by Steve Hadden
Tori Clarke may be his only hope. Maybe she had the information he needed to expose Adam’s Rexsen’s murderer and the conspiracy behind it, and get his neck out of the noose that seemed to be already choking him.
He pointed to the lacquered pine table at the side of the main cabin, dimly lit by an overhead light, and eyed the trembling researcher.
“Now Miss Clarke, about the information you had for me …”
CHAPTER 29
Butch Donavan wiggled a felt-tipped pen between his thick fingers and waited in the darkness of the Long Beach warehouse. His ruddy face was lit only by the soft light from the five monitors. Obsessed with the thrill of the hunt and the anticipation of the kill, he’d decided to leave the house in Laguna. At times like these, he longed for the old do-it-yourself days. Since becoming the commander of his own private little group of mercenaries, this was the closest he got to the action.
Lane, his second ranking merc, had gone on this one himself. And Lane never missed. He was Donovan’s best. But there had been no call. Donovan stared at the red numbers on the wall: it was 12:34 a.m. Wednesday. The trap was set at 10 p.m., and two and a half hours had passed without a word. He didn’t dare try to contact Lane. He knew from his own experience any distraction could be disastrous. After all, Lane was the best, and the money he’d spent to put a Newport Beach detective on the payroll should have assured a winning result.
The smartphone is his jacket pocket vibrated, and he checked the number on the display. The client—again. Donovan hated meddlers.
“Just pay me and let me do my damn job!” he wished out loud before answering. He put the phone to his ear.
“Donovan.”
“Any word yet?” the synthesized voice warbled.
“No,” Donovan said bluntly, “nothing since the last time you called.”
“What the hell’s going on there, Donovan? What type of operation are you running? I pay you well to do your job.”
“Look. Lane is the best. He’ll get the job done. He’s probably just cleaning up before he calls.”
“Call me!” the phone clicked dead.
“Asshole!” Donovan said.
The man next to him, monitoring the consoles, chuckled.
“You know, Butch, it’s not like Lane to be out this long. And we lost our ears on Wellington’s limo just before ten. Still have them on his Beemer. No movement.”
“Probably just a technical problem on the limo.” Donovan said.
The two sat silently in the darkness scanning the bank of monitors. Donovan understood why the client was upset. There was a ton of money riding on this operation. He wasn’t sure exactly how much. But after you get to nine zeros, he thought, it really doesn’t matter. His cut would be chump change to the client, but it meant a life of leisure. He looked forward to seeing the sun again on a regular basis and not worrying about asshole clients and overly zealous law enforcement officers. The phone on the console rang and Donovan snatched it.
“Where the hell have you been!” he snapped.
“We’ve got a problem.” Lane said. His voice seemed weak, and he fumbled to find his words.
Donovan knew bad news was about to be delivered. “What?”
“We … we lost them. Prescott’s dead, but someone jumped us before we got Wellington and Clarke.”
“Both of you! They got both of you!” Donovan shot out of his chair. “Where are they?”
“We hoped you had something on that. Someone clobbered us from behind. We’ve been out of it since ten.”
“You mean they’re together and on the run, and we don’t know where they are?”
There was no answer. Lane probably knew Donovan’s penalty for failure.
“Shit! Tell that bastard cop Waters he ain’t getting a cent until they’re gone!” Donovan pointed his finger as if Lane stood in front of him. Donovan knew he’d gotten Detective Waters, of the Newport Beach Police Department, at a discount, courtesy of his coke-snorting bitch of a wife. Why Waters felt obligated to feed her habit was a mystery to him, but he expected to get his money’s worth anyway.
“He’s on it already. Said he’d personally track them down and kill them. He’s pissed. Said he’d use the department’s resources.”
“You stay with him and do whatever you need to, but find them!”
Donovan returned to his chair and leaned forward. “How did Prescott get it?”
Lane gave a half-hearted chuckle, still groggy from Joe’s right.
“He cried like a baby all the way to Wellington’s yacht. Waters got him good in the throat.”
“Good,” he replied, “wish I was there. Now find those bastards! We’ll fire up things here. Get the whole team involved.”
“Everyone?” Lane questioned.
“Everyone!” Donovan shot back and slammed the phone down.
Donovan stood and rubbed his chin. He looked at the man at the console who looked up and shook his head. Donovan, too, shook his head in disgust. He had to call the client. There was no way around it. He pulled his smartphone from his pocket and put it to his ear.
“We’ve got a problem.”
CHAPTER 30
The Dana Point was home to several thousand boats tightly packed into their slips. They formed an endless forest of masts, reaching into the cover of darkness and fog. The fog was even thicker in David’s mind as he wondered what this young woman had to tell him and where and when the next assault on his life would take place. He understood that finding the catamaran would be like finding a needle in a haystack. Still, the thought didn’t comfort David. He’d just witnessed a murder that would surely be pinned on him. And the woman who sat across from him was his accomplice.
They’d find his finger prints on the knife, carefully obtained from his limp hand, while he lay unconscious at Cedars Sinai. He wouldn’t have felt the prick of the needle draining the blood from his arm; the blood that was now spread around Prescott’s waterfront town home. The rogue detective, if he recovered from Joe’s blow, would provide the proof of a financial tie between Tori and David. They’d find thousands of dollars electronically transferred into her account from one of the many accounts David had access to. They’d be wanted murderers on the morning news and front page of the LA Times.
David closed the sliding glass door to the main cabin and moved to the lacquered pine table tucked neatly in the corner. The white molded fiberglass glistened in the light that seeped in through the windows. The entire cabin was white, except for the jet black controls at the helm and the pine counter tops, tables, and trim. Tori dropped into the built-in seat across from David and rested her forearms on the table. Her shoulder length dark brown hair framed her face. Her eyes were puffy, but still open wide. Streams of mascara meandered down her cheeks. Still, he found her attractive. David shook off the chill from the sea air, still lingering in the cabin, and handed Tori his black leather jacket.
“How are you doing, Miss Clarke?”
She leaned forward and widened her eyes even more. “How do you think I’m doing?” she snapped. “I just witnessed a gruesome murder and was told I’m being framed for it, along with you. And two thugs, one a detective, were going to kill me.”
She pulled back from the table, crossed her arms and glared at him. David didn’t blame her for her anger. It actually helped ease his guilt.
“I’m sorry, Miss Clarke. I’m sorry you’re in the middle of this. But apparently the information you were planning to give me must have something to do with all of this.” He leaned back against the cushion and waited for a reply.
Tori shifted her gaze out the window of the catamaran.
“The information I had for you regarded a problem I think exists with CGT, hardly worth murdering three people for.” She shook her head.
David drove his fist into table, and Tori jumped in her seat.
“CGT; the IPO; Brayton—that bastard. I knew it!”
Tori’s disclosure of a problem with CGT confirmed David’s suspicions.
Brayton had Adam Rexsen killed.
“What?” Tori said, wrinkling her nose in frustration as she eyed David.
“If there’s a problem with CGT, the FDA will not license it.” David explained. “Depending on the problem, we’ll have to go back into the pipeline, maybe even phase one clinical trials. The IPO will be delayed, because the anticipated run up in the stock price is tied to the FDA approval of CGT and the profits that would follow. Brayton won’t be able to go public and claim his cash bonuses. His restricted shares and options will be worthless, at least for now, and with his history, he’ll never stick around to fix things; he breaks up companies and sells the pieces, then cashes out. He’s got two thirds of the Rexsen family out of the way. The only one left is my lovely wife, and he’s been sleeping with her for six months.”
Tori sat up straight and rested her head against the white wall of the cabin.
“Oh, my God,” she said.
David saw it was nearly too much to handle. The employees knew little of his personal life and the web of deceit and hate within the Rexsen family. It was in everyone’s interest to keep all that in the dark.
“It would help if I knew the problem with CGT,” he said.
Tori leaned forward again and folded her hands on the table. She looked stronger now. David sensed a strength and determination he’d missed earlier. She glanced at David, then stared into her hands as if they held her notes.
“We had been using the established methods for using microarrays to determine the genetic expression profiles to predict the precursors to cancers at the molecular level. My work took that process one step further. We improved the method to allow us to identify cancer subtypes at the molecular level, improving the expressed tag sequence.”
David furrowed his brow and tried hard to remember his training in genetics. Tori saw his struggle and clarified.
“You know, we could spot changes in chromosomes that caused cancer, well before the symptoms would develop.”
David nodded. “Yes, I see.”
Tori continued to stare into her hands.
“I wanted to test the process, so I used the post treatment DNA samples from the phase three clinical trials on CGT, since it was readily available. The results showed the previously damaged chromosomes were repaired, but seventy percent of the patients in the trial had new chromosomal damage caused by the treatment consistent with the precursors to pancreatic cancer.”
David was speechless—stunned. His hope for CGT had been high. It would have been the crowning achievement of his life’s work, both financially and emotionally. But more importantly, he’d convinced himself CGT would save Amy.
“So CGT is a failure?” he asked, in disbelief.
Tori looked David in the eyes.
“No. No. Not a failure. We couldn’t see the genetic imperfections CGT was creating, until I developed this new sequencing process. The results showed we simply had to modify the process that repaired the damaged proteins in the targeted DNA and use our unique combination of fullerene-based nanotechnology and virus delivery system to deliver the gene. It would take some time, but I think we could make CGT work.”
David couldn’t take his eyes off Tori. It was more than just knowing how to fix the flaw in CGT. They shared something else—a connection stronger than anything he’d felt before. David reached across the table and cradled Tori’s hands. She moved her gaze to his hands covering hers. She gently smiled and glanced at David. He regained his composure when he reminded himself that because of Tori’s work, Amy could be saved, and there just might be a way to get his company back to do it. He gently slipped his hands from hers.
“Who did you tell? Who knows about this?”
Tori eased back and answered.
“I made a presentation to Mr. Brayton last Friday with Mr. Penn. I could see Brayton wasn’t happy, but he tried to hide his disappointment. He told me how wonderful my work was and then he asked me to leave the meeting before I finished the presentation. I think he jumped to the same conclusion you just did. I didn’t get to tell him we could fix CGT. He transferred me to the Proteus 40 pipeline team. On Monday, I called him to talk more about it, but he cut me off. So, I guess just Mr. Brayton, and now, you, know. Oh, and Mr. Penn.”
David rubbed his chin and sat silently, listening to the rhythmic creaking of the hull as it rocked gently in the water.
Brayton had control of the company. They were wanted for murder and probably would never be taken alive. Brayton would see to that. Clearly, he planned to bury Tori’s work and go public, cash out, and claim ignorance later. David knew Tori was the key to their survival. He had to keep her alive and safe. He also had a strange and wonderful desire to keep her close to him. And there was Amy, too. He was no good to her if he was wanted for murder. One thing became clear: If he didn’t stop Brayton, CGT would go to market and then, once the FDA recognized the problem, they’d yank it from the market. It would be their worst nightmare: The first gene therapy treatment for cancer approved by the FDA would be killing its patients. It would be years before they gave the nod to any other treatment.
It was clear that Brayton and his henchmen had orchestrated the airplane crash that killed his only friend and mentor, Adam Rexsen. The anger building inside him grew when he looked at the brave woman across from him. He knew he needed to get to Brayton to protect her and avenge Adam’s death, but they needed to buy some time. Most of all, he knew they needed a plan—a very good one.
CHAPTER 31
Detective Skip Waters checked his watch: it was three a.m. He scanned the marina parking lot. Illuminated by the red and blue gumball machines flashing on their roofs, a dozen patrol cars were scattered on the damp black asphalt with complete disregard for the carefully painted lines. Sitting next to Lane in Lane’s black Suburban, shrouded in the fog outside the marina, he was sure they were invisible to the investigative team.
He rubbed his throbbing head, and he fumed at the thought of being taken out by a fire extinguisher. While his head ached, his ego hurt worse. He’d been certain this would be easy money. He’d knock off a couple of the rich bozos from Newport Beach, answer a few questions, file his carefully prepared report, and get paid. But instead some amateur had taken out a nineteen year veteran detective and a supposedly highly trained assassin.
Waters couldn’t wait to get his hands on him.
This was the first homicide of the year and the victim was from one of the wealthiest families in Newport Beach. With the victim’s father killed in plane crash just days before, the entire Newport Beach Police Department was on hand. The Newport Beach detectives immediately called in the Orange County Sheriff’s Crime Lab. The crime lab staff of four technicians, a supervisor, and two cadets scurried around the yacht, gathering evidence, getting prints, and snapping dozens of digital photos. He spotted two technicians, guided by detectives, as they examined the two suspects’ vehicles at either end of the marina’s parking lot.
One by one, the plates on the few cars in the parking lot had been run through the Department of Motor Vehicles. The computer had been efficient in identifying the two cars registered to David Wellington and Tori Clarke. They were searching for two murder suspects, Waters had told them, and they’d assaulted a detective in the process: him.
Lane shook his head. “Christ, Waters, you guys don’t get much action here, do you?”
Waters knew the answer. Homicides were nearly non-existent in Newport Beach. It was a town run by haves served by have-nots. The haves drove around in their Mercedes and BMWs in their velour track suits, sporting bodies designed by the best and busiest plastic surgeons in the country. The have-nots served the haves and slugged through life trying to make ends meet, enjoying tying one on, and if the ends didn’t meet, they enjoyed stealing from the haves. As a result, most of the action consisted of public drunkenness, DUIs, domestic simple assaults, and drug violations. Waters considered himself a have-not, but this deal would make him a have.
“Yes, we’re rat
her civilized here,” he said looking at Lane. He used a handkerchief to blot the blood still oozing slowly from the back of his head.
Lane ignored the jab. “Okay, what do your guys have so far on the two marks?”
Waters pointed through the steamed-up windshield.
“Wellington’s BMW over there hasn’t been moved in at least three hours. Same story for Clarke’s Honda. We pulled the history on the meter at the gate, and it shows three vehicles entered after ten, but a dozen have left. One left right at 10:15. Probably them and whoever assaulted you and me.”
Waters had listened to Lane responding to the calls coming in from the command center.
“Your guys have anything?”
“Yeah. The bug we put in Wellington’s limo stopped working just before ten. No activity in Wellington’s and Clarke’s cars here. So I bet they’re in the limo heading somewhere.”
“Shit, let’s go,” Waters said. “My guys can run it down in minutes!” He’d love nothing better than to come face to face with the bastard that bounced the fire extinguisher off his head.
“All right, call it in. Just be sure you keep control of the situation if your buddies here make the stop. You’re not getting paid if you screw this up.”
Waters stepped from the Suburban and slammed the door. He thought of the mess he was in, all thanks to that coke-snorting bitch at home. She was a great lay, but her habit strained their finances. Do this one thing and he’d be free, he’d told himself. He could stop skimming from his drug busts and the property room; maybe even dump his wife and get the hell out of his rental shack in Costa Mesa. But things weren’t going to plan. Wellington and Clarke were on the run and nowhere to be found. It didn’t seem as simple as when he’d agreed to participate. Of course, the fact that Lane’s boss had him on tape, stealing from the evidence room, made the decision to accept the proposition easy. Take one hundred thousand in cash or go to jail; a real no-brainer.
