a focus on brain chemistry. Drugs, or ideas for drugs, come from that research.”

  Tom interrupted again. “So where does the money come from?”

  Joe folded his Popeye forearms and stared at the ceiling.

  “Ah, money.” Willow templed his fingers as if in prayer, and rested his chin on the tips. “Basically NeuroGene survives by patenting the ideas that come out of our research and by licensing the patents to the major drug companies. There’s considerable interest among the large pharmaceutical manufacturers in what we do. But they can be tight with their cash until there’s a demonstrated commercial demand.”

  “So you’re broke?” Tom pushed.

  Willow stiffened. “We’ve been through a few dry patches now and then. Nothing atypical for this line of business. We’re fine at the moment.”

  Tom had heard that wishful line before. “Are you the sole owner?” Willow’s answer would tell him if NeuroGene was still limping along on founder money, or if the corporate vultures had already started to tear off the digestible pieces in exchange for short-term cash. Willow’s slow, drawn-out ‘yes’ seemed to pass through several filters of weighed consequences before he let it out.

  Joe took back the lead. “So where do you keep the brainiacs that do all this research? This place looks kind of sleepy to me.”

  “It’s late, Sheriff. I’m sure most of the staff have gone home.”

  “And that would be how many?” asked Tom, wondering why the receptionist would be there if everyone else had gone.

  Willow paused again before answering. “At the moment, I employ three researchers. In addition to myself. We should be staffing up again soon.”

  Joe tapped the photo on the desk. “So this guy didn’t steal anything?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Or threaten to?”

  “No.”

  “And aside from mentioning your partner, there’s no connection between him and your company? He wasn’t a customer? Or here to pick up or deliver something for one?

  Tom watched Willow’s eyes move up and to the left, as if the answer might be somewhere at the top of a flimsy shelf jammed with photos and corporate trinkets.

  “He didn’t say anything like that when I asked,” Willow answered.

  Joe closed his notebook. “Now that you’ve had a few weeks to think about it, what do you think he was doing here? Or what do you think he might have intended to do before you busted in on him? Any guess?”

  “Guess?” Willow’s neck arched like a fastidious egret’s. “I’d rather not. The potential for serious mischief in a bio-research lab should give nightmares to any thoughtful person. It’s a field that attracts its share of brilliant misfits, I’m afraid.”

  Joe gestured toward the open door. “Did he leave anything behind?”

  “Not that I noticed. But then, I’m afraid I didn’t think to look.”Willow clasped his hands behind his neck and looked again toward the shelf of photos and corporate memorabilia above his desk. “My sense now is that I came in before he could get started on whatever it was he intended to do.”

  Joe pursued. “And what’s usually in your mail room? Anything out of the ordinary?”

  “Mail, of course. Overnight packages. Dry chemicals. Wet chemicals. Refrigerated culture dishes. Scientific journals. Junk mail.”

  “Could he have been looking to steal something?”

  “He didn’t act like it. Like I said, he was pretty bold.”

  While Joe worked his questions, Tom sat with the sense that there was something familiar about the NeuroGene owner. But the answer didn’t come right away.

  When Joe had finished taking careful notes of Willow’s unremarkable answers, he gave the NeuroGene owner a copy of the driver’s license photo and asked him to show it around the office in case the intruder had been there more than once and someone else had run into him.

  As Willow took it, Tom noted the demeanor of a witness who has not been asked the question he’d over-prepared to answer. At the risk of pushing his brother over the edge, he prompted. “I think Mr. Willow has something to add.”

  Willow’s head swung toward Tom and then slowly back to Joe, who was busy staring holes into Tom’s skull.

  “I’m sorry, Sheriff,�
� said Willow. “I know you blacked out the name and address on that license. But the Gazette printed the name and address of the man whose body was found in the lake this morning.”

  Joe’s face hardened.

  Willow’s voice was almost apologetic. “I’m sure you know this already. But if not… well, I’m pretty sure the man in that photo is the brother of one of my researchers. I think you know her. Susan Pearce?”

  CHAPTER 5

  Tom awoke before first light and brought a cup of coffee to the back porch where the sunrise was slowly transforming a distant misty puddle into a bright metallic disk that was Coldwater Lake. He got no farther than the top rung of the split log steps, before the dawn air exploded with two hundred decibels of ear splitting siren and a blinding flash of red halogen light. The mug of coffee slipped from his hand and tumbled down the steps. Then Joe burst through the back door with a twelve gauge shotgun angled across his chest and a pair of boxer shorts sliding toward his ankles. Tom raised his hands above his head. “I forget to say ‘May I?’?”

  Joe let the firearm slide to his side and reached inside the sliding door to press an electronic touch pad. The horns died and the lights faded. “Should have warned you about the toys, I guess.”

  “Anything else besides noisemakers?”

  Joe pointed the barrel of the rifle toward the slim black rectangles bolted beneath the eaves. “Cameras, so I can watch it later with popcorn.”

  Tom clenched his hands to keep them from shaking. “What if Mom wants to go out for a walk?”

  “She can’t. Her leg’s broke. That’s why you’re here.”

  Even as a kid, his smart-mouth younger brother had a quick retort for everything.

  “What if I want to go for a walk? Do I come back in one piece? And what about the kids?”

  “The place is only rigged at night when everyone’s inside sleeping, or when we’re all out.”

  “How about giving me the code, in case I want to break curfew while I’m here.”

  Joe hesitated. Then without expression, recited, “0 4/ 0 1/ R I P.”

  It was a moment before either brother spoke.

  “You’re expecting trouble?”

  Joe shrugged. “It comes with the job. This place is empty most of the time. If it’s not, I like to know before I walk in the front door.”

  “And that code?”

  “A reminder not to get careless.”

  * * *

  Kate grabbed a pancake, folded it like a crepe and bussed her mother’s cheek before disappearing into the bathroom. In fifth grade, she was already eye-to-eye with her mother. Meghan, who appeared next, had her father’s height and coloring as well. She took the stool next to Tom, opened a book and hovered over some last-minute homework. Joe entered the kitchen last, resplendent in Sam Brown boots and wide leather belt. He poured a cup of coffee and motioned to Tom to join him outside.

  The noise of boots on gravel mixed with the calls of morning song birds and the rustle of autumn leaves. Joe sipped from a ceramic cup that was clearly a homemade present from one of the girls. “We need to find that NeuroGene guy’s former partner and check his story. He got kind of squirrely when you started with the money questions.”

  “He’d have gotten squirrelier if I’d recognized him sooner.”

  Joe spilled the coffee onto the ground and pointed the empty mug at Tom’s chest. “Quit being a smart ass, Tommy. You busted my beauty rest and I’m in no mood for guessing games. You recognized him? How? When? From where?”

  “Coldwater High School. Fall semester, twenty years ago. New chemistry teacher, straight out of college. Girls were all over him and vice versa. That is, until he pissed one of them off and she got him fired by telling the principal he promised to show her how to make LSD in the high school Chem lab.”

  Joe frowned. “I don’t remember any of that. Why didn’t you say something last night?”

  “You don’t remember because it wasn’t your girlfriend who was Mr. Wizard’s main admirer. And because you were too busy terrorizing visiting team quarterbacks the whole ten weeks he was there. I didn’t tell you last night because I only placed the face this morning when you came busting out with your drawers around your knees. The visual must have jarred something.”

  Joe shook his head. “You’re a piece of work, Tommy. What makes you think it’s the same guy?”

  “The photos on the bookshelf in his office. He kept looking at them. One was himself with a guitar, long hair and a Fu Manchu—Don Juan d’Chemistry, but without the teacher haircut. Same size, same big choppers, only they’re yellow now. I don’t think he was using the name Willow back then, but you could look it up.”

  Joe unfolded his arms and relaxed. “Nice detective work, brother.”

  “If it’s him. He’s got balls coming back here.”

  “Big ones, if it turns out he’s missing a sleeping bag.” Joe slid behind the wheel of the patrol car where the girls were waiting for their ride to school. Bonnie stood at the cabin door and watched her family head down the mountain. Tom joined her. She looked exhausted.

  “Sorry for waking everyone.”

  Bonnie turned toward him, eyes hard and arms folded tight across her chest. “You have to tell him to quit.”

  “Bonnie, it was me who set off those alarms.”

  “Three times this month. Every petty criminal in Coldwater knows that Joe’s lost his deputies and has no backup now. They’re testing him.”

  “He told me that he’ll have help again in the New Year.”

  “Bullshit!” She turned and walked into the house. He followed her into the kitchen to where she stood looking out the window toward the lake. He put a hand on her shoulder. She brushed it away.

  “What’s going on, Bonnie?”

  Pulling a chair from the kitchen table, she pointed to the one opposite. “Sit. Listen. Then talk to your brother.”

  Tom poured a cup of coffee and tried to think of what his brother might have done to require fraternal intervention. The possibilities were endless. He took the chair and waited. “Coldwater is changing,” Bonnie began. “But your brother refuses to recognize it, or do anything to protect himself or us.” Tom wrapped his hand around the cup and concentrated on maintaining eye contact. “The State has all this federal money since 9/11. Supposedly to protect the border. But they’re using it mostly to revisit old battles. They want to roll up all the small town police departments and make them part of the State Troopers.”

  Is that what you’re worrying about? “The state troopers have been trying to rein in the small town cops since MadDog’s time. The pitch back then was computers. It’s nothing new.”

  “Well they’ve got a better pitch now, and money to go with it. They’re dangling budget relief in front of all the little town governments. And the town council is more than ready to offload any costs the state is willing to pick up.”

  Tom put down his cup. “Joining the Troopers might not be the worst thing for Joe. It would mean a bigger paycheck and a state pension. I know my brother values his independence…”

  “Oh, Tom, the troopers aren’t going to give Joe a job. They hate his guts. They hate the whole Morgan family!”

  Tom looked away. “And you think Coldwater’s going to let Joe go?”

  “No one’s delivered a pink slip yet. But the troopers have already lured away Joe’s deputies. The town council took away his dispatcher. The scuttlebutt is they’re waiting for the State to fund a Border Patrol barracks on that vacant lot next to the Grange Hall, so they can put one of Joe’s’ old deputies in charge and have everyone on the state payroll instead of the town’s. Even your mother says that firing Helen, who’d been there thirty years, was the writing on the wall. She says Joe needs to get out before it gets ugly.”

  “And do what?”

  Bonnie’s eyes brightened. “There’s an opening for a math teacher and football coach at Coldwater High School starting in the spring. Joe would make a great coach, don’t you think?”


  No. And imagining Joe as anything other than the Coldwater County Sheriff was like thinking of Tarzan living in Manhattan.

  “Have you talked to him?”

  “Your mother and I both have. She says it’s like talking to you about grandchildren.”

  Ouch. “Look, Bonnie, I’ve been away for a while. Give me a few days to digest the local politics and then I’ll talk to him.”

  She reached for his hand. “Don’t put it off, Tom. The longer he waits…” The phone next to the cupboard began to trill, interrupting whatever consequence she’d intended to bring to his attention. She lifted the receiver from the wall. “Yes? No. I would try him at the Grange.. . I really don’t… I’ve given him your messages, Miss Pearce.” She’d slapped the receiver back into place.

  “Susan?”

  “That woman’s a pain.”

  “In pain, I imagine. Her brother just died.”

  Bonnie looked away. Her expression was hard and unsympathetic. Tom would have liked to ask why, but could sense this was another no-fly zone. Instead, he said, “I’ll talk to him. And I’m sorry about that Pig Latin stuff with Luke. I wasn’t thinking.”

  Her face grew tighter. Then tears fell. Tom looked for a box of tissues or other prop that might substitute for opening his mouth and making things worse. Bonnie raised her head and looked over his shoulder, wiping her eyes with her fingers. Tom turned and saw Luke standing in the doorway, holding a pair of fishing rods.

  “Hey, Buddy. They make you catch your breakfast around here?”

  “Blueberry Pancakes,” said Bonnie, choking the syllables.

  Luke rested the rods against the kitchen island and hopped onto a stool. He looked at the two adults.

  Tom grinned. “You ever catch a salmon?”

  The boy turned his head from side to side.

  “Would you like to?” Tom held his palms a yard apart. “They’re about this big.”

  Luke jerked his head up and down.

  Tom turned to Bonnie, “Is it okay?”

  Her face resumed its mask of worry —- the mom’s version this time, not the wife’s. “That’s a big lake, Tom. Those are huge fish.”