CHIMERAS (Track Presius)

by E. E. Giorgi

  Medford’s hand felt disturbingly soft when I introduced myself. His breath smelled of cocoa butter, and, contrary to his lawyer, his voice was deep and placated, his mannerism conciliatory. “Robert has been a great asset to our company for the past seventeen years,” he said. Satish and I took a seat in his sizable office and listened. Beloved by all his coworkers and clients, Robert was devoted to his job, passionate about his field, and undertook every new task like a new endeavor. A faithful of this new-age religion called Stakhanovism, in other words.

  “Whoever did this, hurt all of us at Chromo,” Medford concluded with a sigh.

  I studied the man. He lavished on refined details: gold tack holding a lavender silk tie, expensive man cologne, a Rolex sliding down his wrist as he laced his hands around his crossed knees.

  “Any idea why anybody would want to hurt you or your company, Mr. Medford?” Satish asked.

  Medford waited for Lester’s approving glance before replying, “There’s a lot of insane people out there, Detective.”

  The comment made me scratch my head. “What exactly do you mean, Mr. Medford?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Lester interjected. “My client is talking about religious and ideological fanaticism. Chromo has been doing genetic research for over a decade, always at the forefront of scientific progress: gene therapy, stem cell research, genotyping. And while these highly motivated scientists strive to find a cure for genetic diseases, there are nuts out there who accuse them of playing God or violating the sanctity of life.”

  Anticipating my question, Satish asked, “Did anyone here at Chromo receive specific threats in the past?”

  Lester inhaled, straightened her back, and sent a supercilious glance to her client. “Tell them, Richard,” she said, with pompous affectation.

  Medford slid a hand to his pocket and produced a stick of lip balm, which he profusely applied to his dark lips. “Robert mentioned being approached by a woman on his way out from work one day. She stopped him in the parking lot and confronted him over some gene therapy experiments he had supervised a few years earlier.”

  “A woman? Did Dr. Tarantino know her?”

  Medford shook his head. “I don’t think so. He would have told me. Look, it happened a while ago and Robert mentioned it only once, on our way to a meeting. At the time I shrugged it off as irrelevant, but now…” His voice broke. He brought a hand to his tie, adjusted an already perfect knot, and then cleared his throat. “I don’t know what to make of what happened to Rob and Tammy. It just doesn’t make sense.” Medford frowned, tuned his voice back down a notch, then pointed the lip balm stick at us. “Detectives, a company like ours is always on the forefront of new research, always in the spotlight. We need the praise of the media. At the same time, we attract the attention of a lot of lunatics out there. Their accusations are based on sick ideologies, like this absurdity of violating the sanctity of life Claire just mentioned. In fact, what we’re doing here is cherishing the beauty of life, making sure every child can thrive in a disease-free world.”

  A young assistant in high heels knocked on the door and delivered a tray with four ceramic cups and a freshly brewed pot of coffee.

  “How long have you been with Chromo, Mr. Medford?” I asked.

  He flashed me a paternal smile. “Twenty-two years. It wasn’t named Chromo, back when I took over.”

  “Was it your idea to hire Professor Conrad in 1996?”

  The smile dissolved. “Conrad was a genius. He fully embraced Chromo’s philosophy and ideals.”

  The lawyer dutifully checked her watched and tapped one shoe. We had exhausted all twenty minutes she’d generously granted us.

  “Ideals or ideologies?” I wondered, once we left Medford’s office.

  “Clever question, Track,” Satish said. “When it comes to things like genetics, is there a difference between the two?”

  We took the elevator one floor down to Tarantino’s office, a luminous room with a view on Culver City Park. A tall ficus plant sat in a corner by the window, its leaves cast under a film of dust. The bookcases were bare of knickknacks, photo frames, or any other decoration. Heavy with volumes of scientific journals and reference books, they exuded a sense of austerity and hard working intellect. The only embellishment Tarantino had allowed in his office was an antique world map hanging behind the desk, and a small picture of his smiling wife and daughter, next to the computer screen.

  Diane was already there, dusting Tarantino’s keyboard, while our Electronics guy ran his forensic hocus-pocus on the hard-drive. The fan at the back of the desktop was huffing like a plane about to take off.

  “Jeez,” I said. “Is that thing about to explode?”

  “It’s the FDC device,” the computer tech reassured me. “It’s creating a disk image of all volumes and data storage devices connected to this machine.”

  I nodded, pretending to understand, and didn’t bother asking what the heck FDC stood for.

  “How did the chat with Medford go?” Diane asked, sealing the last box of evidence.

  “Cryptic,” I replied. “Why?”

  “He seemed uh—interesting.”

  I raised a brow. “You talked to him?”

  “Briefly. This was in the recycling bin.” She held an open envelope with Tarantino’s work address printed in a neat calligraphy. It was postmarked October 2.

  “What did you and Medford talk about?” I asked, donning a new pair of gloves.

  “Oh, just this place in Palm Springs where he goes on vacation with his wife. Jim and I go there too, from time to time.”

  I slid a finger inside the envelope and pulled out the photo of a smiling child in ponytails. “Gaya Nicole White,” the print at the bottom of the picture read. “October 19, 1999—January 3, 2008.”

  I stared at Diane. “Do you know who this was?”

  She nodded. “Jerry White’s daughter. That’s why I’m showing it to you. Do you want me to ship it to Latent Prints?”

  The envelope bore no sender. I brought it to my nose and inhaled. Perfume, feminine, by now very familiar. “Yes,” I said. “And I can tell you exactly where to find matching fingerprints.”

  * * *

  Dear Dr. Tarantino:

  I have come across several of Chromo’s “Proteus” kids in our leukemia study at the Esperanza. Let’s talk.

  Sincerely,

  Jennifer Huxley, Lab Tech II

  Esperanza Medical Center

  I mulled over the expression “Proteus kids.” I left the letter on the table, grabbed a Corona from the fridge, and shuffled outside in the backyard. Will followed me and crawled around my legs as soon I slumped on the chaise, nose on my lap and eyes set on adoring mode. A few seconds later the pet door clicked and The King joined us. He hopped on the table and gave us his usual disapproving glare.

  “You’re just jealous,” I said.

  His Majesty ignored me.

  The air was cool, the stars were out, and Venus shimmered above the fringed treetops. The solitary trill of a cricket emerged over the monotonous hum of the Two. It was on nights like this that I cherished where I lived and forgot how much I loathed the traffic jams at the junction between the One-Ten and the Five. When my mother passed, I spent three months renovating the house. A realtor friend of mine told me its value had risen to seven figures, and after years of renting crappy one-bedrooms I was eager to buy my own place. The “For Sale” sign my friend left me was still somewhere in the garage—I never put it out. I thought I’d never get used to all the ghosts of the past, yet we ended up getting along just fine, the ghosts and I.

  Proteus kids. I took a long swig of beer and pondered. Will licked my hand, I stroked him behind the ears. The leaves of the eucalyptus rustled in the breeze, their fragrance wavering in the air like fluttering moths. I put down the bottle of Corona, snapped open my cell phone, and dialed through Parker Center.

  “Luke went home,” a never-heard-before Officer Knudsen told me with a strong New York accen
t. Right. It was already eight thirty p.m. “What d’you need, Detective?”

  “Get to a terminal and search under the words ‘Proteus’ and ‘children’ and call me back if you find anything interesting.”

  “What’s your definition of interesting?”

  What do they teach these days at the Academy, philosophical reasoning? “How ’bout anything striking you as worth killing for?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The New York accent hung up, and I dialed Diane’s number.

  “Too late to ask me out, Track,” she mocked.

  I drew in air and almost choked in it. “Who’s looking at Tarantino’s hard disk?” I said, pretending I hadn’t heard her. My voice didn’t pretend too well.

  “We left everything at Piper Tech, with a guy named Banjaree.”

  The Piper Technology building, on Ramirez Street, housed our Electronics Unit. I’d worked with Amit Banjaree on other cases before. I made a mental note to call him and tell him to search any document with the name Proteus in it. And the word children.

  I drained the Corona staring at the black sky above me. Twinkling dots billions of light-years and lifetimes away. I should’ve thought about life, death, the universe, and what the hell my ephemeral existence was supposed to mean in this overwhelming vastness. But I was in no mood to get sentimental. All I could think of was the “Hey, hon” Diane had so casually blurted on her phone when Mr. Boyfriend called her. And how it stung even though it shouldn’t have. So why did I not call her back and ask her out?

  What are those, Ma?

  The stars, honey.

  No, I mean—what are the stars? What are they made of?

  She rested a hand on my head and rubbed my scalp with the pads of her fingers.

  They are the eyes of the dead, looking down on us. Protecting us.

  I thought of Lily’s eyes.

  I wondered if they were up there, too.

  I failed to protect Lily’s eyes.

  And now they will be fourteen forever.

  I stirred out of the plastic chaise, tossed the empty bottle in the recycling bin, and trudged back inside.

  Damn it. I did get sentimental after all.

  CHAPTER 16

  ____________

  Wednesday, October 15

  Two women laughed out loud, their chortles stifled by the hisses of the milk steamer. A tanned man in a black shirt paced impatiently while waiting for his macchiato, his pompous gait slicing the space around him like Moses sliced the Red Sea. The woman in front of me swayed her long dreadlocks and pointed to a blueberry muffin, her un-deodorized body odor covering for a moment the aroma of brewed coffee.

  “One latte and one espresso, Detectives.”

  I took my small cup and downed it in three long sips. “An elm tree?” I said.

  Satish shook his second bag of sugar, tore one corner off, and emptied it on the foamy surface of his latte. “The elm tree.”

  “How was the espresso, Detective?” the barista asked me.

  “Next to perfection, Mike.” Where perfection of course was the one I brewed at home. Mike grinned and showed me his thumb.

  The first time I’d ordered an espresso he handed me some washed down concoction in a paper cup. I scowled, walked around the counter and showed him how to make an espresso. I told him if he were ever to serve it to me in a paper cup again I’d take him in. The next day he made it as the coffee deities command, watched me sip it, and then asked, “You were kidding, weren’t you? When you said you’d take me in?”

  I sniffed the air. “About the coffee, yes. The joint though, I might still change my mind.” As far as I can tell, he never smoked a joint on the job again.

  A smoky downtown swallowed us as Satish and I shouldered out of the Starbucks doors. The gripping noise of a jackhammer blasted off for a full minute, then died, making the everyday sounds tramping down the block sprout back to life: high heels clacking on cement, a black suit and tie jabbering in a mobile, a screaming child in an impatient stroller. The street trees along the sidewalk rustled their leaves, their nutty scent choked by the exhaust of a DASH bus idling at the red light.

  I said, “We were talking about Chromo.”

  “Yes, we were,” Satish agreed. At the light, we crossed First Street.

  “So then, what the hell does this elm tree have to do with Chromo?”

  “No, Track, you got confused. Not with Chromo. With my old man teaching me how to climb trees.”

  I snorted. “Sat. I thought we were talking about Medford and individuals who don’t talk to us unless their lawyers are present.”

  Satish sipped his latte and nodded. “Exactly. Tarantino was a dedicated, hard-working soul. If he’s done anything wrong, though, Medford wouldn’t know. He’s the number one at Chromo, and yet if somebody under his wings screws up, he’s got nothing to do with it, and his lawyer is right by his side to prove it.”

  The Glass House loomed before us, three skinny palm trees doubled on its shiny façade. By the water fountain, three granite slabs held the names of our men fallen on the line of duty. Satish said, “Medford calling up his lawyer reminds me of my elm tree.”

  “I figured,” I said in full resignation. My cell went off, Gomez’s name flashing on the display. “I’m down on Los Angeles Street,” I told him.

  “Don’t bother coming up. We got a hit on Huxley’s car.”

  * * *

  Satish slid behind the wheel and asked, “Where are we heading?”

  “San Vicente Mountain Park. The son of a bitch ditched the car along the unpaved stretch of Mulholland Drive.”

  He jammed the key into the engine. “Give the man some credit, Track. The spot is beautiful.”

  As Satish whipped through the busy lanes of the One-Oh-One, I made a few calls to the coroner’s office to notify them of the dead body found in Huxley’s car and arranged for a tow truck to come pick up the vehicle and transport it to one of our garages. I closed the phone and stared blankly at the billboards promising me luxurious cars, excellent medical care, and instant gratification.

  “Huxley’s dead,” I mumbled.

  Satish raised a brow. “Correction. Huxley’s missing, and her car just turned up with a stiff inside.”

  “Huxley’s body.”

  Satish exhaled through his nose. He hummed for a little, then out of the blue said, “I loved my elm tree. I loved the way it smelled, and the sound its leaves made when the breeze ran through its branches. But my favorite part, Track, was to climb it. I was small, light, and so nimble I could get all the way up to the highest boughs. Until the day my mom caught me and freaked out.”

  “Why?”

  “She said back in India children died falling from trees. She said their heads cracked open like coconuts. I was grounded for climbing the elm tree. My siblings went to bed and got a good night kiss. I had to stay up in a corner and wait for my old man. You wait and see what he’ll do to you! Mom said. So I waited. Eyes heavy with sleepiness, I waited.

  “My old man finally comes home, dirty and tired. Mom walks to the door and talks to him. She yells, most likely, but I don’t remember a word. I remember her black braid swaying angrily down her shoulders, and her thin waist wrapped by the apron strings. Pa listens quietly. He’s exhausted. He mumbles something to mom, then goes and takes a shower. When he’s back, he sits at the table without even looking at me. He starts eating and asks, What’d you do?

  “Nothin’, I screech. I done nothin’, Pa!

  “Pa raises a hand. Sat. What did you do? And this time he speaks each word slowly.

  “I sigh. I climbed the elm tree.

  “My old man eats his dinner. When he’s done, he wipes his mouth and drains his beer. Go to bed, Satish. Tomorrow you wake up with me.

  “The next morning he gets me out of bed at dawn. We have breakfast together while the sun rises. Then he takes me outside. Show me how you climb, Satish.

  “My eyes go wide. Mom’s sleeping.

  “We won’t t
ell, he promises. I clutch one of the lower branches and pull myself up. My old man watches. Every now and then he says, No, and stops me. You put the foot in the wrong spot, he says. Or he corrects the way I hold on to the branch to support my weight. He shows me how to do it properly, how to be safe.

  “There, he says when I get back down. Now you know how to do it the right away. Don’t get caught again.”

  Satish fell silent. He changed lanes and passed a red pick-up truck hauling a boat. I waited. He was still silent.

  “And the moral, Sat?”

  “Ah, Track, you and your morals. There ain’t no moral this time, okay?” I grunted and slouched back in the seat. “I mean,” Satish resumed all of a sudden. “If you’re a good employer, you can’t wash your hands of what happens in your company. You take responsibility. You either tell your people no, you can’t climb the dangerous tree, or you check that when they climb, they do it the right way and don’t fall off and get caught.”

  “You’re assuming something went wrong at Chromo.”

  Satish shook his head sideways. “I don’t assume nothing, Track. I just told you how I learned to climb trees.”

  I smiled and stared out the window. Partly disguised by the drooping head of a palm tree, the advertisement for an online degree program read, “Knowledge is power.”

  Is it really? I wondered.

  * * *

  “What did I tell you?” Satish said, getting out of the car. “This spot is spectacular.”

  During the Cold War years, San Vicente Mountain Park was one of the Nike Ajax launch sites in L.A. county. Today, the radar tower had become a romantic venue thanks to its stunning views at sunset—provided the Santa Ana winds swept away the dome of pollution lingering on the valley, and the revolting stench of ripe corpse didn’t sting the air.