by Martin Clark
“How much longer,” Joe asked, “is the tourist flight?”
“It’s about sixteen minutes as the crow flies. So if I throw in some sights, probably closer to half an hour, maybe thirty-five minutes. Either way, you’ll be on the ship in time for breakfast.”
“What would we see?” Joe asked.
“A lot more ocean. A lot more beach. The city.”
“Let’s just get there,” Joe said and looked at Lisa. “You okay with that?”
“Same trip would cost you four or five hundred bucks if you paid for it on some tour,” Alden explained, still no inflection in his voice. “But it’s your call.”
“I’d just as soon take the quick route,” she said.
“Fine by me,” Alden noted. “I’ll radio the ship and let Mr. Garrison know our ETA.” He was looking toward Joe; it was impossible to see Alden’s eyes behind his dark glasses. “You planning on doing some bullet fishing? A short L-frame thirty-eight, right?”
Joe didn’t flinch. He and Lisa had agreed on bringing the gun—who knew what might crop up? “Pretty difficult from a helicopter, even with 158-grain hollow points. My own reloads.” He smiled slightly. “More sport in a fly rod too. Who the hell would want to shoot a fish?” Joe glanced at the horizon, spoke with his attention at a distance, elsewhere. The pistol was holstered on his belt, draped by his blazer. He was also wearing a tie and gray slacks.
“You might be surprised,” Alden said, still impassive. “They’ll collect your gun as soon as you board, or you can check it with me. Whatever you prefer.”
“You seem trustworthy enough,” Joe said. “You can hold it while we’re visiting with your boss. By the way, what kind of helicopter is this?”
“Agusta AW109.”
“It’s quite a trick. You mind my asking how much it sells for?”
“No secret,” Alden said. “You can find basic prices on the Internet. Around six million. This has some serious custom options, so add several hundred thousand more.”
“My friend M. J. Gold has a private plane,” Lisa remarked. “She says there’s nothing to compare with flying under the right conditions. She claims it’s addictive.”
“I’ll help you both in,” Alden said, evidently done with the chitchat.
The passenger compartment was sealed off from the pilot’s cabin, a separate, ritzy, flying room. She and Joe were by themselves, belted into comfortable leather seats with a polished wood console between them. Despite the console, they held hands for most of the trip. It occurred to her, as she looked down at the soft seam where water joined land, that for the very first time since Nassau, she hadn’t immediately defaulted to thoughts of her infidelity as she’d admired her husband on the tarmac, counting on him to handle the situation with Alden, grateful he was his own man, feeling fortunate she was married to a badass who could build his own bullets if the store-boughts ran dry. It was a moment to mark: Realizing her affection for Joe hadn’t served to merely set her cheating in vivid relief and amplify her guilt. “I love you,” she mouthed, and he squeezed her hand. The helicopter zoomed ahead, all business.
Once on the ship, she and Joe were greeted under the dying chopper blades by a crouched, older man with LEX, SECURITY written in block letters on his name tag. Chipper and talkative, he dutifully wanded them—apologizing in advance for the intrusion—and then steered them through a metal detector. Joe informed him that he’d “stashed a couple vodka mini-bottles in my boot for the encore,” and Lex got the joke and laughed. He told them that Prince had performed a private concert for Mr. Garrison’s last birthday. Lex also searched Lisa’s purse, and the rummaging annoyed her, this man peeking into her belongings, opening a compact and taking the top off a lipstick tube, for crying out loud.
Seth Garrison was waiting for them in a conference room, and he was a polite host, met them at the door and thanked them for suffering the trip to see him. He was dressed in a black, collared shirt with the tail untucked, black jeans and black canvas boat shoes. Lisa knew from reading about him he was thirty-eight years old. His hair was black as well, thick and parted, surprisingly dated, reminded her of Emilio Estevez’s clunky cut in St. Elmo’s Fire. He wore a permanent three-day beard, the kind that came from a specialty razor, not inattention. There was an earring, too, a modest diamond. His watch was showy. His teeth were professionally aligned and chemically whitened, but his skin seemed appropriate for his age—no fillers or lifts as far as she could tell. He was slightly built, almost skinny, about an inch taller than she was.
“Please, have a seat. What can I offer you? Breakfast? Have you eaten already?”
“Just coffee for me, thanks,” Lisa said. It was a few minutes past eight.
“What’re my choices?” Joe asked.
“Do you like seafood? Our chef cooks a great seafood omelet.”
“Sure,” Joe said. “This would seem to be the ideal place for fresh seafood.”
“Still only coffee for you, Mrs. Stone?”
“I’m good. Coffee’s fine. Regular. Skim milk and half a packet of real sugar.” She noticed that Garrison was not at all impressed or distracted by her appearance, didn’t gawk or goober-smile or miss a beat in their conversation or freeze his face with hysterically fake apathy.
He used an intercom to send their order to the galley, also requesting a seafood omelet for himself. They settled around an oval-shaped table, she and Joe across from Garrison.
“I’m not familiar with how you do business,” Garrison said. “Would you prefer to begin, or wait until we’ve eaten? I’m at your disposal.”
“I’d say we go ahead,” Lisa suggested. There was a large window behind Garrison, and she could see the ocean. The ship sat steady, with no pitch or sway. “We don’t want to waste your time.”
“I agree,” Joe said. “But we’ll leave it to you to set the agenda. What exactly is our business, Mr. Garrison?”
“Cool.” He slid away from the table and crossed his legs. Oddly, he was wearing ribbed black cotton socks with the boat shoes. “It’s simple, really. I’m interested in the late Miss VanSandt’s VV 108. I want to own the rights. I thought I already did.”
“You bought the rights from Neal?” Lisa asked.
“Yes. The whole enchilada.” He shrugged. “But now I’m hearing we might not have what we’d hoped to purchase. I’d like to clean that up.” He was amiable and relaxed.
“Our problem,” Joe said, “is that we have no idea—”
“What the Wound Velvet is worth,” Lisa finished. “We don’t know what it does or why you want it.”
“And I’m in no position to tell you.” Garrison spread his hands, palms exposed. “I’m sure that doesn’t come as a big surprise.”
“No,” Joe said, “but it does leave us at an impasse. The pig in the poke might turn out to be the grand champion.”
A uniformed woman—probably eastern European, Lisa surmised—appeared and set the table with coffee cups, water glasses, cloth napkins and silverware. The ship’s name, Wave Length, was sewn into the napkins.
“I understand,” Garrison said, speaking as the steward went about her tasks. “If you in fact own the pig and the poke. Our lawyers have checked the records in Virginia, and it seems possible that you’re bluffing us.”
“Mr. Garrison,” Lisa replied, “you aren’t meeting with us over some minor tweak to an in-house program.”
“True. You’re bright people. You’re smart enough to realize as much.”
“Why, then, did your employee, Mr. Pichler, tell us a cock-and-bull tale?” she pressed. “Lie to us?”
Garrison smiled. “Ah, the cross-examination starts. Listen, I regret that. Mr. Pichler’s a loyal employee and an excellent administrator. He is not a very good businessman or negotiator.”
“You don’t have to be a good businessman to tell the truth,” Lisa pointed out.
“I agree,” Garrison said. “Exactly. And we’re together now so I can make amends and correct his error.” The steward
poured coffee for him, and he thanked her. “But can we please get back to my concern: Does some trust or foundation own the rights to the formula? A simple question. There’s no need for much more discussion if we already own the VV 108.”
“As best we can tell,” Lisa said, “the asset was in fact transferred to you via the estate. We originally thought it was probable that Lettie had assigned it to one of her many projects. Turns out she didn’t.”
Her coffee was poured next, the skim milk and sugar packet brought on a separate saucer. The steward filled Joe’s cup, then left.
“An honest mistake on your part,” Garrison finally said. “I appreciate your letting me know. Thank you.” He sounded sincere, not a speck of irony or smarm in the words.
“But that doesn’t end our interest in the situation,” Lisa said.
“Obviously not, since you drove all the way here.”
“We think there’re bigger issues,” Joe said.
“Okay, but I’m not exactly sure where you’re headed,” Garrison replied, his expression cheerful, his tone still hospitable.
The steward reappeared and served Joe and Garrison their omelets, which came with fresh fruit and toast.
“What do you believe happened to Lettie?” Lisa asked. She focused on Garrison, made it a point to let him see her staring.
He sawed off a piece of omelet with his fork. “I believe she died in a fire. I understand the fire was related to meth production.” He chewed and swallowed while she inspected him. He laid his fork across the plate, tines down. The metal on china caused a small squeak. “Why’re you asking me?”
“We don’t think it’s so simple,” Lisa said.
“The police are investigating her death as a homicide,” Joe added. He hadn’t touched his breakfast. Chunks of crab and curled shrimp protruded from yellow egg.
“A homicide?” Garrison repeated. “Why? How come?”
“I’m not sure we have all the facts,” Joe said. “We do know that Dr. Downs has given the cops information that contradicts portions of Pichler’s account. Downs believes she was murdered.”
“Is your breakfast not up to par?” Garrison directed the question at Joe. “You’re not eating.”
“It’s perfect,” Joe answered.
“I don’t know if my bud Downs happened to mention it or not, but he’s crazy. Now, he’s also a remarkable scientist, which is why I kept him around as long as I did and paid for his various stints in recovery, but make no mistake, he’s thoroughly off the rails. It’s very sad. There’s an infinitesimal boundary between genius and lunacy, and it seems the best in the arts or sciences are those who can tightrope along the division and flirt with both sides and not tumble off into the void. I’m a fan of William James’s theory of breaching the difficult barrier between the conscious and unconscious. There’s a storehouse in our minds that we access only occasionally. Of course, James used peyote and nitrous oxide to open the door. Probably not such a great idea.” He took hold of the fork and severed another bite of omelet. “Poor Downs has stumbled too far into the crazy camp these days. But I still like him and wish him well. He made a lot of money for us.”
“He is fragile,” Lisa agreed. “Still, there’s no doubt Lettie wrote him and claimed that your company—in the person of a couple, uh, envoys in a rented car—paid her a forceful visit concerning the VV 108. More to the point, Mr. Garrison, the rental was under a fictitious name—Jane Rousch—and that same bogus renter returned the exact day Lettie was killed. The mileage on the first rental would take you right to Lettie’s trailer and then back to the airport.”
“I’m confused. If the name’s a fake, how do you connect it with Benecorp?”
“Lettie e-mailed her pen pal Dr. Downs the plate number from the Benecorp visitors’ car. Guess what? It matches the Rousch vehicle. Unfortunately, Pichler lied about that too.”
Garrison stopped eating. For the first time, he didn’t sound completely at ease. “And what do the two of you have to share about the mysterious Jane Rousch?” he asked, a small, muted strain of antagonism in his voice. He peered at Joe, then Lisa.
“Nothing,” Lisa said.
“Nothing, huh?” he said, his eyebrows raised. “Not a thing? Really?”
“She didn’t work for us,” Joe said.
“No, she didn’t,” Garrison answered. “And do you have any information as to what has become of this Miss Rousch?”
“Why would we?” Joe asked.
“You tell me,” Garrison said.
“I can tell you this much.” Joe paused, poured cream in his coffee, stirred it with a teaspoon. “The final connection will be the call Rousch made to you after Lettie ran them off from her trailer and refused your offer. The cops are tracking that down as we speak. I don’t guess you’d give us your private numbers and save the state some effort?”
“So if I’m understanding this correctly, after weeks of scamming me about the ownership of my formula and failing to gain any advantage, you’re here to accuse me and Benecorp of killing Lettie VanSandt?” Garrison’s tone was normal again.
“Not at all,” Lisa said. “We’re here to tell you about the evidence the police have compiled, and to confirm that you do indeed own the Wound Velvet. That’s hardly a scam. The facts are the facts.”
“From your reaction,” Joe added, “I’m assuming someone called you from Henry County, Virginia, on September third.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Garrison said. “But I will agree ours is a cutthroat business, and we and our rivals have historically been very guarded and under the radar in our movements. The Benecorp flag planted anywhere attracts attention, alerts our marketplace competitors and raises operating costs considerably. Our competition behaves similarly. Nothing unusual. As for Mr. Pichler, he wouldn’t be privy to this segment of a project, this negotiation, so I wouldn’t judge him too harshly if he denied it.”
“You’ve answered my question,” Joe declared. He still hadn’t tried his coffee. His food remained in front of him, growing cold.
“No,” Garrison said, “I haven’t.”
“If you’re so fond of Downs, why’re you harassing him with private thugs?” Lisa asked.
“Hello—because he’s dangerous and he threatened me. The courts have already ruled on that issue. If I were spiteful or less than his friend, I would’ve filed charges and had him arrested. I elected not to. I chose merely to keep an eye on him. As I noted, he has a powerful mind. Who knows what injury he might dream up for me.”
“Yeah,” Joe scoffed. “You’re pretty damn vulnerable. Especially to a criminal mastermind like Steven Downs.”
“If you were familiar with his skills and his intellectual gifts,” Garrison replied, “you wouldn’t be so dismissive.”
“So did you send your people to visit Lettie?” Lisa asked.
“I can promise you this much: I certainly didn’t send anyone to do her harm, and I certainly had no involvement with her death. That’s just ridiculous.”
“What do you think Lettie’s formula is worth?” Lisa asked. “Dollars and cents, I mean. I’m curious, and I can’t see any harm in your telling us since we’ve conceded the Wound Velvet belongs to Benecorp.”
“A reasonable question,” Garrison mused. “But a difficult one. You see, Benecorp isn’t really in the health-care business. Same as Exxon isn’t in the petroleum business. Power companies aren’t there to provide electricity. We’re in the profit business, plain and simple. My objective is to make money. I’m not sure where the VanSandt discovery fits in that paradigm. Occasionally, we acquire projects to keep them on the shelf. If I had to speculate, though, based on the numbers I’ve seen so far, I’d say the VV 108 will probably go into production.”
“I’m seriously considering a suit to get it back,” Joe told him. “You know damn well you didn’t come by the rights honestly.”
“I see. So I have the local Henry County police to worry with, and now your threat of a suit. A pincer.” Garrison slid hi
s plate to the side. He removed a napkin from his lap and laid it—clumped and balled—on the table. “Is your bottom line money? A payment? Is that why you’re here? I suppose there’s always a cost to litigation. It’s trashy to come right out and say it, and I assume it probably offends your extremely high professional standards, but would you like for me to price our situation?”
“No, we wouldn’t,” Lisa replied.
“No,” Joe said curtly.
“How on earth would you possibly expect to win such a suit? Neal is Lettie’s only blood heir, and you, a lawyer, signed away your interest under her will. I can’t see how we’re in jeopardy.”
“Fraud,” Joe answered. “Or mutual mistake of fact if Neal wasn’t in on the smoke and mirrors from the beginning. We explicitly asked if there were any valuable assets he wasn’t disclosing. We sent him a list of items. We asked him every which way from Sunday if there was anything in the estate not on the list. Doing your bidding, he lied to us.”
“A lot of gaps and stretches there, Mr. Stone. And a big, ugly swearing contest. I’m confident Neal doesn’t recall any such conversation. Your prospects seem extremely limited.”
“We’re anxious to take our chances,” Lisa said. “I think a Henry County jury will believe us.”
“You’re positive we can’t negotiate a fair settlement?” Garrison asked. “I hate to see this escalate. A Henry County jury will never hear this case. Diversity of citizenship will take us to a nice, neutral federal court. I know this because I’m frequently sued.”
