The Gamma Sequence

by Dan Alatorre

  Chapter 2

  Hamilton DeShear dabbed his face with a towel and leaned over the canvas camping chair, snatching his phone from the lid of the cooler before it could vibrate into the sand. He never took the phone with him when he ran, figuring he was allowed an hour at dawn to himself. His daily three-mile run on the beach was one of the few pleasures he permitted himself these days.

  A nearby fishing pole rested in a half-buried PVC pipe but showed no indication of having caught a fish. He held his towel over the phone to cast a shadow in the bright light, then read the screen.

  Unknown number.

  Good. It’s not Tullenstein again.

  He tapped the green icon and raised the phone to his ear. “DeShear Investigations.”

  The woman on the other end spoke with a quiet but rushed tone. “Hello, may I speak with Hamilton DeShear, please?” Her words wavered slightly, like someone who doesn’t quite know how to ask for what they want.

  Maybe a wife who wanted her husband followed, but definitely not one of Tullenstein’s minions looking to slap another lawsuit on him.

  DeShear held the phone away from his face to note the time. Seven-thirty on the dot. “This is Hank DeShear. What can I do for you?” Setting the phone back on the cooler lid, he pressed the speaker button and brushed sand from his taut, shirtless torso.

  The caller cleared her throat. “I’m not sure how to say this . . .”

  “Okay, well, take your time.”

  A well-toned young lady—easily half his age—jogged by wearing a sports bra and pink yoga pants. Her blonde ponytail bobbed at the back of her baseball cap, but her eyes stayed on DeShear. She smiled and gave him a wave. He lifted a hand and nodded. Her long legs churned through the soft sand as she turned and continued down the beach.

  “I require your services,” the woman on the phone said. “But you must start right away. Will you meet with me? I spoke with Mark Harriman of the Tampa police department. You were very highly recommended.”

  “Well, that was nice of Harriman. What’s this about, Miss . . .?”

  “You may call me Lanaya Kim. I assume you’ve read about the death of Dr. Braunheiser last evening?”

  “I caught part of it on the news. Wellington Academy. He was the headmaster.” DeShear grabbed the phone, thumbing icons in an attempt to find the Tampa Tribute website. The service indicator flickered with one partial bar as it searched for a stronger signal. His laptop was in the trunk of his car, but it wouldn’t power up fast enough to let him find the story quickly and read more—if it got a signal at all.

  “The news reports say he died in a single-person car wreck. I want to look into a wrongful death case, but you must start immediately. Are you available to meet me tomorrow?”

  “Sure.” He brushed the sand from his legs. “I can even meet you this morning if you want. What law firm are you with?”

  “Tomorrow. And I am a private individual. An attorney of my employ will contact you soon if you take the case.”

  “That’ll be fine. Can I ask what your relationship to the case is, Ms. Kim?”

  “As I implied, the death of Dr. Braunheiser was something other than a simple accident. We can talk in detail about that tomorrow. I’d like to—”

  “What do you think happened?” He squinted into the calm waters of the bay as they glinted in the morning sun, tiny diamonds dancing with each ripple.

  “I . . . I can’t discuss it over the phone. If you—”

  “Tomorrow it is, then, Ms. Kim. And don’t worry, I’m pretty well versed in these types of things. I do excellent trial research, and like Harriman probably told you, I used to be a cop. So if we need to get a wrecked car’s brake lines checked, or a power steering mechanism inspected to find a faulty repair or a manufacturing issue, that’s no problem. I can locate the best experts, compile all the research, and present it so anyone on a jury finds in your favor. Of course, for it to go anywhere, you first have to show you’re an affected party. Can you tell me how you connect to Dr. Braunheiser?”

  A few seagulls landed next to his fishing rod.

  “The news . . . the news says that Dr. Braunheiser’s death was an accident.”

  “And you wanna sue.”

  “No. I want . . . my interest . . .” She took a breath. “If an advanced toxicology screen is performed, it will show Propofol in Dr. Braunheiser’s system. Enough to where he would not have been able to drive a car.”

  DeShear rubbed the beard stubble on his chin. “That’s a little different. You think the wreck was intentional? A homicide?”

  “I really—I don’t want to discuss this over the phone. When we meet in person, I can tell you more.”

  “Okay, but from what you’re saying, you—or someone else—thinks the doctor’s death was a murder.”

  “Mr. DeShear—”

  “Ma’am, it’s an important distinction for me. I don’t do murder investigations.”

  “Mr. DeShear, please listen to what I have to say.” Her voice quivered. “Please.”

  The quiver hooked him. Fear in others had a way of making him sympathetic. He put a hand on his hip. “Okay, I’m sorry. Go ahead.”

  “Not on the phone. Tomorrow. In person.”

  He pursed his lips. Something about her didn’t feel right.

  “You do bail bonds work, correct? Finding criminals who skip out on their bond? And your bail retrieval account is with Mid Florida bank. Check your balance. You’ll see a five-thousand-dollar deposit has been added by Credit Suisse, from an account ending in two-zero-one. Would you like to take a moment to verify the funds are there?”

  He snapped upright. “I’m, uh, not really at my office right now.” Glancing at the car, he regretted not firing up the laptop earlier—and not jogging where there was a better signal.

  “Can you check from your phone? I’ll wait.”

  “Yeah, there’s not really a signal here. Five thousand, did you say?”

  “Do I have your interest now? It’s all yours for simply meeting me tomorrow on Bayshore Boulevard. Hear me out and the money’s yours, no strings attached. Afterwards, we can see if you’d like to handle my case.”

  He nodded. “Five thousand dollars will certainly buy a few hours of my time. I’m available later today if you want.”

  “Tomorrow. I’ll be coming in from Texas.”

  “What time should I pick you up at the airport?”

  “Please pay attention. I need you to report the information about the Propofol to the police. It won’t show up in a standard toxicology report, so the coroner will specifically need to look for it.”

  “Okay. They’re gonna wonder how I got the information.”

  “Tell them the truth. You got a tip over the phone. Tomorrow, meet me at noon, at the corner of Bayshore Boulevard and Gandy. I’ll be dressed in red jogging gear and stretching on the grass in the median.”

  He stood and held the phone to his ear with his shoulder. Folding the canvas chair, he grabbed the cooler and fishing rod as he made his way to the car. “A thousand people jog on Bayshore every day. How will I find you?”

  “Your picture is on file with the department of professional regulation. I’ll find you. I must go now.”

  “Just to make sure we’re on the same page—if we meet, I get to keep the five thousand.”

  “Correct.”

  “Well, you just bought yourself a meeting.” He smiled. It might be a merry Christmas this year after all. “So how’s the weather out there in Texas during the holidays?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t say I lived in Texas, I said I was coming in from there.” She huffed. “I do hope you pay better attention to detail going forward than you have so far, Mr. DeShear.”

  He shifted on his feet. “Yes ma’am. Sorry. I sure will. As a private investigator, we often need to deduce things, so—”

  “Try not to deduce incorrectly, then. One last thing. You are not to try to contact me in any way. For the moment, assume every aspect of your
life has been compromised. Your office, your computers, everything. Operate as though your phones are bugged and your home is under surveillance. I’m calling you from a disposable phone, so don’t try to call me back on it.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but that sounds a little over the top.”

  “For five thousand dollars, I get to sound as over the top as I want.”

  “All right. Fair enough.”

  “Come alone tomorrow, and don’t tell anyone about the meeting.”

  “No problem.” He set down his gear and rubbed his forehead. “Ah, Ms. Kim, this may cost me the job, but I feel obliged to say this again—I can’t get involved in an active murder investigation. It’s just not allowed. So, when I tell Harriman about the Propofol, if that pans out—that’s it. I’ll have to step aside.”

  “I’ll be hiring you to handle a missing persons case. You still do that, don’t you?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “As an investigator working for a law firm in a wrongful death suit or missing persons case, you’ll be able to interact with every law enforcement agency necessary. Enough discovery motions will be filed in enough cities for you to act with virtual impunity.”

  “Okay,” DeShear said. “But who’s the missing person?”

  The line went silent. Just as he was deciding she’d ended the call, her reply came.

  “The missing person is me.”

  Chapter 3

  After driving to the bank and cashing out his newfound five thousand dollars, DeShear opened a safe deposit box and put most of the cash inside. He then got a haircut and a shoeshine, and spent most of the rest of the day alternating between hunching over his computer and pacing back and forth around his living room like he was trying to wear out the carpet.

  Lanaya Kim had been right about Braunheiser’s accident—as far as what the news and the Tampa police were reporting. A single-car wreck ended the doctor’s life, after apparently losing control of his 1968 Jaguar convertible. With no air bags, no shoulder straps, and no roof, the doctor was crushed under the car when it went off the road south of his home. The vintage vehicle dropped the ten or so feet onto the rocks lining the bay, flipping over and crushing the doctor underneath.

  Nothing too interesting there; a case of bad luck on the old boy’s birthday, maybe after a few too many glasses of wine.

  Propofol, on the other hand, was a very interesting drug. Anything with the nickname “milk of amnesia” had to be. A restricted use anesthesia, it was mainly accessible to nurses, doctors, and pharmacists, but it had been known to be a target for hospital break ins. Propofol had the added distinction of being part of pop singer Michael Jackson’s demise, which made it a headliner for a while with some illegal drug users. Since it could cause irregular heartbeats, an overdose might appear as a heart attack. Being an injected drug, Propofol would usually be easy to spot if it was the cause of death.

  The fact that it was a standard anesthesia in colonoscopies and many surgeries was most interesting to DeShear.

  He leaned back in his chair, staring at his computer screen.

  It’s a knockout drug. It’d be hard to drive at all when you’re looped.

  Now that he knew a little about the subject, DeShear called the Tampa Police Department. He used the main line so his call would be logged and recorded, instead of attempting to contact Harriman on his cell phone. The information might make DeShear a suspect in a murder investigation. He wanted it all to be on the record.

  “Hank DeShear,” Harriman said. “Old Hanky Panky. Long time. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Work, Officer. It’s not a social call today.”

  “So I figured. If we were still social, I’d probably have seen you at the hockey game last week like we planned. How’s your cough?”

  “It put me on the couch for five straight days, but I’m all cleared up now—and trying to catch up on work. Maybe we can see a game later this month.” Reaching across his tiny dining room table, DeShear grabbed a yellow legal pad and a pen. “What about you? How you managing?”

  “Day by day, man.”

  DeShear chewed his lip. “I need a favor. It’s about the Braunheiser accident.”

  “Okay, sure. Whatcha got?”

  He tapped the pen and took a deep breath. This information could go a lot of ways, and most of them would be bad for DeShear. The legal pad was filled with various scripted versions of how to deliver the tip to Harriman so it raised his interest enough to order the tox screen but didn’t get anyone brought in for questioning. It was a dicey route. Harriman’s ambition blurred his judgement at times, and DeShear had a five-thousand-dollar lunch date the next day. He couldn’t risk getting locked up for forty-eight hours if Harriman’s boss got a bug up his butt and wanted to press him for more.

  Downplay it.

  “I got a tip that the good doctor was drugged and that’s what caused his wreck. Seems like a stretch, but I thought I should report it.”

  DeShear held his breath.

  “It is a stretch. Our guys checked the scene. He rolled his car on top of himself, end of story.”

  “I know, but my source says if you do a tox screen for Propofol, you’ll find it in his system.” DeShear’s heels bounced on the vinyl flooring as he waited for an answer. “That’s the stuff Michael Jackson was on when he croaked. Can you request one and let me know?”

  “Sounds pretty thin. How good is the source? I don’t wanna raise a ruckus over a respected member of the community and end up looking stupid. What if you contact the family directly and see if they’ll ask the medical examiner?”

  Terrific.

  Harriman’s ambition could make him a jerk, but he wasn’t usually this thick. “Mark, old buddy, if you get information that kicks this upstairs to major crimes, it’s another step up the ladder for you. Run the screen. It’s a legit tip, and it might prove something. How long would it take to get a result?”

  “If I request it and there’s nothing there, you owe me a dinner.”

  That was a good sign. The possibility of getting some kudos from his boss might have worked. “Okay.”

  “At Bern’s, and I choose the wine.”

  Of course it had to be at the most expensive steak house in town, the one known world-wide for its expansive wine cellar. “Steaks at Bern’s, and we drink beer. How long until I can hear back?”

  “A day, maybe two. I’ll call over there after we hang up.”

  With the fish on the hook, DeShear decided to press his luck. “That’s more like McDonald’s Big Mac speed. If you want a steak dinner, I need steak speed.”

  “Kinda pushy when you’re asking me to do work you’re getting paid for, but I’ll see what I can do. Because you’re a friend.”

  “Thanks,” DeShear said. “Good talking with you.”

  He ended the call, then returned to the business of wearing out his carpet.

  * * * * *

  His 7 A. M. breakfast at Ihop wasn’t as leisurely as he’d hoped. Five grand was a lot to lose if the interview went bad. He’d have stayed home, but his carpet had suffered enough—and there’s only so much nervous energy you can vent at the gym. If he ate really slowly, a big plate of pancakes and eggs might fill some of the gap before his meeting.

  At 7:30, shoving his untouched breakfast aside, he opened his laptop and returned emails for a while, trying to not look at his phone every five minutes to see what time it was. Then he went outside and bought a copy of the Tampa Tribute from the box in front of the restaurant. He sat down and perused the pages of each section while quietly bouncing his heels under the table like a madman. At ten thirty, after staring at the newspaper without actually reading anything, and surrendering to daydreams about a lavish cruise to the Bahamas paid for with the cash from his safety deposit box, he gave up stalling and headed toward his appointment.

  The drive to Bayshore Boulevard was quiet. Morning traffic had already subsided, and things hadn’t yet picked up for the lunch rush. But
the south end of Bayshore wouldn’t be too busy anyway. MacDill Air Force Base lay at the tip of the Bayshore peninsula, and any contractors there who wanted lunch offsite would stay farther south. Downtown Tampa lay at the north end of Bayshore, and office workers there tended to stay north so they could get back to the grind in less than sixty minutes. Bayshore itself was the scenic respite of big houses and old money, back from when Tampa first became a major shipping port over a hundred years ago. The doctors and lawyers who later moved into those mansions maintained the exclusive aura of Florida’s very well-to-do.

  Along the route, DeShear passed by the Braunheiser residence. A few police cars lined the driveway. Mrs. Braunheiser and her adult daughter would have gotten the bad news and come home, and by now they were probably meeting with the police to answer any questions as a matter of routine.

  DeShear reached up and loosened his tie, more from nerves than from being hot. December in Florida was a fickle thing, causing people to run their air conditioners one day and wear leather jackets the next as Canadian winds struggled with Caribbean currents to see whether there would be a frost on Christmas day or swimming and sun tans. Today, Canada was winning—but only barely. The breeze off the bay created a light chop in the water, and it sprayed onto DeShear’s windshield when the occasional large wave crashed into the rocks. Whitecaps were visible past the Tampa Yacht Club. It would be rough sailing for anyone who ventured out, regardless of the size of their boat.

  Parking a few blocks from Kojack’s Ribs, DeShear walked toward the designated intersection in the hopes of catching a few extra details about his mysterious client before she arrived. He shouldn’t have bothered.

  “You’re early, Mr. DeShear.”

  Lanaya Kim had long legs, and she was a little heavier than he expected. A middle-aged woman with dark brown hair, almost black, but with few other overt Asian features, running didn’t appear to be her thing. She sat in the middle of the wide grassy median that separated Bayshore Boulevard’s northbound and southbound lanes, her legs in a V, arching herself toward one foot and then the other.