The girl glanced in the guard’s direction but then turned back to snap three more photographs, the flash of her phone’s camera ricocheting from the window of a pet store across the open space before her. Satisfied, she jumped down and smiled at the guard. “Sorry,” she said politely.
A young man appeared at her side and put his arm around her.
“Also,” the guard said. “No photographs are allowed at Horton Plaza without permission. You’ll have to go to our security office.”
“Aren’t you the security office?” the young woman asked.
“It’s not my decision,” the guard said. “Just don’t take any more pictures until you’ve gotten permission. The office is closed now, so you’ll have to come back tomorrow during the day.”
The young couple thanked the guard politely and walked away. A few moments later, he saw the flash once again, this time angled upward from the floor below. The guard lunged down an escalator and approached the teenagers from behind. Without warning, he snatched the girl’s cell phone away. “I told you no photographs!”
“Give me back my phone!”
Before the guard could react, the girl’s companion lurched forward and grabbed him by the shirt, shoving him backward into a wall. “Who the fuck do you think you are!” the boy yelled. Several mall patrons turned to look as he grabbed the phone away from the startled security guard and then pushed him away. He then roughly took the young woman’s hand and led her toward the large escalator that would exit the mall onto Fourth Avenue.
Kids, the somewhat shaken guard thought, but he held the butt of his nightstick as he followed behind to confirm that they were really leaving.
The girl abruptly stopped walking at the top of the escalator.
“What?” her companion asked.
“My mom!” she said and turned on her heels.
6:13 P.M. PST
“How, it’s crazy down here,” McMullan said. “I’ve been in San Diego for a little while, but I’ve never been downtown on a Friday night except to go to the gym.” The light was still red, and they were still standing on the corner of Fifth and E. “I like the cool old buildings,” McMullan said, motioning down Fifth Avenue.
“Yeah. In the 1800s, this area was notorious for gambling, prostitution, drinking… ”—she pointed across the street—“That building over there was owned by Wyatt Earp. I think it used to be a brothel.”
McMullan looked again at the traffic light holding them immobile. “I guess it’s still the red light district,” he said.
The girl was trapped.
The Horton Plaza security guard watched, smiling, as she stepped behind her companion to hide from the woman down the street who was evidently her mother.
The girl turned back around to face the guard, who now stood behind her, less than ten feet away. Then the traffic lights changed, and the woman and her companion began crossing the street. Still hiding behind the boy, the girl smiled sweetly at the guard and mounted the escalator.
“Who is that with your mom?” the guard heard the young man ask.
“I don’t know. I didn’t think my mom had a boyfriend.”
“Then find out,” the boy instructed as they stepped off the escalator toward the street.
The January air was chilly, and now a breeze had come up. Katrina shivered and pulled her thin sweater more tightly around her body. McMullan, still wearing a sweatshirt over his gray T-shirt, took notice. “You’re cold. I can offer you my sweatshirt, but it’s pretty grungy from the gym. Your call.” He smiled sheepishly.
Katrina laughed. “Thanks, but I don’t know what my daughter would think if I came home smelling like a sweaty guy. I’m having a hard enough time trying to stop her from acting like a fifteen-year-old as it is.” After a pause, she said, “But I will let you block the wind a little.” She stepped closer to him and McMullan placed a hand on the small of her back.
As they headed south along Fifth Avenue, a raucous Irish folk tune began drifting toward them. As they drew closer to the music, it was accompanied by a mouthwatering scent. McMullan’s stomach growled. “Hungry?” he started to ask, but Katrina was already winking at him as she stepped toward the door of the pub.
7:14 P.M. PST
Jason Fischer slid out of the seat of his Honda Civic, locked the door from the inside, and then slammed it shut. Habitually, he took a cautionary glance around to ascertain his surroundings as he hopped up onto the curb.
Twenty-five minutes inland from downtown San Diego and ten minutes from the lab at SDSU, Jason’s one-bedroom apartment was in the mind-bogglingly cheaper community of Santee. Flipping through his keychain for the correct key, Jason trotted nimbly up the stairs before coming to an abrupt halt at the top.
The door to his apartment was already wide open.
A surge of adrenaline rushed through Jason as he walked into the apartment and flipped on the living room light. The room was illuminated, and Jason dropped the keychain along with the worn-out backpack he was holding. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” he yelled.
Jason’s garage-sale entertainment center had been flipped forward, and the TV and stereo were smashed beneath it. Compact discs and orphaned cases were strewn about the living room in a random array of squares and circles. Some of the items were crushed. His Salvation Army couch and loveseat had both been sliced open and large wads of stuffing were now strewn about the room, enveloping the inverted coffee table with billowing white clouds of furniture innards.
“Son of a bitch!” Jason ranted as he pushed his way through the debris and into the kitchen. The kitchen cabinets had been emptied and the mismatched dishes—inherited from an aunt who was planning to throw them away—were now lying in broken piles on the floor. The refrigerator was open, but most of what little food Jason had was still inside. An eighteen-pack of Coors Light had been shoved out and lay on its side in front of the fridge; some of the cans had exploded and now the kitchen reeked from the small foamy rivers running across the linoleum.
Jason gave only a passing glance to the destruction in the kitchen. His kitchenware was shit. His furniture was shit. Everything Jason owned of value, every cent he could spare was concentrated in one area of the apartment. His bedroom.
Guitars. Amps. Cables. Cabinets. Cases of strings. His microphone. His floorboard. His stands. His tuners. Thousands of dollars that Jason could not afford, invested in his second true passion. The first was science.
With his heart in his throat, Jason opened the bedroom door. The guitars had been pulled out of their cases and roughly thrown to the floor. One had a cracked headstock that would require expensive repair. Both guitars had at least one broken string dangling from them.
The amps, normally lining the wall opposite the bed, had been shoved face-forward. Designed for rough transport between the stage and the home, they were none the worse for wear. Other items were scattered about, but remarkably undamaged.
It did not appear that anything had been stolen. In wonder, Jason now realized that the TV and stereo, while now useless, were also still lying in the living room. Whoever had broken in was not a thief.
Jason sat down on his bed and cast his eyes around the room for a few moments. Then he reached into his pocket for his cell phone and his wallet. He rifled through an assortment of business cards until he found the two he was looking for. He dialed the number on the first card. There was no answer. He hung up and dialed the number on the other card.
“Hello, this is Roger Gilman.”
“This is Jason Fischer. My apartment has been broken into,” Jason picked up a guitar and lovingly placed it back onto its stand.
“What was stolen?” Gilman asked.
“That’s what’s weird. I don’t see anything missing, not even stuff like my guitars that would have been easy to take and that are worth a lot of money. It’s like the asshole just wanted to fuck my place up for no reason.”
“Or they were looking for something in particular,” Gilman conjectured. “I’ll be
right there.”
The comment echoed in Jason’s mind as he continued to examine his musical equipment. They were looking for something in particular. Like Jason’s inhibitor data, rapidly produced since the beginning of the Death Row project. And supposedly under lock and key by the federal government.
Or his activator data, which very few people should have known about in the first place. Was he just being paranoid? Someone would have had to track down his address, and—
Jason’s thoughts were interrupted by a loud knock at the door. It had been less than two minutes since he had called Gilman on his cellular phone. No way he could have gotten here already, Jason thought. And no way he was already in Santee. As he hurried from the bedroom into the living room, he realized that the knock was a formality only; the door was still wide open and furthermore, Jason’s keys were on the floor next to it.
Jason was incredulous to see that Gilman had, in fact, already arrived. But even more shocking was the person accompanying Gilman, standing slightly behind him in the doorway. Her eyes darted to the floor when Jason saw her. Angela Fischer. Jason’s estranged wife.
“What the fuck is she doing here?” Jason demanded, looking questioningly at Gilman.
“You’re going to be mad,” Angela began, but Gilman intervened.
“Your wife called us,” he said. “She saw who broke in to your apartment.”
“I don’t understand,” Jason said. “How… ” As soon as the words were out, he realized the answer. “Have you been following me, you psycho stalking wench?”
“Look, I just wanted to keep track of what you were doing with your money. I don’t have anything to live on, and I don’t want my ass handed to me in the divorce because you’ve spent it all before I can win any alimony in court… and it’s not my fault that you’re lagging on the proceedings. Now don’t give me shit, Jason. I didn’t have to come forward with this, but I did. Face it—you’re lucky I’m here. Anyway, I was parked across the street and I saw the person who broke in. It was a woman.”
Gilman and Jason both looked shocked. Gilman pulled his notepad out of his pocket and began flipping through to find a blank page.
Jason flipped his mutilated loveseat back into position. “Care to sit down?” he asked sarcastically. “Sorry I can’t offer you a cup of tea, but I’m remodeling the kitchen at the moment.”
Angela sat down on the loveseat and a puff of stuffing drifted to the floor. Jason and Gilman both grabbed an end of the larger sofa and tilted it upright, then sat down.
“So what did this woman look like?” Gilman asked Angela.
“She had long hair and was wearing a long skirt.”
“What color hair?”
“I couldn’t tell exactly. This area is not well lit enough to make out shit in the dark… which is one of the reasons I’d been nagging Jason for the last two years to move out of Santee”—she threw a haughty glance at her husband—“but I digress. Anyway, the woman’s hair was long, thick and some dark color… that’s about all I can tell you.”
“What about build?” Gilman asked. “Thin? Overweight? Tall? Short?”
“Hard to say with the distance I was at and no reference. She wasn’t fat.”
Gilman turned to Jason and let out an exasperated sigh. “Well, there are two people who immediately come to mind, my friend. The first is your research advisor.”
“No way,” Jason objected immediately. “Why do you think Katrina would break in here? Why now? She’s known me for years. And anyway, Katrina doesn’t have a dishonest bone in her body. I know you have a number of suspicions about her—I’m not blind—but you’re totally wrong.”
Jason could not say what he needed to. Katrina had absolutely no motive for breaking into his apartment. He had kept nothing from her, ever. She knew exactly where the activator data was. Jason and Katrina had dropped it into the liquid nitrogen tank together. And with federal agents in the lab at all times, there was no way he could have moved it even if he had wanted to.
And maybe he and Katrina should have thought of that when they hid it there in the first place.
“Well, thanks for your input, Doctor Fischer,” Gilman was saying. “And no offense, but your opinion doesn’t weigh any more heavily with me than your mentor’s. From what I’ve seen, you’re both about the antithesis to trustworthy, as a matter of fact. And that brings me to the other suspect that comes to mind. Or perhaps several of them.”
Jason looked over at Angela. “Can we talk about this in private?”
“No need,” Gilman retorted. “I have every intention of finding out what all of your lady friends were doing tonight.”
He turned to Angela. “What time was the break-in?”
“Around six thirty, I think,” Angela said. “And Jason, I already know about all of your little bimbos. I really couldn’t give a flying fuck at this point.”
Gilman stood and brushed a stray ball of couch stuffing from his slacks, then stepped past the coffee table and toward the door. Nonchalantly, he turned back before exiting and addressed Angela. “And by the way, thank you for the tip—but you’re also far from above suspicion, so don’t even think about leaving town.”
7:22 P.M. PST
As Sean McMullan and Katrina Stone stepped out of the Irish pub, the noise level dropped dramatically. Only then did McMullan hear the chime on his cell phone. He pulled it out of his pocket and looked. He had missed a call. There was no message, and he did not recognize the number.
McMullan shrugged. “I guess if it’s important they’ll call back.”
With full bellies and relaxed minds, Katrina and McMullan continued down Fifth Avenue. At first, neither spoke. It was McMullan who broke the silence. “Strip Club?” he asked, tipping his head to indicate an establishment.
Katrina laughed as she looked toward the restaurant. “That’s not really a strip club; it’s a cook-your-own-steak house.” A moment later, she added, “but I bet a strip club would do pretty well down here.”
“They could call it the Ass-Lamp,” McMullan said.
Chuckling, they reached the arch over the street that marked their exit from the Gaslamp Quarter. Directly in front of them, the jutting peaks and glass curves of the San Diego Convention Center punctured the sky.
“So, this is where the convention center is…” McMullan mused.
“Yep, this is where the biotechnology convention will be. I bet all the hotels in this area are already booked solid for that entire week. My personal favorite is the Hyatt, down the street.” She pointed along the coast to the pair of skyscrapers that distinguished the skyline of downtown San Diego. “There’s a gorgeous view from the bar at the top, and I hear they make one hell of a martini. I’ve never tried one though…”
They began walking up the several flights of stairs that led to the balconies of the convention center. “It looks so futuristic,” McMullan noted, his eyes wandering over the layers of curving glass.
“You should see the UCSD library,” Katrina said.
“I have seen it. I jog by there almost every day. Thanks for the tip on that route, by the way. It’s awesome, as long as you aren’t intimidated by naked strangers.” He glanced over at her. Was that a blush?
They reached a semi-circular balcony and for a moment, neither of them spoke as they took in the view of the bay. To their left, the Coronado Bridge formed a gentle arch, its lights speckling the sky over the horizon like an unusually ordered arrangement of stars.
Katrina shivered and wrapped her thin sweater around herself once again. McMullan stepped toward her to block the breeze as he had on the crowded street. She leaned in toward him, her eyes tipping upward to meet his, but when he bent down to kiss her, she stepped away.
Katrina cleared her throat and spoke curtly. “So, you think I should just be a bit more prudish?”
McMullan stepped back. “Huh?”
“With Gilman. If I let him know I actually have pretty old-school values, despite being a scientist, do you th
ink Gilman will lighten up on me a bit?”
McMullan pulled in a breath and let it out slowly. “Ahem… ah, yes, that will probably help. Good idea.” He ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair.
“Shall we keep walking?” Katrina asked.
“Sure. Where are you parked? I’ll walk you to your car.”
“I’m all the way up by your gym.”
“Oh, yeah. Me too.”
They walked in silence back down the flights of stairs leading back down to the street, a full three feet of space between them. Once back on the street, they stopped at the traffic light intersecting West Harbor Drive and Fifth Avenue.
“I’m a little lost,” McMullan said. “So we cross here, and then walk back up Fifth Avenue and that will take us back to E street, right?”
“Yep,” she said.
A gust of cold wind blew across West Harbor Drive, and Katrina shivered so hard her teeth chattered. She clamped them together. When the light changed, she stepped into the crosswalk. McMullan remained motionless behind her. Katrina turned and gave him a questioning look.
He gestured toward the Hyatt Hotel. “You know what, I think I wouldn’t mind trying one of those martinis.”
For a moment, Katrina stood immobile in the crosswalk. The crosswalk signal changed from flashing green man to flashing red hand, and then to solid red hand. The traffic light turned yellow. As it turned to red, she stepped back out of the crosswalk and took McMullan’s arm, and the two slowly turned to walk up West Harbor Drive toward the Hyatt.
Except for candles on the tables and a few, dim sconces on the walls, the bar at the top of the Hyatt Hotel was dark. An invisible sound system played a soft selection of romantic music.
The bar was attended by two handsome gentlemen in tuxedos. A smattering of patrons, some in jeans, others in slacks or dresses, populated the tables and the bar in the center of the space. McMullan looked down at his gym shorts and T-shirt. “Ya think I’m a little under-dressed?” he laughed.
The Death Row Complex (The Katrina Stone Novels Book 2) Page 12
