His tone was crisp and his steel-blue eyes confirmed that the pleasantries were over. It was time to get down to business.
Temple responded.
"As I mentioned on the ‘phone, we're investigating the death of Sandra Holmes. Body found down by the waterfront this morning. About all we know about her is that she worked here at CedarTech. We'd like to talk with anyone here who knew her, worked with her, maybe heard her say where she was going last night and with who."
Grey looked hard at Temple then swung his eyes to Kincaid.
"That explains you, Lieutenant. What does DEA have to do with this?"
Temple shot back, "Probable cause of death is an OD on coke. Agent Kincaid is covering that angle."
Grey seemed to accept the explanation as he ruffled through the pile of paper on the cluttered desk, searching for something. The remains of his ketchup-soaked Egg McMuffin slid off onto the already-stained carpet.
"Have to do something someday about this filing system. Got it here somewhere." After some more digging, he pulled out a buff-colored folder. "Thought you might be wanting this. Copy of the Holmes personnel folder. It’s yours. Don't know her myself. Not surprising. We've got over two thousand people here at any one time and a lot of them are perm-temps. Don't have detailed personnel records on those."
Temple took the folder. Perm-temps were programmers hired by large software companies as temporary employees but on a long-term basis. The practice saved the company the expense of all the benefits required for a full-time employee and made firing them easy once the project was completed.
Grey flipped through the pages.
“She was fulltime, then?” Temple asked.
“Yeah. Went by ’Sandy,’ by the way. Says she worked in ‘gooey’ development for the ‘bee-to-bee’ practice." Looking up, Grey noticed the quizzical look on both his visitors' faces. "Excuse me. Sometimes I catch myself talking like the rest of the gear heads around this place. In English, she worked at developing graphical user interfaces…GUI. Those are the screens the customer sees. And for the business-to-business practice. That department is over in one of the new buildings." Grey rose and handed the folder to Temple. "Come on. I'll walk you over there. Her manager is a lady named Ann Mershon. Has a reputation as a real slave driver, all business. Some of the kids call her ‘Mush Mush Mershon.’ You know, like sled dogs? You didn’t hear that from me. I’ll introduce you."
Grey pulled on a rain jacket and stalked for the door. Temple and Kincaid trailed behind.
They crossed the broad lawn that separated the buildings. Tom Kincaid couldn’t help feeling as if they were the only three people on the planet. Despite the wide expanse of green and the beautiful sunshine, there was not another human being in sight.
Temple's cell phone buzzed annoyingly. Without breaking stride, he retrieved it from his pocket and flipped it open. The detective grunted acknowledgement a couple of times. The conversation was short and one-sided. He shut the phone in one quick move and without saying “goodbye” to whoever it was on the other end.
"Tom, we've got another one,” he said through pursed lips. “Body found over in Bremerton, just outside the shipyard. Male, late twenties, well dressed. Initial ID is some computer whiz kid. Field toxicology shows coke. We average a couple of ODs a year and now we have two in the same night."
Kincaid nodded, his mind churning. Could be coincidence. As much money as there was in this town, and as many young people around with little life beyond their high tech, high-pressure jobs, coke had to be a big temptation. And where there was a willing and moneyed clientele, someone usually found a way to meet the demands of the marketplace.
It was difficult to overdose on cocaine. Especially if the user was smart. These people were brighter than the typical cokehead or junkie. Something was going on. Kincaid could almost sense it. Smell it as surely as he could the aroma of the spruce trees being warmed by the bright, new sun.
Ann Mershon turned out to be an African-American woman in her early thirties. A hard-faced lady with a no-nonsense hairdo, dressed in a strictly-business suit. Grey’s characterization was dead-on. She ruled over a warehouse-sized room crowded with tiny, close cubicles. The only sound in the big room was the chattering of fingers on computer keyboards. Tom Kincaid felt claustrophobic. He couldn’t wait to finish up, get their information, and go back to where he could once again smell the spruce and feel the warmth of the sun.
No one imprisoned in this place could enjoy the views of nature. That is, except the more senior employees, those blessed with windowed offices. Down here, in the bowels of this galley, they had to settle for harsh fluorescent sunshine. For clean but filtered and dehumidified air. Their only view of outside came courtesy of travel posters thumb tacked to their cubicle walls. Or by bright, flickering screensavers that danced invitingly on their computer monitors.
Kincaid glanced down the rows of programmers, bent over keyboards, faces frozen and bluish as they gazed at the screens a few inches from their noses. It reminded him of some Third World sweatshop.
Mershon never smiled but she invited the trio to follow her into one of the small, walled offices that ringed the big room. She glanced behind her, making sure the visitors had not disrupted the rhythm of her software machine in any way.
"I'd offer you gentlemen a seat, but I'm afraid there isn't any room," she said. "Now, what can I do for you? We're a little busy here so I'd appreciate keeping this short."
She spoke with a clipped but unmistakable New England accent, her hands on her hips, the clock running already. Temple and Kincaid both showed her their shields while Grey explained that they were investigating the death of Sandra Holmes. Temple added a few details.
Mershon's eyes widened only slightly as she listened to the story. Kincaid noticed she did breathe a bit faster and swallowed hard when Temple mentioned how they believed the young woman had died.
"I suspected something was wrong,” she said when the detective finished. “Sandy…we called her Sandy in our work group…she was always quiet and withdrawn. A good worker, though. Really threw herself into the project. Didn’t waste time like some of the others with all the gossip and silliness and carrying on. Never missed a day, until the last few days. No e-mail, no call or anything."
“How well did you know her?” Temple asked.
"Not very. Didn't talk with her much. Look, Lieutenant, I've got almost a hundred programmers here. And they come and go. I don't get to know them very well at all. Seems I remember she was from somewhere in the Midwest. Maybe I saw that on her resume. Said something one time about having a mother back in Iowa, I think."
Temple was taking notes in a little pad he had pulled from his inside jacket pocket, scratching away with a stubby little pencil.
"She have any friends here at work that you know of? Somebody she might have gone out with after work?"
Mershon gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling for a few seconds.
"No, not really. She is…I mean was…pretty much a loner. I confess I like it like that. They don’t cause me any trouble, that kind. Really, the only one I ever saw her talking with was Farragut. Linda Farragut. Bad actor, that one, though. Has a real wild reputation around here but I never thought they were exactly friends. Kind of ironic, I suppose. Nice girl like Sandy, talking with somebody like Farragut. Doesn’t really make sense. You want to talk with her?"
Temple looked up from his pad, touched the end of his pencil to his tongue, and wrote down the name before he answered her.
"Yeah, that would be a good idea."
Mershon reached across her desk for the phone. She stabbed several buttons and waited, tapping her fingers on the desktop.
"Strange, no answer at her desk." She checked her watch. “Not break time yet for that team, either. She better not be slacking…” Ann Mershon stood up, walked to the door, and spoke to someone in the first cubicle outside. "Cicelle, have you seen Farragut today?"
A disembodied female voice responded.
Mershon hit a few keys on her computer keyboard then scribbled something on a pink Post-It note and handed it to Temple.
"Here’s Farragut's address and phone number. Find out who killed Sandy. She was a good kid."
The woman’s voice broke slightly. It was the first real sign of any emotion he had seen from her. All three men headed toward the door on that cue, but the detective stepped back and handed her one of his business cards.
"We'll do our best. And let me know if you think of anything that might help us."
The woman nodded then followed them back out into the massive roomful of galley slaves. When Kincaid glanced back, “Mush Mush” Mershon was throwing a mean scowl at one of the programmers who had dared to look up from his monitor as the visitors passed by his cage.
Kincaid walked faster. He was dying for a breath of fresh, unfiltered air.
6
Juan de Santiago knew he would have to phrase his words very carefully, minding their slightest inflection, even the timbre of his voice. This could be the most important conversation he had conducted since he assumed command of the people’s revolution. Neither he nor the people of his country could afford any misunderstanding at this point. He took a deep breath and listened to the metallic pops and the rattling, crackling static on the trans-Pacific telephone connection as he waited for the other man to answer.
Asians could be so difficult to negotiate with, much more subtle and obtuse than the Americans. Every word and nuance had gradations of meanings that required peeling away like the layers of an onion in order to be understood. Juan de Santiago was a direct man and he preferred negotiating directly, but for the next little while, he would have to yield to the style of the man whose voice now spoke into a telephone mouthpiece half a world away.
“Good day, Mr. de Santiago, my friend,” the voice said.
De Santiago expelled his held breath. The conversation would be in English. No interpreter necessary. That would make it much easier for him to make his points. And it was a good omen that the Asian would be willing to negotiate on common neutral ground, not insisting that each man use his own tongue in some awkward discourse.
"Sui Kia Shun, my good friend. I trust that your family is well and your sons prosper," de Santiago said into the cell phone. His speech was deliberate as he enunciated the words carefully. “And your daughter, too, of course.”
According to reports, Sui now had his daughter in a place of responsibility within his organization. De Santiago could not imagine such a thing.
There was a short time delay while his greeting sought a satellite and was relayed around the planet. When the most powerful drug lord in Southeast Asia spoke again, there was a faint Chinese lilt in his speech, magnified by a hollow, distant echo that made his voice seem even more cold and brittle.
"Yes, yes. Thank you. And Juan, my good friend, my condolences on your recent misfortune."
There it was. Before the pleasantries had been completed. It was amazing how quickly the story of the raid on his fields spread. The attack on his coca crop was only days old, the black smoke hardly cleared from the mountain jungles. And Sui knew of it. So did his peers in Amsterdam and Marseille and Miami.
De Santiago was a little taken aback that the Asian played that card so early in their conversation. That changed the complexion of the negotiation immediately. Sui had tried to place him in a position of weakness. De Santiago knew he must parry in order to come back to an even basis.
"It was only a minor inconvenience. Nothing of concern. One field of many that will soon bear glorious fruit.” He paused for a beat then launched his own shot. “I hear that you too have been annoyed by the DEA. I trust the much-publicized loss of that shipment at Long Beach did not damage your enterprise. Mr. Taylor of the Drug Enforcement Agency can be so annoying on the American television when he boasts for the benefit of the taxpayers and bureaucrats."
Sui chuckled but there was no humor at all in the sound.
"Mi amigo, you are quite right. I too find his antics annoying. A mosquito that needs swatting…and soon."
De Santiago dived for the opening.
"Precisely. That’s why I asked for this discussion today. I would like to talk with you about a mutually beneficial proposition that could permanently remove that annoying mosquito. And all others like him."
"I might be interested in your proposal,” Sui responded quickly. The DEA seizure, and the publicity it generated, rankled the Asian as much as de Santiago had assumed it would. The man was eager to talk. “So, what might this proposition of yours entail?"
De Santiago outlined the general points of the plan, careful to only reveal enough to pique the Asian’s interest until he could get his commitment. Previous turf wars would have to be forgotten now. Their futures might rest on the specifics of de Santiago’s plan, and it would be far more likely to succeed if Sui was a part of it.
"I would suggest,” de Santiago concluded, “that my most trusted lieutenant meet with your people as soon as possible to discuss the details. Might they plan such a gathering in Hong Kong in two days? I suggest the Mandarin Oriental Hotel. You know it?"
The group seated around the big mahogany conference table listening to de Santiago’s end of the conversation could tell much from the smile that spread across their leader’s face. Sui agreed to the meeting. That meant he was willing to buy into their plan if the details were to his liking.
After the mandatory final small talk, Juan de Santiago punched the “Stop” button on the phone and flipped it shut with a flourish. He was still smiling.
"You all heard the conversation. Sui will participate. He can't afford not to. Antonio, pack your bag. You must be in Hong Kong tomorrow."
Sunlight poured in the window behind de Santiago. A flower-scented tropical breeze danced with the thin white curtains. The group erupted into excited applause. De Santiago stood and walked to the window. It was indeed a triumphant moment.
Below the window, in a large courtyard, his latest mistress and two of his children splashed and played in the sparkling swimming pool while several of his men stood watch nearby. They scanned the hills, the sky, looking for anything that might threaten them. El Jefe watched for a moment, his eyes drawn ultimately to the beautiful woman. Beautiful still, even after she had delivered to him the two little ones. He noticed the way the water played on her dark skin, how her full breasts bounced provocatively as she played some game with the laughing children, hopping into and out of the shallow end of the pool as they tried to catch her. Even from here, he could see her nipples, strong and erect against the filmy fabric of her bathing suit. The darkness at the nadir of her body where her long, slender legs met. The leader of the people’s revolution felt a definite stirring.
The diplomatic flirtation he had just conducted with his Asian counterpart had gone well. As well as he could have ever hoped. And it left him with an odd feeling, one of unconsummated arousal. He felt an almost overpowering longing to call down to the woman, to beckon to her from where he watched her, to have her leave the children and their game and meet him in his quarters and to properly celebrate this powerful new alliance he had just arranged.
It was not to be. At least not now.
The group in the room behind him had quieted somewhat and would be looking to him for the next topic for the meeting. He shook his head slightly to clear away the thoughts that had come over him.
As he turned, Antonio de Fuka was still accepting the good wishes of the other men in the room. He would be their standard bearer, the one who would bring home the final piece in their plan from his meetings in Hong Kong.
With a nod from the leader, Philippe Zurko rose to speak. He was a tall, slender man, but with enormous brown eyes that seemed on the verge of shedding tears at any moment. His dark beard w
as close-cropped and he spoke in the deliberate, calm manner of a seasoned diplomat. No one seemed to notice, though, the slight trembling of his hands when he set down the pen he had been using to make notes on the pad before him.
"El Jefe, I am pleased to report that we are progressing well with my project. The Russians demanded another ten million rubles for the plans as we anticipated they likely might. As you predicted, their hatred for the Americans is exceeded only by their insatiable greed. At any rate, the money is already deposited in the Swiss account, awaiting their arrival." He paused and took a long, thirsty drink of ice water. The ice cubes clinked softly against the glass as he raised it unsteadily to his lips. He swallowed then went on. "They should arrive in Lima in three days. And, of course, we will be watching them for the entire trip."
De Santiago gazed at the tall, dark Latin for a few seconds. He and Zurko had been friends since boyhood, had grown up in adjacent haciendas, and he trusted the man implicitly. The room in which they were now meeting had once been Zurko’s father’s dining room, the walls covered with portraits of the man’s family. The antique cabinets that had once lined the room had been filled with fine China and silver and the windows dressed with imported fabrics. De Santiago had memories of dinners he had enjoyed here, at this very table, and the stories Senor Zurko had spun for the boys as they lingered over dessert and strong coffee. But El Presidente stole the hacienda and had the elder Zurko put to death many years before. De Santiago's father had met much the same fate. The jungle had long since reclaimed not only his father’s bones but also the burned-out ruins of de Santiago’s boyhood home.
This was now rebel-held territory again. Juan de Santiago had taken back all he could of what the bastard and his imperialist allies had seized from him. And soon, revenge for everything else that had been stolen would be his.
"Where do they go from Lima?" he asked Zurko.
"Preparations are almost complete. We have contracted a small shipyard in Chiclayo for the modification of the freighter. The Russians go there first to check dimensions, then proceed to a small villa in the mountains outside Cajamarca. It is remote enough and the locals are sufficiently afraid that no one will ask any questions or mention the presence of strangers to anyone. Construction of the sections will happen there. The sections will then be trucked to the coast for assembly when all is ready."
Final Bearing Page 6
