“Now, are you sure you can have it ready to go by Monday? I’ve decided to drive it to Austin myself, but those leopard-skin seat covers are a must. Marie insists that’s the only thing missing, and I want it to be perfect for her.”
“I called the distributor in England, yesterday morning,” Freddy said. “He guarantees they’ll be here at the airport by two today.”
“So there’ll be no problem in my picking it up first thing Monday morning.”
“None at all, I assure you.”
The one-sided conversation drifted off to Jerry Dale’s business—oil-drilling equipment. “That’s why I’ve been here all week. We’ve got a big shipment going out to Venezuela. I’m going to personally supervise the loading. Some of computer gear is too damn delicate to trust to just any Tom, Dick and Harry. I should be back a couple of times before summer. If the Rolls performs the way I expect it to, I’ll drive back here instead of flying. See some of the country instead of a lot of clouds. The company jets get you there and back in a hurry, but it’s time we slowed down. There’s a lot of America we’d like to see. Right, Marie?”
Marie nodded in approval as she peered at her husband over a lobster claw.
“We’ve got a lot of equipment going out through Charlesport these days. We’d have a lot more if the damn administration would quit meddling. The Iranis would buy everything we could turn out for the next ten years, if they were allowed to. Damned if I can see how they could use an oil-rig to fire missiles. It’s all friggin’ nonsense.”
Lawson’s early departure from the luncheon table, pleading a scheduled inspection, made little impression on Freddy, so caught up was he in the international oil production scene. What did make an impression was Lawson’s three o’clock phone call. The four-martini lunch hadn’t dulled Freddy’s senses so much he didn’t immediately pick up the urgency in Lawson’s voice as he said he would be dropping by the dealership later in the day.
The worst Freddy expected—and he prepared himself for it—was the cancellation of the BMW order. All too soon, he found out what he had expected was most certainly not the worst.
Lawson came immediately to the point. “Freddy, I’m sure you’re being conned. About a year ago, an oil rig dealer went into an auto agency in Newark and bought an expensive Cadillac. He was going to accept delivery of it and pay for it on the following Monday. Instead, he shows up Friday evening after the banks are closed, pleads an emergency requiring him to get back to his company office right away. He says he needs the Caddy immediately. Naturally, the dealer’s suspicious. He stalls, while his secretary phones the hotel where the customer’s staying. Even calls the Better Business Bureau back in Texas. Everything checks out. The customer is who he says he is, so the dealer accepts the hundred-and-five thousand dollar check.
“The next morning he gets a call from a used car dealer who has a customer who’s willing to sacrifice his new Cadillac for fifty-thousand. The used car dealer knows who the only Cadillac dealer in town is, and that’s how come the call. The Cadillac dealer panics, calls the police, swears out a complaint and they swoop down on the customer at the used car lot. They arrest him, and you should be able to guess what happens next.”
Freddy’s eyes were glued open. He shook his head.
“The check is perfectly good. The customer sues the dealer for false arrest. There’s an out-of-court settlement of half a million.”
“And you think…”
“I’m positive,” Lawson answered the incomplete question. “One of those exposé shows did the story, and Jimmy Dale is none other than the con artist who pulled off a perfectly legal scam, and who tried to avoid the camera. But don’t take my word for it. There’s a way you can check for sure.”
“How’s that?” Freddy’s mouth was now so dry he could barely speak above a whisper.
“Call the Newark police. They’ll have a record of it. One of their lieutenants was on the show describing it.”
It took Freddy a while to locate the right number and then to work his way through the police bureaucracy to find the lieutenant, whom Lawson had referred to. Freddy’s stomach proceeded to tie itself into knots as the exasperated officer confirmed his own worst fears.
“Don’t tell me,” the New Jersey voice said. “You’re another auto dealer. That’s three this year. TV show paid off, I guess. Nobody else has fallen for Sutherland’s scam since then. Oh, he does own an oil equipment outfit—Sutherland Enterprises. He has enough money to cover the check, and more. He was even a state senator back in Texas, and he may have to run for the office again if he can’t find any more suckers to sue.”
Only after the lieutenant described Jimmy Dale in detail, and added an equally accurate description of Marie for good measure, did Freddy finally throw in the towel. The sale of the Rolls was a myth. The amazingly successful week had evaporated, and only the barest of chances had prevented the week from becoming an amazingly horrifying disaster.
Still, he had the minutest of lingering doubts. “But he already gave me a five thousand dollar check.”
“Sure. And you can bet it’s a good one. So will the big one be he’ll have for you on Friday afternoon—after the banks close.”
Freddy was seldom given to profanity, but this was too much. “The sonnavabitch. The dirty, stinking, sonnavabitch.”
Lawson was sympathetic, but the only consolation he could offer was how the TV appearance had virtually destroyed Jimmy Dale’s scam, and there was always the possibility it would backfire on him.
Freddy shook his head. “The slippery sonnavabitch can’t be touched. The lieutenant said so. His checks are good. He’s not breaking the law.”
Lawson looked thoughtful as he glanced at his watch and rose to leave. “Actually, it seems to me the checks are the weak part of the scheme. They are good. If he keeps trying the same thing enough times, some dealer will have heard about the scam, will keep the checks and won’t sick the police on him. Anyway, I’m glad I could help. I’ve seen too many crooks trying to take on my company to go letting someone like this con artist get away with murder.”
It took almost an hour for Freddy to make even a token recovery from the bad news of the afternoon. Now, all he could think of was the sight of the fat commission flying out the window.
Yet, somehow, hope springs eternal. Maybe, just maybe, Jimmy Dale had reformed. Maybe, just maybe, Marie really wanted the Rolls. Why not just play along? What was the worse that could happen. Jimmy Dale would want to return the Rolls, arguing some defect or other, but the contract had automatically included a very costly return policy.
If Lawson’s scenario was accurate, they’d show up on Friday evening with some cock-’n-bull story. Freddy could simply refuse the check at the time, but what was there to lose by accepting it? Freddy could see no flaw in his scheme. At worst, he’d wasted a few hours of putting up with someone he despised but would still make a few dollars on the Rolls return. At best, he would reap a wonderful commission.
The one thing he knew for sure was the check would be good. The owner of Sutherland Enterprises wasn’t about to run off and leave his business and other investments behind. If by some chance the check was bad, Freddy would be the one suing. And an attempt to defraud could bring heavy penalties—maybe jail time.
At three-thirty, a half-hour after bank closing time, Lawson’s prediction was all too clearly fulfilled. Jimmy Dale showed up, slightly disheveled.
“I gotta get back to Texas, Freddy. Important board meeting on Monday morning. Looks like we have a big Far East deal cooking. I gotta be there. I’ll pick up the car right now. Never mind the seat covers.” As he was speaking he pulled out an oversize checkbook from his suit pocket.
Freddy began to act out a role he’d actually rehearsed. Commiserating with Jimmy Dale’s sudden need to cut his time in Charlesport short, Freddy rushed to complete the necessary papers.
Jimmy Dale was expansive. “What was it I paid you down? Five thousand, wasn’t it? Let’s forget that.
You’ve been so damn nice to me and the little lady, I’ll just make this check out for the full price.”
Freddy thanked him. With little effort, he became profuse. All he had to do, once Jimmy Dale drove off in his new car, was to sit back and wait for the phone call. It came, early Saturday morning. The man’s accent was Latin American, but readily understandable. “Mr. Wade, I understand you are the owner of Wade Motors. Is correct?”
“Yes, is correct.”
“I’m the captain of the Conquistador moored here in Charlesport. I wonder if you could confirm something for me. There’s a gentlemen here at the dock with a beautiful automobile he has offered to sell me at a remarkable price, and the papers seem to be in order. It is obviously very new with very few miles registered, and I know you are the only Rolls Royce dealer in Charlesport. I simply wish to assure myself it was a legitimate sale—the car all paid for.”
“Oh, yes. It definitely was. It’s free and clear as far as we are concerned.” Freddy grinned into the phone.
“Thank you for your kindness. I’m not certain why Mr. Sutherland wishes to dispose of the vehicle at such a price, but I will be only too happy to accommodate him. Again, thank you for your time and assistance.”
Freddy immediately had visions of Jimmy Dale and Marie waiting patiently in their hotel room for the police to drop in on them. He guffawed aloud, took the check out of his desk, kissed it and replaced it.
***
The Conquistador slipped from its mooring at sunset on Saturday. A half-hour out of port the dinner gong sounded and the ship’s officers and passengers filed into the small dining lounge. The Spanish speakers gravitated to one end of the captain’s table, while the three English speakers settled down at their end to continue a conversation they had been carrying on above deck.
The captain came by, placed his hand on Jimmy Dale’s shoulder and said, “It’s a pleasure to do business with you Señor Sutherland. Perhaps some day you will have another beautiful automobile like this one which you will want to really sell to me.” After exchanging a few more words, he moved on to the head of the table.
Jimmy Dale assured the others. “I checked the lines on her. We can hit twenty-foot seas and she won’t budge an inch.”
Marie seemed annoyed. “How much did you get for the business?”
Jimmy Dale snorted. “I got a few bucks. Not much. As it is, we were lucky Amalgamated would even take it. If it hadn’t been for them, I would have had to just walk away from those piles of rusty junk.”
The answer didn’t please her, but she changed the subject, “The head of the cartel would have given us another ten thousand if we had made the dealer paint it silver.”
“We couldn’t afford the time. Hell, I thought Freddy’s heart was going to break when he couldn’t charge us for the leopard-skin covers he didn’t have yet. We’re going to get seven hundred thousand, as it is, and all we’ve got in the baby is five thousand dollars. Let’s not be greedy.”
“Yes. Greed can be one’s downfall.” Lawson commented.
THE SCIENTIFIC METHOD
Professor Aubrey Ketterling listened to the mice scuttling around in their cages—the only sound in the laboratory. Night traffic had died down outside. There seldom was any noise in the neighborhood by this time of morning.
He was thinking over the past six years…six long years of fruitless research. The notion of cross-chromosome linkage had intrigued him, and he’d devoted all of his time to researching the matter. The first results had been promising. He’d rushed his results into publication. And then no other researcher could replicate his results.
Stung by the implication of sloppy research, he’d plodded on. Soon he found himself falsifying his results to fit his hypotheses, and now the chickens were coming home to roost. The e-mail yesterday from Laila Haut announcing her stop over, on the way to a symposium on the West Coast, to chat about the research, meant disaster—pure and simple. Haut was the only other researcher still seriously exploring the same field and therefore probably the only person for whom a half-hour spent examining the lab notes would reveal his data manipulation.
Why hadn’t he just turned to other work in his field? Was it pride which had kept him from doing so? Unwillingness to admit his original idea was farfetched? Instead of publishing the meager but correct results, he had gone on recording false data in the hope of continuing his grants and perhaps finally making a breakthrough. If it hadn’t been for the sudden proposed visit, he still could have backed off and published his negative results without anyone being the wiser.
There would have been no claim to fame by doing so, no great breakthrough, but science progressed through its mistakes as well as through its successes. It would have been admitting to six years of dead-end research, but would have been a far cry from what now loomed.
No! There was no escape now. Haut’s visit promised nothing less than a lengthy investigation of his research work, eventual disgrace, and the end of what his colleagues had viewed as a promising career.
But there was an escape. It was the only answer to this impossible situation.
***
Detective Sergeant Martinez of the Los Angeles Police Department watched the scene-of-crime personnel hovering around the body in the office chair, while he pondered what he’d learned from the patrolman who had been the first to arrive. The chairman of the biology department had called 911. The door to the laboratory couldn’t be unlocked. Professor Stowe was convinced Ketterling was inside and, for some reason, not responding to the increasingly urgent bouts of knocking.
Stowe had been right. Ketterling was inside and wasn’t responding—for good reason. He was dead. Surveying the inside of the barn-like lab, the bars on the windows, the sliding bolts on the doors, Martinez was ninety-nine percent convinced it was suicide. The LAPD doctor made it as close to a hundred percent as you can get.
“Cyanide,” was the laconic explanation.
“Any chance it was accidental?”
“Zero. The bottle’s clearly labeled. He took out a pill and tried to wash it down with water. Didn’t get much water down. He even put the cap back on the bottle before swallowing the pill. Neat character.”
“How long has he been dead?”
“Use seven hours for a beginning figure. Give or take an hour. Which would put his death somewhere around three this morning.”
Martinez decided he could close it all out in a couple of hours. Questioning Professor Stowe and Jaqueline Kawolski, the lab assistant, would be mostly a formality and would give him something to put into the report. The two of them were sitting quietly at the other end of the lab—Kawolski with her back turned away from the activities around the body.
The detective decided to hold off questioning her until the body had been removed, since it was obvious she had still not gotten over her initial shock. Stowe’s reaction was entirely different. He was matter of fact, ready to answer questions, and obviously impatient to get it over with and get back to his own office.
Mainly out of curiosity, Martinez asked, “Why is this place so secure? Are you folks doing top-secret work here?”
Stowe smiled. “Hardly. The building was built originally by the U.S. Army. I have no idea what they used it for, but with the end of the Cold War they sold it to the University for a dollar. I wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about the purchase. The building’s a long way from campus, and I couldn’t see any real use for it. That’s when Ketterling stepped in. He thought it was ideal for his purposes.
“And we did get a lot of equipment thrown in: computers—which we long ago discarded—chairs, tables, an old copy machine and a paper shredder.” He waved a hand to encompass the whole room. “The mice and their cages were Ketterling’s addition, of course, along with what up-to-date electronics there are.”
Turning to the assistant, Martinez asked, “Did you notice anything different about Professor Ketterling when you left here yesterday?”
“Not really. He did seem kind of
harassed, but then he was always so wrapped up in his work it’s hard to tell if was much different from usual.”
“Could you tell me what the work consisted of?” Martinez wasn’t particularly interested, but it seemed a reasonable question to ask.
“About six years ago Ketterling found what he felt was evidence of gene linkage independent of chromosome location. His…”
Seeing the blank look in Martinez’s eyes, Stowe broke in, “If you’re at all familiar with genetic inheritance, you may know the genes themselves are passed on from generation to generation on specific chromosomes. Ketterling was convinced genes from some chromosomes were paired with genes on other chromosomes and passed along together independently of the chromosomes they were on.”
The sergeant hastened to change the subject. With the body now being trundled out the door, he decided to round out the interviews with a tour of the premises and then he would call it a day. “Could you take a look around and let me know if anything is missing?”
Kawolski was still unnaturally pale, but she struggled up and began a tour of the lab with Stowe and Martinez trailing behind. She shook her head, indicating all was as it should be, until she approached Ketterling’s desk. With a sudden intake of breath, she said, “The lab notes! Professor Ketterling had them all piled up there. They’re gone. Every one of them.”
Martinez made a note, “Maybe he just moved them,” he suggested. Let’s look around.”
Still shaking her head, Kawolski complied. It took only moments for her to find them. The basket at the end of the shredder was overflowing. She reached for the shreds of paper and held up a handful, saying: “Here they are. It looks like all of them, too.”
“Why would anyone want to shred the notebooks?”
Stowe broke in. “Good question. Ketterling must have done it himself, but I certainly can’t see why.”
“Could he have been trying to hide something?”
“It doesn’t seem likely.” Still impatient, Stowe kept checking his watch, but went on, “He was a reputable scientist who long ago established himself in his field. Besides, no one would have been able to decipher his lab notes unless they were working with mice on the same problem. Laila Haut in Copenhagen is the only one I know of who was doing anything similar to Ketterling’s work. And Professor Haut won’t be seeing the notes, shredded or not.”
Expect the Unexpected Page 38
