I'd learned the hard way that girls didn't like guys who were too sensitive and whined about their feelings. They constantly ask you to open up to them about your feelings regarding their feelings – as long as you spoke unemotionally and succinctly – but that, in my admittedly limited experience, was as far as their alleged desire for us to be open went.
But maybe Sonja Hanson had evolved beyond the biologically driven manipulativeness of younger women? That was a theory I was entertaining – that women evolved in that direction as they got older. Hadn't had the chance to test it to this point.
Grabbing the house key, I drove the van toward town thinking I'd pick up a nice bottle of wine and maybe some thick steaks for the barbecue in her back patio. I hadn't gone very far when I noticed a police cruiser behind me. A quick check of my speed showed I wasn't traveling more than a mile or two over the posted 30 mph limit, but the cop stayed with me as I maneuvered out of the residential area - a silent black and white predator.
Mweeep!
The dreaded short siren burst and flash of lights that proclaimed "Gotcha!" I cursed the gods and pulled over. The cruiser stopped thirty feet behind me. After a minute or two the officer ambled over, taking a good look at both sides of the van as he approached. I rolled down the window and retrieved my driver's license, rental insurance, and car registration while wondering what the hell this was about.
"License, registration, proof of insurance," the officer stated.
No polite greeting, nothing. I couldn't see his eyes behind his dark sunglasses, but the expression on his jowly face was stone cold. I handed them over.
"May I ask why you pulled me over, Officer? I don't think I was speeding."
"You rolled the last stop sign. And you aren't wearing your seatbelt. Plus you were traveling 33 in a thirty miles per hour zone."
One thing for sure, a cop who pulled you over for such bullshit ticky-tacky reasons wasn't amenable to argument. After a quick look, he returned the rental insurance form and retreated to his car with my other vehicular bona fides. Ten minutes trudged by before the beefy patrolman returned. He handed me my driver's license and the van's registration.
"You're visiting from Colorado, Mr. Harrow?"
"Yes."
"What do you do in Colorado?"
I hesitated. "Officer, not to be disrespectful, but that's my own business."
"What is your business here in Stillwater?"
"Again, not to be disrespectful, but I'm not going to discuss my personal life with you. Am I free to go?"
"No sir, you are not. I was about to give you a break on the ticket, but if you're going to take this attitude, I'm going to ticket you for every infraction I named."
"You have to be kidding me."
"No, sir, I am not kidding. However, if you will answer my questions honestly and respectfully, I may reconsider. I want to know what you're doing in this neighborhood, Mr. Harrow."
"Why? Has some crime been recently committed here?"
"There was a burglary here recently during the day, and a witness reported seeing a strange van in the victim's driveway."
"It wasn't me."
"Would you mind if I searched your vehicle?"
"I would."
The cop backed off the door, one hand resting on his pistol. "Please step out of the vehicle, Mr. Harrow."
I was starting to get a really bad feeling about this. But he was within his rights – legal rights, anyway. I got out slowly, cautiously, my body on full alert. I was no longer trusting this as a standard police stop.
"What's this really about, Officer?" I asked, getting out and locking the doors with the key.
"What this really is about is that you're a suspect in a crime. Stand over there." He pointed to the side of the van. "Keep your hands where I can see them."
I stood, body subtly coiled, visions of recent cop-shootings dancing in my mind. I thought of the Michigan teenage boy pulled over for flashing his brights on a cop whose headlights had blinded him. When the kid got mouthy, the cop yanked him out of the car and shot him seven times. Not the kind of thoughts to put me at ease.
"What now?" I asked.
"We wait."
Which could only mean he'd called me in. Maybe this really was just about a recent burglary? I could almost understand all this if that were the case. Still, something seemed off. I kept my hands braced against the side of the van, but I didn't relax.
Two other Ford Interceptors bearing the Stillwater PD logos rumbled up, lights flashing. And here I thought I'd seen enough theater in the last couple of days. Four cops jumped out and hustled me over to one of the cruisers while another cop walked his dog around the van. Predictably - out of my view – the dog apparently "signaled." They relieved me of my key and unlocked the van. I was very grateful I'd left my laptop and the $15K of Markus' "business expense" cash behind at Sonja's. I wasn't sure if they could legally search my computer or that they'd confiscate the cash, but my faith in law enforcement was at a low ebb these days.
One of the officers standing near me started asking about my "business in Stillwater," but I had nothing to say. He mumbled something about my "attitude." Finally, the police clambered back in their cars and drove off, leaving me with a $205 deluxe combo speeding/failure to stop/seatbelt violation ticket in my sweaty palm. I could understand the search, sort of, but the ticket was pure punitive bullshit because I'd asserted my Fourth and Fifth Amendment rights. What was wrong with these people? Did police really want to live in a world where those rights were suspended? Did they actually believe that would make their job easier and society safer?
I would've liked to discuss that with them, but I opted for debating the issue angrily with them in my head as I proceeded to town. I figured it would be a lot safer that way.
I drove into town with seatbelt securely fastened, obeying all stop signs and signals religiously, and picked out a pair of juicy steaks and some expensive wine (recommended by the proprietor) as planned. I crept back to Sonja's with one eye on the rearview mirror and my "copdar" on maximum setting, but made it home without incident.
Inside the house, I dropped the steak into the refrigerator, and scrounged around for a light lunch, settling on a bowl of Raisin Bran. I headed outside, reaching to unlock the sliding glass door – which I knew I'd locked – but it was unlocked.
Huh. That seemingly trivial thing stopped me in my tracks. I'd made a point of locking it, even checking it twice, before leaving through the front door and dead-bolting it with Sonja's key. I frowned, pushing down an incipient panic. Sonja could've come home and left the backdoor open before going back out.
I looked around the kitchen, seeing no sign of cooking or anything out of place. I moved on to my bedroom, looking around closely. My first question mark was my laptop, which I could've sworn I'd left on the nightstand on the right side of the bed. But my laptop, much like my cell, tended to creep around without my help. Then I remembered tucking the laptop under my clothes in my suitcase.
I opened the suitcase. No laptop. I dug a little further, to the compartment where I'd stuffed three five-thousand dollars rolls of one hundred dollar bills. The pouch was unzipped and empty.
"Fuck," I whispered. "No fucking way."
I dropped back against the side of the bed in a disbelieving daze. There was no denying it. Someone had been in here and stolen my laptop and my expense money. Could it have been the mysterious van-thieves the officer had mentioned? But what were the odds that someone would target the house during the brief time I was out?
My feverish thoughts focused suddenly on one image: the police car appearing out of nowhere to pull me over. An improbable traffic stop that had stretched to nearly an hour.
I clamped a hand around my forehead, but conspiratorial thoughts squeezed past. Being stopped and interrogated made a lot more sense if you looked at it as an attempt to stall for time while obtaining information about who the hell I was and what I was doing here.
Who would be interes
ted? Well, if the alleged "gay groom" and/or the medical examiner called their handlers, then it wouldn't be a stretch to suspect they could tie the tall, dark, and handsome dude they'd both encountered to Sonja Hanson and her unscheduled appeared at the ME's office. Having made that connection, the logical step was to check out Sonja. Once they did that, they might've noticed that a guy fitting their description was camped out at her house. Calls were made, perhaps favors called in, and then some local cop in their payroll is fondling my fake driver's license and accessing my fake bio.
If my theory was right, I doubted they'd learn much – not right away, at least. If Professor Markus's crew did their job, I would show up on their data base as a "security/investigations professional" who worked out of the Denver area. That would jibe well enough with me sticking my nose into stuff around here. Of course, they'd want to know who hired me and why. My computer wouldn't help them, since I'd painstakingly deleted my searches and hadn't used any encryption in contacting Markus that they could find even if they looked.
The front door opened, jarring me from my Detective Columbo reverie. Sonja peeked in the room as I was pushing myself to my feet.
"Hi," she said. "Glad to see you're still here."
"Hey. I'm not sure you will be when I tell you what just happened."
Sonja winced as though anticipating a blow. "What?"
"It looks like someone broke into the place and stole my computer, along with a pretty good chunk of cash."
Sonja entered the room, her face losing color. "How much cash?"
"Fifteen thousand."
"Oh my God!" She settled down shakily on the bedside chair. "Did they take anything else?"
"I doubt it. I think this was all about me, but you should probably check out your place to make sure."
"Are you saying..." She rubbed her throat as though attempting to massage out the words. "They figured out who you are, that you're staying here?" Fear slipped into her eyes. "They've tied you to me?"
"I think they just put two and two together." I struggled to find something comforting to say. "They're interested in me, Sonja, not you. I don't see them being a threat to you. Or even me, really."
"Can you guarantee that?"
"No. But I see this as just performing due diligence. They might keep an eye on both of us for a while, and if we start making noise, they might contact us."
"By 'contact' you mean?"
I forced a reassuring smile. "I mean talk. They might want to sound us out about our intentions. If someone does contact you, I'd suggest playing the part of the uncaring, avaricious ex who wants that inheritance money."
Sonja stared at me. "You really don't have any personal experience with this kind of thing, do you, Hayden?"
I suppressed a frown at the bitter and accusing tones in her voice. I knew I deserved it.
"No," I sighed.
Now it was Sonja's turn to imitate me by clasping her forehead with one hand.
"Hayden, please don't be offended," she groaned, "but at this moment I'm really wishing I'd never gotten caught up in this. All it's done is put me on their radar."
"I'm sorry, Sonja. You're right - I shouldn’t have gotten you involved."
Sonja blew out a breath in a way that didn't smack of forgiveness. Her gaze drifted off to a place that, judging from her face, was not hospitable.
"On the plus side," I said with mock cheer, "I bought a pair of thick T-bone steaks and some expensive wine."
She stirred a little and gave me the slimmest of smiles. "I'm an adult, Hayden. I made a choice. I had to know. Though maybe I'd feel better if I actually did know instead of just suspecting."
"I'm sure Gary's alive, Sonja."
"Then where is he? What's he doing now?"
"I'd guess that he's either several states away or in another country under a different identity." I didn't mention the other possibility: that he, along with the main actors, had received a bullet in the head.
"I don't know what's more freaky," she said. "The idea that my husband's still alive or that our government is faking these shootings."
"It is kind of mind-blowing, isn't it?"
Sonja didn't look particularly entertained by the possibilities. I wasn't entertained by either putting her at greater risk or by walking away. But even someone as clueless as I could be about relationships could see the writing on the wall. She might've been over her husband when he was dead, but now that he was alive it was a question mark. And I was not only a lot younger, but had knowingly placed her in possible jeopardy. Not winning traits in a potential mate.
"I don't suppose there's much point in calling the police," she said.
I shook my head. "I didn't give you the full account. I went out to pick up some groceries, and was pulled over by a local cop..." I reprised my fun outing. "When I got back, I noticed the sliding glass door was unlocked, though I remembered locking it. That's when I checked my room and found my computer and money missing."
Sonja rubbed her temple with one stiff finger. "You're saying...you think the break-in and your traffic stop are related?"
"That's my guess. I don't like the coincidence of the guy interrogating me about my work and purpose for being here while someone else was stealing stuff related to those questions."
"Could it have just been those people in the van they say have been robbing people around here?"
"Have you heard anything about that until now?"
"No."
"I'd say that was just a b.s. story to justify harassing me. And what kind of thief steals just a computer and searches my suitcase?" I shook my head. "He or they had a definite target, and it wasn't your stuff."
Sonja rose as shakily as she'd sat down. "Let's break open that expensive wine of yours."
We sat out on the porch watching the shadows stretch over the river, but this time the spreading darkness seemed more ominous symbolic than picturesque. I couldn't quite relax, and the wine – even at fifty dollars for the bottle – achieved more of an anesthetic numbness than the exuberant buzz from the night before. From Sonja's pensive frown, I guessed she shared my feelings.
"We could stay in touch," I said, the words escaping before I'd vetted them.
"We could." She lowered her head, hiding her expression. "But I'm not sure I see a point, Hayden. We're in different places in life, Hayden."
"Especially now that you know your husband is probably alive?"
"That's not it. Yes, I still care about him and am furious he may have lied to me and let himself get caught up in a criminal conspiracy, but I'm not in love with him and have no future with him in any case."
I nodded. Maybe she was protesting too much, but her words had the ring of truth. Not that it made any difference. She obviously wanted me out of her life, and my days of trying to argue a woman into being with me were done. And though Sonja might have a soul, I was sure she also had serious baggage. One advantage to being young: usually your bags are lightly packed.
"You're probably right," I said. "About us, I mean."
"I don't like being right sometimes." She picked at her steak, her eyes down. "Sometimes timing really is everything."
Chapter 9
I'D BEEN HOME FOR about five days - hustling to catch up with my programming work, returning some blog-related emails, phoning my dad and a couple of pals – before Markus called me with my next possible assignment: digging into the asteroid possibility along with the rumors of an advanced secret space program that had been making the conspiratorial rounds for years.
"If there truly were a threat of an asteroid impact," the professor wrote, "I can't imagine there wouldn't be some form of space operation gearing up to address it. Even if we can't penetrate into the inner sanctum of such an operation, we should be able to detect some signs of it. I don't believe they could hide something on that scale."
Professor Killian's people believed that Lockheed's Advanced Development Programs – AKA "Skunk Works" – was a good bet for learning about a covert spac
e program, whether it involved secret preparations for intercepting an asteroid or secret technology – or both. Other nearby possibilities included Vandenberg, Edwards, and Nellis Air Force bases, but he suggested I focus on Skunk Works first. Professor Killian was familiar, of course, with previous director Ben Rich's alleged claim that we already possessed the technology to fly to the stars.
They suggested two possible targets: Sheldon Bronstein and Janine Callas. Sheldon Bronstein was a forty-three year old engineer, recently and bitterly divorced, who headed Lockheed's Aeronautics Division. Janine Callas was, at thirty-two, a hotshot multi-degreed scientist in the Special Projects Division. Markus and his people weren't sure exactly what she did there, but since her resume screamed genius, they were hopeful it was something significant.
They were betting on one or both of them to have special knowledge relevant to anything involving space flight.
Markus didn't offer any tactical advice other than "You seem to have developed a winning strategy. I'd suggest you keep doing what you've been doing." I wondered what he'd say if he knew the details. Perhaps he had some idea because he made a point of saying that Janine Callas was single and apparently recovering from a recent breakup with a boyfriend. Both Callas and Bronstein were clearly candidates for some selective romantic schmoozing. I tried to ignore the uncomfortable imagery of Sonja Hanson that thought triggered, resolving that this time, if I did make contact, I would keep it strictly friendship from the start.
The professor saved a shocker for the end of our conversation. Since one of the targets was a divorced male – presumably heterosexual – Markus had reluctantly surrendered to his daughter's demand that she be included on this mission. I had no doubt they'd battled fiercely, but I could see how Markus would eventually bow to the obvious logic behind his uber-attractive daughter's involvement. I had a feeling that Lilith was also eager to make up for her miscalculation with Ethan Ellenberg.
So Lilith and I caught separate flights back to my old California stomping ground. On the plane, I flipped open my laptop and studied my potential subject. I'd located a few photos and some biographical snippets online. Janine had dark hair and big glasses and looked like the classical girl-nerd you'd find in an advanced math class or hanging out in the library. Sadly, she didn't fit my dude-fantasy of a librarian letting down her hair and transforming into a mouthwatering vixen. Her hair was kind of scraggly and her features a bit mousy, but she wasn't exactly ugly.
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