by Steve Hadden
Brayton tried not to cringe in front of her. But the image of his mutilated body being discovered in some public place forced him to swallow hard. He didn’t have her flexibility. He needed the IPO to happen now.
“That’s better,” she said with a cunning grin. “Now, what about this problem last night at the lab?”
Brayton looked out the window. He’d give her the report, he decided, but not the satisfaction of looking at her.
“He broke in with the Clarke woman, killed a guard, and got away with the help of an accomplice. They got into the lab. Several vials of frozen blood from the CGT trials are missing.”
Brayton stopped short of telling her of the problem with CGT. No one else needed to know. He would clean up that mess on his own.
Priscilla studied his face. He became self-conscious; he monitored his eyes, his expression, and his breathing. Priscilla leaned back in her chair and grinned.
“What about the problem with CGT?”
Brayton froze. Was she fishing? Did she know?
“What problem?”
“The problem that caused you to remodel the lab.” Priscilla was still smiling, like a hunter certain of a kill.
Brayton shook his head. “We had to make some changes in the team. That bitch Clarke presented information to me that she’d uncovered some kind of new process that allowed us to see even more minute genetic imperfections. Said she’d run a test on a few of the DNA samples from the trials and identified a problem with the treatment. We checked it out with an outside lab. Her work was flawed. There’s no problem with CGT.”
Priscilla rested her elbow on the arm of her chair and cradled her chin. “Is that so?”
Brayton thought it safer not to respond.
“So that’s why David and Clarke thought it was worth killing a guard to steal the DNA samples. Sounds like they think there is something wrong with CGT and uncovering that problem may get them off the hook.”
Brayton wiped the sweat from his forehead. Still, he remained silent. Priscilla stared and waited for a reply. Brayton felt his breathing slow. The only noise in the room was the ticking of the grandfather clock. To Brayton, each tick seemed to be at least ten seconds apart. Finally Priscilla broke the silence.
“Well, it seems you don’t have everything under control here. I suggest you solve the problem. If David even has a chance to sabotage this deal, he will. You need to solve that problem. Do you understand?”
Brayton was trying to read between the lines. Did she know about his debt with the Marcosa family? Was she saying it’s either David or you, but one of you has to go? He was sure the possibility of losing half of twelve billion dollars to Wellington in a divorce and proving her father wrong about not letting his little girl run the company were enough to motivate her to eliminate her husband. In less than forty-eight hours the FDA would approve CGT, and in four days Rexsen would go public in the most successful IPO since the dot com bubble burst.
But Brayton knew if David Wellington prevailed he would not see another Thursday, ever. He swallowed the lump of pride in his throat, and he choked out the words his ears couldn’t believe his mouth said.
“I understand,” he said.
At least he’d still have a throat, he thought.
CHAPTER 42
It was lunchtime on a beautifully crisp Thursday afternoon, and David Wellington spotted Dr. Kyle Harmon as he sat under the shade of the olive trees in Maguire Gardens, adjacent to the Los Angeles Central Library. Built in 1926, the library’s imposing architecture combined Byzantine, Egyptian, and Spanish styles. The massive stone figures sculpted into the library’s facades seemed to warn the encroaching skyscrapers to keep their distance. The library had survived two horrendous fires, but the stone figures still stood as strong survivors. As David watched the courtyard, he hoped the library’s luck would rub off.
Just as he did every Thursday, Dr. Harmon read the latest New England Journal of Medicine and enjoyed his trendy boxed lunch from the Café Pinot. Traffic noise bounced off the surrounding buildings and mixed with the chirps of birds perched in the greenery spread throughout McGuire Gardens. As the Director of the Pacific Regional Laboratory of the Office of Regulatory Affairs arm of the FDA, Harmon and his team were often referred to as the eyes and ears of the FDA. They analyzed samples of regulated products to ensure compliance with applicable standards.
Today was different though; David’s eyes were on him.
David knew his plan was full of risks. But Dr. Harmon was his only chance. They’d graduated from Harvard together years ago, and David considered him a friend. With his contacts in the FDA, he could get the information to the Director before the approval action letter would be released for CGT on Friday. Equipped with the information, David and Tori could get a fair investigation into the murder charges, and the conspiracy to cover up the genetic imperfections caused by CGT would be exposed. A long shot at best, but it seemed the only shot he had.
From his vantage point on the second level, David scanned the library’s West Lawn. His eyes meticulously examined the plaza in grids, first following the central axis of the plaza and then moving in blocks to either side until his survey crossed Flower Street to the City National Plaza. Evergreens in all shapes and sizes stood behind the low walls and provided shade to the reddish walkways. At another time, David might have seen the lush courtyard as a respite for urban-bound Los Angelinos, but today he knew it could be his cemetery.
Olive trees, planted to create the setting for the outdoor café, screened his view of the lunch crowd. He’d have to get a close look. Every person was a potential problem: a fed, a detective, an assassin. He tugged on the bill of his blue Dodgers ball cap until it reached his sunglasses, then he turned up the collar of his black micro-fiber jacket and left the library. Entering the open plaza, he felt the cool breeze left behind by last night’s storm. With every neuron firing, he walked along the plaza towards the café. Behind his glasses, he eyeballed each person he encountered. A man in blue jeans and sweatshirt sat on the low wall reading the LA Times. Was he wired or really reading? A woman with eight teens in tow approached; no problem; just a tour. David turned right and entered the patio of the café. Now under the umbrella of the olives, he could clearly see the dozen or so diners spread among the white clothed tables and umbrellas. He drew in a deep breath, and moved towards Harmon.
Harmon was a pencil-thin man with short gray hair and round wire-rimmed glasses. Tucked away in the corner of the patio, he studied his magazine while aimlessly poking at his salad with a plastic fork. Six tables were occupied. Three tables sported digital cameras and maps and were immediately eliminated as a threat. The fourth table hosted two businessmen, dressed in six hundred dollar suits, probably executives from the Financial District. The table closest to Harmon was shared by a middle aged man and an attractive young woman. Giggling, she slipped her foot from her black pump and rubbed the inside of her companion’s leg. Adultery. David certainly knew what that looked like.
With one last glance over his shoulder, he jammed his hand in his jacket pocket. The cold steel of the gun felt strange, but it was time to take the liability of being a wanted killer and make it work for him. He walked to Harmon’s table for two and took a seat.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” Harmon said.
“Kyle,” David said, “I hate to do this but there’s gun pointed at your balls. You need to listen to me.”
Harmon dropped his fork in the salad and froze.
“You can have my wallet. Here.” Harmon started to pull his hand off the table.
“Keep your hands on the table, Kyle.”
It was then that Harmon realized this mugger knew his name. He stared at David.
“Oh, my God! It’s you, David.”
“Stay calm and quiet, Kyle.”
“Shit, David, you killed those people.” Harmon’s eyes grew wide in fear.
“Listen, I didn’t kill those people. There’s someone else; someone who’s covering up
a flaw in CGT. It’s gotta be someone inside Rexsen. I want you to get word to the director who’s about to sign off on it to suspend the approval.”
“Sure, David, whatever you want.”
It was clear by his tone he didn’t trust David. Harmon was his only hope and if he didn’t cooperate Tori and David were as good as dead. Any second, someone could spot David. He didn’t have much time left. He had to get through to him.
“Don’t patronize me! Just look at this.”
David pulled a brown envelope from his pocket and tossed it on the table.
“Okay, okay, David. I’ll do it. Just don’t shoot me.”
David watched Harmon’s eyes look over his shoulder. He glanced back and saw the two uniformed LA policemen walking along the plaza. His eyes froze on them for a second too long. He heard the chair shoot out from under Harmon, and David spun in time to see him dive to the ground.
“Help me! He’s the killer! He’s the killer!” Harmon yelled, pointing at David.
Suddenly all eyes locked on David. The policemen pivoted and immediately spotted him. One reached for the radio mike clipped to his shoulder. David flipped the table on top of Harmon and bolted across the patio, toppling umbrellas and tables in his wake, then jumped over the wall and sprinted across the lawn.
“He’s got a gun,” were the last words he heard from his so-called friend.
“Stop! Police officers,” one of the two officers commanded as they sprinted behind him with guns now drawn.
He was across Flowers Street and in the middle of City National Plaza in seconds. One quick glance at the officers showed them fifty yards away and closing. A siren screamed down Flowers. Just enough time. He cut to the right around the corner of the massive skyscraper and sprinted to Fifth Street. The officers in pursuit cautiously approached the corner and cleared it. Sprinting to Fifth Street, they lost sight of the suspect. A patrol car raced toward them from the right, and the Harbor Freeway ramp gathered the building afternoon traffic to the left. No sign of David Wellington. They jawed among themselves for a few minutes, then shook their heads in disgust. They headed back to the café to interview the near-victim.
Just moments later several detectives and FBI agents arrived on the scene. After interviewing Harmon and reviewing the contents of the envelope, their conclusion was unanimous. Wellington and Clarke had broken into Rexsen Labs to conjure up some bullshit story in an attempt to save their asses. Under questioning from detectives, Harmon reported the FDA had followed every step in the clinical trials. Each section of the FDA, including Biotechnology, had signed off on CGT. They’d been warned by the FBI and a detective from Newport Beach, this would be his next step.
Wellington was becoming predictable. They’d prevented another murder, they said. The FBI and the detectives spent the rest of the day patting themselves on the back and conducting media interviews. After all, this was an election year. They had their slick sound bites, but still, there was a problem they couldn’t hide.
The miracle man turned murderer had disappeared—again.
CHAPTER 43
Dusk had pushed the last remnants of sunlight into the Pacific, and Royce Brayton jammed his red Ferrari into third gear and raced down the rain wet street. He shot past home after home of his wealthy neighbors. Usually on his drives home, he’d spot visitors to Laguna Beach gawking at the cliff side estates, basking in the glowing warmth of the Southern California sun and dreaming of writing that blockbuster, starring in the movie of the year, winning the lottery, or riding a skyrocketing career to the top. He’d gloat and ignore them as he passed. But Royce Brayton wasn’t gloating this evening. He slammed the Ferrari into fourth and shook his head. He was at the top; the CEO of Rexsen Labs, and yet he was taking orders from a woman who’d spent the last six months underneath him—literally. Shit, he couldn’t believe this was happening.
The storm had cleared out and left a chill in the air. Still, he drove with the top down. He needed the air. The pressure was suffocating him. FDA approval had to happen tomorrow. Priscilla had cut off the sex, the one weapon he could use to control her. She’d assumed an active role as the chairman, even though the board had not appointed her to that position. That, however, was only a formality. She was Rexsen Labs. With Wellington on the run and wanted for murder, she was the sole trustee and beneficiary of the Rexsen Family Trust. Brayton’s stomach ached as he pulled through the gates and parked in the driveway.
The dark hulk of the tri-level home, once the crown jewel of his possessions, now hung around his neck like a noose. He’d leveraged everything. He’d covered his margin calls, bought the Ferrari and this magnificent home with money from the only source left willing to take the promise of the IPO as the payoff. The old man still had connections, even in prison. He hated having to ask him, but he’d been tapped out. Now he’d mortgaged his life, and it hung precariously by a thread. If the FDA approval or the IPO failed, the Marcosa family would call in the note with a bullet.
Brayton opened the front door and a chill rattled his nerves. The dark floors and ebony furniture were invisible. He flipped the light switch in the entry. The loud click was followed by darkness, and he instinctively flipped it again. He stopped breathing and listened. The hum of the refrigerator was the only audible sound. He scanned the first floor. Shadows filled the room. Minuscule specks of light from a pair of ships at sea seeped through the back windows. They reflected off the polished surfaces of chrome and lacquer and appeared and disappeared as his glances chased them around the room.
Through the back windows he could see the cold, dark ocean, and he felt as if he was floating in the middle of it, unable to see the denizens lurking in the darkness. His legs became heavy, and the hair on his arms tingled. He moved slowly, by memory, towards the middle of the room where he remembered a chrome lamp was stationed among two black leather chairs and a sofa. He reached out in the darkness ahead of him and probed for obstacles until he felt the cold metal hood of the lamp. He twisted the thin stem of the switch and heard a click. Nothing.
He knew it was not a blackout. Lights from the homes on either side were visible as he pulled in. This was something else; something intentional.
Too late, he turned to run.
A meaty hand throttled his throat. He was pinned on the couch and, as he gasped for air, he felt the first blow of cold brass explode in pain on his cheekbone. He opened his eyes wider and gawked at his attacker. The pitch black outline of a hulking monster raised its arm, and the brass knuckles caught another speck of light just before they slammed into his face again. Warm rivulets of blood ran down his cheek, and he began to feel nauseous and weak. The final blow was to his stomach and every muscle in his body contracted into a ball around the pain. Bleeding and unable to breathe, he struggled to stay conscious.
“Just a taste of things to come, Mr. Brayton,” the voice boomed. “Fix the problems. Pay your debt.”
Brayton wretched in pain, silently. The Marcosa family was sending a warning.
“You’re losing control of the situation,” the shadow continued.
“No. No, I’ll deliver,” Brayton choked out.
“Not if Wellington succeeds. He went to the FDA today.” Brayton felt the powerful hand tighten around his neck. “Fix the problem or die.”
He didn’t see the last one coming. The brass ripped into his jaw and sent his head spinning into darkness. His last conscious thought was a strange one. He’d wished he’d never gotten into this mess and that he’d never heard of Rexsen Labs, CGT, Priscilla Wellington, and the Marcosa family. He could thank his father for the last one.
For the first time in his life he felt regret. He took responsibility for what he himself had done. Yes, he had gotten himself into this, and now he wasn’t sure he could get himself out.
CHAPTER 44
David Wellington leaned over the rail of the upper deck of the Starship Express and scanned the Boat Terminal as the vessel docked in Avalon Harbor. The few boats moored in the harbor
bobbed gently in the calm water, and the lights from the shops on Crescent Avenue danced across the dark harbor. At nine p.m. on a Thursday night, Catalina Island seemed deserted. Standing next to David, Tori shivered in the damp night chill. David shrugged off his black micro-fiber jacket and covered her shoulders.
He surveyed their disguises and chuckled. Tori was engulfed in an oversized multicolored cable knit sweater and baggy faded carpenter’s jeans, at least three sizes too large. A tattered straw cowboy hat topped a blonde wig to complete the look. Black boots, blue jeans ripped at the knees, a gray sweatshirt covered with an unbuttoned red and black checked lumberjack shirt, and a grease smudged Chevy cap completed David’s bubba look. David was confident they could easily pass for quirky local potheads returning from a raid on the mainland. The boat jerked to a stop, and David completed his survey. He nodded towards the stairs.
“Stay close,” he said as he took Tori’s hand and led her down the stairs and out of the terminal.
Everyone was a threat now. They’d already decided not to speak unless absolutely necessary. Even their voices needed to be concealed. They maneuvered down the gangway and through the terminal, past the uniformed man at the end to the gangway, slipped by the lone patrolman flirting with a young woman at the end of the pier, and stepped around the three teenage smokers leaning on the worn wooden pile at the entrance to dock where the Zodiac was moored. At each encounter, David felt Tori’s grip tighten, and in response, he tightened his as if to say: I’ve got you; you’re safe with me.
Of course safe was a relative word. He knew the anticipation and hope Tori had held quickly turned to disappointment when David had dived into the waiting Explorer on Fifth Street that afternoon. They were still racing up the ramp to the southbound Harbor Freeway when David had punched the back seat and said, “He didn’t buy it.”
