Chasing Hindy

by Darin Gibby

  Addy stepped back to think. Where would Perry have saved Claire’s phone number?

  She thought about how he loved to scribble messages to himself, usually on yellow sticky notes. But his one quirk was that he never stuck them in a prominent place like they were intended. Instead, he folded them in half and stuffed them into his pockets. He’d keep them there as a reminder until he returned the call or filed a document. The problem was that half the time they ended up at the cleaners.

  Her knees wobbled. Her head started to spin and she felt faint. Slowly, she turned around until she was facing Perry’s waist. She kept her eyes on his belt. Another deep breath and she dipped her fingers into his front pocket but couldn’t stretch her fingers low enough to reach the bottom of his pocket. She stood on her toes, but it wasn’t enough.

  Not daring to let go and have the rigid body spin, she hooked the leg of Perry’s stool with her foot and scooted it over.

  She stepped up on the stool and came face-to-face with Perry’s pitiful, purple tongue. It smelled of death. That, mixed with the lingering vomit in her mouth reignited the heaving. She tightened her stomach muscles and dove her hand into his pocket. His leg was hard against the side of her hand, like a cold tree trunk. She gritted her teeth and dug down further until she reemerged with a fistful of creased-in-half yellow papers. Then she stepped down carefully and let the notes scatter across his desk.

  Using her knuckle again, she stirred them until she found one with a series of numbers. She pried it apart and studied the row of digits. They were in the same format that Janice had sent her, but they were not the same numbers. There was a second row, a number with nine digits. A phone number, with a New York area code.

  Claire Charnes?

  Finally! She had what she needed.

  Addy leapt from the front porch, leaving the door open, hoping someone would notice and report Perry’s death. She’d wanted to cut him down and cover him with a sheet, but there was no time. And she wanted the police to see him just as he’d been after the murder.

  She revved the engine and squealed out of the driveway, flying along the side streets, leaving streaks of rubber through every intersection. In her rearview mirror she noticed a white Lexus SUV hugging her tail. If they knew about the commercial, they were obviously waiting for her to lead them to the catalyst. That explained why she’d been allowed to find Perry’s body.

  Addy needed a phone that could connect to the cellular network so she could dial the number on Perry’s hen-scratched note. Quinn’s useless piece of hardware wouldn’t fit the bill.

  Addy headed north toward Menlo Park until she found an open-air mall with a coffee shop, café, and cupcake store. Normally, she’d be salivating for a cream cheese-covered cupcake, but after seeing Perry, she wasn’t sure she could ever eat again. Her mouth was pasty, mixed with the acid from her stomach. If nothing else, she needed a bottle of water.

  The narrow parking lot was full of vehicles, and Addy had to park five stores down in front of a tax preparation shop.

  The bell on the door rang when she entered, and a teenage girl wearing a pink apron smiled and said, “Welcome to Belle’s Cupcakes. Got a pre-order?”

  The small store was packed, with six people working behind the counter. Addy noticed a handwritten sign: Super Bowl Orders Here.

  She’d almost forgotten. Today virtually every household threw some kind of Super Bowl party, whether or not they understood the first thing about football. Addy turned to leave and find a less crowded alternative.

  “Wait, don’t you want to hear about the flavor of the week?”

  Addy hesitated. The melee of shoppers could work to her benefit. She needed a cell phone, and there must be about a dozen within a few feet.

  “Sure, I’ll take one, whatever it is. And a bottle of water.”

  “No problem. It’s lemon meringue.” She reached down and snatched up a pair of tongs. “Water’s over there in the corner.”

  Addy knew she didn’t have time to strike up a conversation with half a dozen busy shoppers to see if she could use their phone.

  “Do you have a phone I can borrow?” she asked the girl. “Left mine at the gym. I need to call their lost and found.”

  The girl frowned but slid her hand into her jeans pocket and handed over the hardware.

  Addy plucked it out of her hand and dialed the number.

  “Is this Claire?” Addy said the moment someone answered. Addy reached into her shirt and flipped two twenties on the counter, then kept talking. “Can we still do the commercial?” she asked.

  Addy listened while Claire explained that Perry had worked out a deal for a live commercial during halftime, right after Zissy Spaeth performed, just as Perry had told Addy. It was a major concession from the network, Claire continued, one without precedent. It was only because of the intense public interest in such a politically hot topic that they’d allowed it. That, and the fact that Zissy believed in Addy’s cause and insisted on making the introduction.

  “Then we’re still on?” Addy asked, worried that Claire had either given away the spot or would demand an immediate payment.

  Claire explained about a problem with the final payment, one that they were working to resolve. If not, they’d be forced to cancel the contract and slip in an automobile advertisement instead.

  “No, don’t do that,” Addy said, knowing she needed to beg for more time. “I’ve got the money and the wiring instructions. I’ll have the money in your account within the hour.”

  Addy felt sick inside. The number Janice had given her was not the same as the one she’d found in Perry’s pocket. If Janice’s number originated with Quinn, then Quinn had no intention of ever paying for the commercial.

  “Why don’t you hang tight for a few minutes?” Claire said. “I’m hoping to have the issue resolved shortly.”

  “But how?” Addy said.

  “You’re lucky to have such a good friend. To hold the spot, Perry put up two million of his own money, and he assigned us title to his house in Palo Alto and condo in Tahoe. We typically only do cash deals, and that’s what’s holding it up. Our lawyers still need to sign off on the documents, then our chief executive needs to give the final approval.”

  “What?” Addy said, astonished. “Let me see if I understand this. Perry gave you his retirement money and both of his houses?”

  “It appears so,” Claire said. “Like I said, he’s quite the friend.”

  Addy knew all about legal protocols and requirements for attorney approvals. “Do you have any initial indications that they’ll approve?”

  “Wait just a minute. Someone is on the other line.”

  Addy’s phone went silent.

  Claire returned a few moments later. “I think we’re all set. Our lawyers have verified that the value of the two properties is well over the amount needed to pay for the commercial, and our CEO said we can run the commercial.”

  Addy swallowed hard. Before his death, Perry had given up his life savings, retirement, and virtually all of his other assets. He’d believed in her that much.

  And that could only mean that Janice had given her a fake bank account.

  Did that mean Quinn didn’t have her car? Had he lied to her? Was Quinn just trying to find a way to get the catalyst back?

  Claire said that they were moving forward and reminded her that the script had already been written. She would be allowed one lap around the field, and that she could use the giant screens to explain her invention. But, they needed the car by kickoff. Security would need to perform an inspection, just to confirm there were no safety issues, meaning it didn’t have any explosives.

  “What if I’m late?” Addy said, wondering how she was going to find Quinn and get his car to the stadium all before kickoff. “I mean, I don’t plan to be, but what if something happens? The commercial is paid for, right?”

  The line was silent and she thought she heard Claire sigh. “Yes, it’s paid for, but please don’t make my day any
more difficult than it needs to be,” Claire said. Addy ended the call and handed back the teenager her lifeline. “Keep the change,” she said. “You got Wi-Fi?”

  “For that kind of tip, you bet. Topping. That’s the password. Kind of cute, isn’t it?”

  Addy pulled out her phone and squatted to retrieve the crumpled note from Quinn that was wedged between her sock and her shoe. She un-crumpled the wrapper and began furiously tapping the screen. When she finished, she shoved it back into her shoe.

  “Wait, I thought you lost your phone,” the teenager said as Addy straightened up.

  Addy simply nodded at the two bills on the counter.

  Addy typed a note to Quinn: I need it NOW!

  A few minutes later, Addy’s phone buzzed. She jerked out her phone and read the screen. It was a series of numbers separated by periods. A geocode from Quinn.

  Now she had what she needed, the location of the car. But could she trust it? Did Quinn really have the car, or was it a trap to lure her to a remote location where he could retake the catalyst?

  35

  LONG WAS RESTING in bed, flipping through channels, looking for interesting Super Bowl stories. With the volume down so as to not disturb the sleeping infant, he could barely follow the commentator’s game day analysis. He rarely slept in this late, preferring to arise early and exercise.

  Today was different. His sleep had been restless, not so much because of the feedings, but because of the ghastly images of Johnston’s cut-up corpse. Long couldn’t ignore the obvious conclusion that Johnston had been murdered because of his knowledge of the chemical makeup of the catalyst. Now it appeared that Addy Verges was in possession of the physical sample. He didn’t want to think what her corpse would look like if she were caught.

  Long’s phone rang and he answered quickly. It was headquarters calling in a traffic incident in Palo Alto involving a woman fitting Addy’s description. Shots had been fired and a team of ragtag hit men, most of them appearing to be of Middle Eastern ethnicity, were giving chase. The one piece of evidence for Long to inspect was a shell casing from one of the weapons.

  Long was on his way.

  * * *

  Traffic on University Avenue in Palo Alto was still being funneled onto parallel side streets. Long was standing on the yellow divider studying one of the empty shells. It was from a .357 SIG, the same kind of casing he’d found in Ritter’s apartment. Still, it was too early to jump to conclusions. It was a popular weapon.

  Long placed the shell back down onto the pavement and proceeded to the sidewalk where agents were interviewing several witnesses. He listened in while a gray-haired woman with a terrier tethered to her hand complained about some black truck jumping the curb and tearing up her neighbor’s landscaping just to pass a bus.

  Long was about to interrupt and ask for a description of the truck and its driver when his phone rang. Headquarters, again.

  “What you got?” Long answered, still watching the elderly lady’s free arm flailing as she spoke.

  “Another potential crime scene,” the dispatcher responded. “Possible homicide. Name is Perry Tomkins. Lives at 847 Parkinson Avenue.”

  “Wait,” Long said. “Addy’s former partner at Wyckoff?”

  “That’s him. His body is hanging from his bedroom ceiling. And, one of his neighbors is claiming to have seen a woman fitting Addy’s description leaving the home and driving away in a black truck with large mud tires.”

  First Johnston, now Perry. Who will be next? Quinn shoved his phone into his pocket, dashed to his Buick and sped away.

  36

  A BEARDED MAN wearing a Ravens jersey caught Addy’s attention as he wedged his way through the front door and worked his way to the end of the ordering line. For a moment, their eyes locked. Addy turned to leave the cupcake store. Suspecting the man was more than an admirer, she spun her head and glanced backward, noticing the man’s gaze suddenly shift away from her and to the menu displayed on the wall. Keeping one eye fixed on the man, she made her way closer to the exit. Once again the man set his eyes on her, a dark cold stare.

  Addy bolted from the cupcake store into her stolen truck, digging her fingers into her shoe to extract the wadded gum wrapper while she craned her neck to see over the dashboard. Steering with the wrist of her injured hand, she once again un-crumpled the paper. The encryption scheme was simple. Quinn had randomly assigned a number from one to ten for each single digit. Her task was simple enough, match each number of the geocode with the identical number on the gum wrapper, then find its counterpart. But she couldn’t manage that while driving.

  She needed another hotspot to run her geocode app on her phone and identify where Quinn had stashed Hindy’s replacement. Her best bet was the Shell station where she’d hidden the catalyst. She could do a two-for-one: connect to the internet, get the location of the cache, then unearth the catalyst. The danger, of course, was that the moment she had the catalyst, all hell would break lose. Addy was convinced a tracking mechanism had been attached to her truck. She’d thought about trying to find the bug, but then realized she didn’t know the least thing about electronic surveillance and it would be a waste of time to try to find it. Which meant that the truck had to go before she retrieved the catalyst.

  Addy was still a good eight miles from Sunnyvale, and ditching her only mode of transportation this far away from the catalyst was problematic. Addy looked at the clock on the dashboard. It was nearly noon; only one hour left.

  Her options were limited. A bicycle would be too obvious, even if she could find one and figure out how to steer with an injured hand. Walking was out of the question. That left the train, one that ran on a single north-south line from San Jose to San Francisco. She didn’t have a train schedule, but she recalled that it was scaled back on weekends. Even then, what would she do when she got to the Sunnyvale station?

  She looked at her speedometer. She was going fifty on a residential street. Her foot was as frantic as her mind. How was she going to dump the truck, get the catalyst and rush to the geolocation all within an hour? She had to have the new Hindy to Levi’s® Field before kickoff.

  Taking a gamble, she raced toward the bed of cobblestones hiding the vial, remembering there was a Starbucks across the street. At least she could get close, run the app to tell her where Hindy was being stored, and from there make a plan to get the catalyst.

  She tapped on the radio dial, and scanned the available stations, hoping to get a traffic report. All the buzz was about the game. She listened to one DJ summarize the commercials that had already been leaked onto websites.

  Then he changed topic to read a breaking news story, one that many of the local stations had been following. Yesterday, there had been a grisly murder of a patent examiner, one who had been examining a patent application about a car that could run on water. He mentioned that the patent attorney who had filed this patent application was a so-called “person of interest,” because of an incident involving the examiner and this same patent attorney at a health club right before the examiner’s death.

  Now, the announcer said, the case had turned to the bizarre, when Palo Alto police had discovered the body of Addy’s former partner hanging from his bedroom ceiling. One neighbor reported that they’d seen a woman fitting Addy’s description and driving a black truck with large mud tires exiting the home earlier that morning. Police were reportedly putting together a reward for information on her whereabouts.

  “I don’t know about you,” the DJ concluded, “but this is totally crazy. Who would have thought that a patent attorney would break into the Patent Office databases to steal US technology, then kill an examiner for not allowing a patent application that purportedly covers a car that can run on water, then murder her former partner? And, I might remind you that this is the same attorney who, just a few weeks ago, started a fire on El Camino when the blimp hovering over her hydrogen-power car exploded in rush-hour traffic.”

  Addy was furious. Her hydrogen storage tank
didn’t explode! The jerk neglected to tell his listeners that it went up in flames because it been shot.

  Why wouldn’t anyone believe that she wasn’t a murderer, that she had been set up, a patsy for the schemes of competing government and corporate interests, and that she really did have a car that could run on water?

  Addy’s knuckles were white as she gripped the steering wheel, gritting her teeth through the ever-lingering pain in her hand. If she was viewed as a fugitive, as some kind of crazed serial murderer, she wondered how much sympathy she was going to generate during her Super Bowl commercial.

  But seeing was believing. She absolutely had to get to the stadium. It was her only chance. Otherwise, she was doomed to a life behind bars. If she was lucky.

  She swung the monster truck into the first available parking stall and rushed into the Starbucks. She found an empty table and switched on her phone. She didn’t bother looking to see how many other vehicles had made their way to the coffee shop.

  As she waited, she smoothed out the gum wrapper and began decoding the seven-digit number for the longitude. The first number was a six. That corresponded to a three. Then an eight that matched up with a two. She continued the process until she had decrypted Quinn’s code.

  When the phone had finished booting up, she searched the icons, desperately searching for the geo app where she could type in the translated coordinates. She scanned through the four rows of square icons, noticing apps on calculators, the weather and stock quotes, but couldn’t find anything on GPS coordinates. Had Quinn forgotten to include it?

  Then she realized there were more screens. She swooshed her finger across the screen to another page. There it is, she told herself, in the middle row. She tapped the screen, uploaded the program and feverishly typed in her code.

  Her heart sank when a map of the address popped up. The new Hindy was stored in a warehouse in South San Francisco. Did Quinn realize that the 49ers didn’t play in San Francisco anymore? Candlestick was long gone. Their new stadium was in the South Bay, nearly a forty-five-minute drive in good traffic.