by Scott Cook
“A fair point,” Franklin admitted.
Sarah Beth shot to her feet, “Oh, so because this guy knows Uncle Mark, that must mean he’s the killer, right? What the fuck? Maybe this Ted guy used Uncle Mark to get to Veronica, ever think of that, asshole? Ever think that it’s just a coincidence? If he’s Uncle Mark’s lawyer then maybe he knows a lot about our company and is trying to do something… but it’s easier to figure that bitch’s idea about all of us wanting to kill her to get her out of our company is a better idea, right?”
I stared at her, “I have thought of that, Miss Bradford. As I said, I’m only here to—“
“I don’t give a fuck why you’re here, you son of a bitch!” Sarah Beth shouted, levelling a finger of doom at my face. “But I don’t have to sit here and listen to it. I sure as shit don’t have to have dinner with you. I don’t care what you do, but you’d better stay the hell away from me!”
With that, the fiery young woman stomped off the porch, strode over to the small stable and disappeared. A few moments later, she rode out of the building on her sorrel quarter horse and trotted for the turnstile.
“Well,” I said with a sigh, “that could’ve gone better…”
12
Supper went fairly well. With Sarah Beth gone, it was just Andrew and Jean, the Franklins and me. The Franklin’s two teenage daughters had other things going on and did not join us.
Afterward, Will drove me over to the hotel, where I entered a large room with a king-sized bed, tiny kitchenette and workstation complete with direct internet hookup via Wi-Fi or an Ethernet cable. My duffel and laptop bag sat on the bed waiting for me. I had no way of knowing whether or not someone had gone through them, of course. Everything was where it should’ve been, including my Colt 1911. I doubted the person who’d brought the bags over from the plane would’ve gone through them, but who knew what any of my suspects might have done.
The laptop was secured by multiple layers of protection, including the password and a security question check. I could also enable a retinal scan via the lappy’s camera if I wanted, but I hadn’t in this case.
What pieces of evidence I did have thus far were scant and circumstantial at best. Whittaker was the only tie-in that pointed a finger at anybody. I couldn’t and wouldn’t believe that his being Marcus Bradford’s attorney and getting close to Veronica was coincidence. I also wasn’t entirely sure I believed the doctor’s statement at the hospital about the head wound. Nothing about that part of the story jibed at all.
The other interesting bit was that Sarah Beth was extremely belligerent, where her brother and uncle were reasonable about the whole thing. I could chalk that up to youth. I could also chalk up Andy’s attitude to a few extra years and a leveler head. Good old Uncle Mark was wise enough and crafty enough to maintain his cool throughout the whole thing. There was little there for me. Just because the daughter was a hothead didn’t mean she was a murderer.
Then there was Wilfred Franklin. He seemed stable and likable. Yet he was in a unique position too, wasn’t he? He was the CFO. He was pushing for an initial public offering to put the company onto the stock market. The massive influx of capital would certainly make all the preferred stockholders even wealthier. Veronica opposed it. She wanted to use the new contracts with new customers to capitalize Bradford Avionics’ expansion. I was no financial guru, but that kind of made sense to me. If you could expand without throwing open the ownership of your company to stockholders, then why not?
“Our enemy is quite clever and has hidden his true identity and motives well, Watson,” I Sherlocked.
Watson remained silent.
Stupid Watson.
“I need to know more about these people,” I said to no one.
No one responded, as I expected. I therefore sent a text to Richard Kelly at ICE requesting ultra-secret hidden information on the Bradfords and Wilfred Franklin. I then dialed a new number.
“Hey, how ya doin’?” Joey Knuckles answered.
“Swell,” I said. “How’s things on your end, Joe?”
Joe scoffed, “Pfft! No big thing. We been hangin’ out at the broad’s house all day. Couple of buttons and a detective showed up to talk to her about the other night or whatever. No excitement, though. Detective was a real hard-on… but what do you expect?”
“Name of Maglashan?” I asked.
Joe scoffed, “Yeah. Kept givin’ me and the boys the hairy eyeball, but fuck him.”
“Well, keep sharp,” I said. “This Lou Cardoza prick likes to attack at night.”
He scoffed again, “Hey, don’t worry about nothin’. We know our jobs over here. Four of us and two broads in this house? Cakewalk. Especially your girlfriend. She’s a hot shit.”
I chuckled, “That she is… by the way, Joe… is there a patrol car watching the house?”
“Yeah, gets switched out couple times a day.”
“Okay,” I said and hung up. Then I dialed Lisa.
“Hey, how you doin’?” she asked in an over-exaggerated Joey from Friends.
“Lonely,” I said with a grin. “How’s things on your end?”
“My end is lonely too, baby.”
I chuckled, “So I’ve got a question that maybe only a seasoned MBA can answer.”
“Lay it on me big stuff.”
“Okay, so you’re a corporate devil whose slathering greed for financial gain thinks nothing of crushing the poor beneath your heel in order to attain ultimate financial power, right?”
“Of course.”
I chuckled, “All right, then what sounds like a better deal to you… you’ve got a company that’s already generating a couple of hundred million a year. You’re about to acquire a couple of large private contracts that’ll vastly increase that. However, you need seed capital to fund the expansion necessary to scale up and handle the work… there are two options on the table, backed by two different opinions. First, to launch an IPO and bring in large sums of capital through the sale of ordinary stock.”
“Gotcha… or?”
“Or you negotiate a contract with your new customers that includes a deposit which will fund, or mostly fund, the expansion,” I said. “What’s better for the company?”
Lisa paused for a moment while she thought about it, “Both sides have merit, obviously. Offering stock on the market means a large injection of new capital without any sort of penalty. It’s easy, in one sense. The other scenario would keep the firm private and keep the profits closer to home. I don’t know if the customers would go for it, but if so, and the idea is to keep it in the family, so to speak, then that’s the better way. The safer way, too.”
“Safer?”
“Yeah… by opening the company up to the stock market, a certain percentage of the company is also offered for sale. Generally speaking, every share of stock is an ownership stake in the company. One or two shares is only fractions of a percent if you’ve offered a couple million shares. However, it’s possible that somebody with a great deal of cash could purchase enough stock to gain a seat on the board or even majority shareholder’s position.”
“A hostile takeover?” I asked.
“Sure. Think of it like this… keeping things simple,” Lisa explained. “Say you offer your company up to the market with a million shares. You and your partner own twenty percent, or forty percent of the company. Some big-wig investor sees the IPO and purchases twenty-five percent of the company through stock. Or maybe more. Enough that this investor is now the majority shareholder and can legally claim operational ownership of the company.“
“Hmm…” I pondered.
“Is that what’s going on up there?”
“Yes. Veronica wants to keep things in-house, and the CFO / Treasurer / Secretary doesn’t,” I explained. “I don’t yet know where the rest of the family sits in this debate.”
She thought about that for a moment, “So if Veronica gets her way, things go on as usual. Business increases, but only by a percentage, maybe fifty percent mo
re than now. Over time, it’ll probably grow but takes years.”
“Uh-huh… and the other route, the company maybe doubles or triples its value overnight,” I said. “But it also gives up a major chunk of its ownership.”
“Wouldn’t you think that the family would be behind her?” Lisa asked. “I mean… Veronica’s plan keeps the company private.”
“You’d think so,” I said. “And that sort of removes the motive for murder, I’d think. Hell, if anybody would have one, it’d be Franklin… but honestly, whichever way they go, the officers of this corporation are going to make gobs of dough. It’s a win/win no matter what. Nothing to kill anybody over, right?”
She chuckled softly, “You’re the detective, you tell me.”
“I thought you was a detectiver too.”
“I agree with you. As things stand, the motive for murder doesn’t seem to lie in the direction of the money. Or at least not as we currently understand it.”
“Wow, you’re a pretty smart broad.”
“Don’t you forget it, mister… now… what’re you wearing?”
“A feathered G-string and knee-high boots,” I said.
“Ooooh… tell me more.”
“Oh, sorry, incoming call. Gotta go,” I said hurriedly.
“Ass.”
I laughed, said I loved her and answered the new call. It was from Ellen Parker, Richard Kelly’s assistant.
“Good evening, Scott,” she said in her sexy and mellifluous southern drawl.
“Ellen. A pleasure to hear from you.”
“I’ve sent you an email with some information,” the intelligence specialist said. “I hope you’ll find it useful. Because the company is dealing with the government on high-level security issues involving technology, all of the officers have had to go through a security check through the FBI. I’ve sent you their dossiers. I’m also trying to dig into the company’s financial records for you. That may take another day or two, but I’ll get them, even if I have to hack into their system.”
“You’re scary, Ellen.”
“Yeah, but I’m cute.”
I laughed, “Fair enough. Thanks.”
When I opened the email, I discovered quite a bit about the Bradfords and Veronica herself. She was born in Tampa and did indeed attend the University of South Florida there. No criminal record and no previous marriage before she married Julius Bradford in 2012. Employment records seemed fairly mundane as well.
She worked for a local Tampa financial firm right after earning her Bachelor’s degree in 2001 and then stayed with them until she began working for Bradford Avionics in 2010. The only other notable thing in her FBI file was that she apparently was admitted to Tampa General during her sophomore year with acute appendicitis. She required emergency surgery but was otherwise okay.
Interestingly, both Bradford children were born in Florida. Andrew in September of 1993 in Fort Myers and Sarah Beth in 2001 at Tampa General. Apparently, the Bradford cattle ranch that was now owned by Marcus was then owned by his brother. The mother, Marian Bradford, died in 2010 in a car accident. There was some more information about Julius and Marcus, but it didn’t seem pertinent, at least not now.
Then something struck me. I looked back at the dates of Sarah Beth’s birth and Veronica’s surgery. Both took place in July of 1998… on July 22, 1998… both of Julius’ wives, one current and one to be, in the same hospital at the same time… did that mean something? Or was it an actual coincidence?
“There’s something wonky here, man…” I muttered. “Now why can’t I see it?”
I began to pace. After five or six minutes of this and with no ideas forthcoming, I decided it was time to exercise Dick Tracey Junior Detective tip number forty-two. If you’re stymied, go a’snoopin’.
Among the as sundry items I brought with me was a jet-black set of sweatpants and long-sleeved T-shirt for working out… at night. I also brought my Nike runners… black as well… and my handy-dandy Doc Fordian night vision monocular.
The Bradford compound, which I’d seen but had not entered, was not more than a mile from the small motel. A quick run across the airfield or outside the facilities and I’d be there in seven minutes or less.
I did something I loathed but couldn’t think of a better option. I strapped a fanny pack around my waist. In this rather un-cool carrying pouch was my Beretta Tomcat Inox .32, a small cloth bag containing my trusty lock-picking tools as well as several other secret agent items that may or may not come in handy. I did plan on breaking into a gated compound and into at least one house… so it was best to be prepared for anything.
The late April night was a bit cooler than Central Florida had been. There, either in Orlando or in Saint Pete, the temperature at ten o’clock at night would probably be hovering around seventy-seven with moderate humidity. Here in Wyoming, something like four thousand feet above sea level, the temperature was closer to sixty and the humidity was so low it wasn’t even worth thinking about. The night was clear, and a bright three-quarter moon hung about two-thirds to her zenith, outshining a great many stars that twinkled above.
The motel connected both to Bradford Way as well as directly to the airfield. I could run along the apron past the hangars, tower and office, production facility and admin building all the way to the other side of the compound, or I could simply run along the wide two-lane road that connected Bradford Avionics to I-80 some miles to the north. I decided on this route, figuring there would be fewer people driving at that time of night. I didn’t know how many folks worked at the facility after business hours, but the less I was seen, the better.
Keeping my eyes open for cars or other runners, and my ears open for the errant coyote, I ran at a medium pace westerly on Bradford Way. A light breeze blew in from the north and carried with it the scent of alien flora. Alien in that it wasn’t the usual stuff I smelled down in Florida. This was more of a dry sort of earthy aroma with a hint of hay. I was also probably smelling sagebrush, which was very common in the state, as well as a variety of prairie and arid wildflowers. It was quite aromatic and rather pleasant. This was a very different environment than what I was used to.
I saw no other humans on my trot up to the Bradford group of homes. The only sounds were those of crickets, a few night birds and the howl of what was probably a coyote, or maybe even a gray wolf far off in the distance. The open land, broken only by clusters of trees, allowed sound to carry very far. There was a feeling of vastness here. A feeling such as one got when one was at sea. It was familiar and yet somehow alien.
Florida had that sense of vastness too, especially in those parts that were flat. The flat land made the sky above seem endless. Yet here, the vastness wasn’t from flatness but from the uneven land. You could see mountains and plains within the confines of the horizon. In Florida, out in the open, the sky seemed to dome the land on to infinity, the same way it did at sea. Yet here, in the mid-heights of this western state, it was the land that seemed to confine the sky. The distant mountain peaks, perhaps as far as twenty miles away, were so high that they seemed to expand the normal limits of the horizon more than did the thousands of stars hanging above.
I put these expansive thoughts out of my mind when I rounded a small bend in the road and saw the lights at the gate to the small Bradford compound. From what I’d seen and heard earlier, I knew that the four houses sat on a ten-acre piece of property that was fenced and contained a horse barn, swimming pool and tennis court. The fence, unlike the rambling log cattle fences that were so common elsewhere around here, was an eight-foot chain link cleverly concealed behind a decorative wrought iron fence, itself partially concealed by carefully trimmed hedges and trees.
There was no guard, but the main gate was only openable by an access card or six-digit pin number. The gate was constructed to resemble something you’d see on a cattle ranch but made from steel and reinforced. As I drew closer, an almost inaudible hum gave me the impression that the chain link part of the barrier was probably e
lectrified. This was confirmed when I drew closer and saw a junction and transformer box only partially hidden by one of the lighted lamp posts to either side of the gate.
I stopped a dozen feet from the gate, stood off to one side of the road and drew one of my gadgets from the fanny pack. It was called a variety of things by various members of ICE. I called it a tricorder, though, as it sort of reminded me of the titular scientific instrument from Star Trek.
Essentially, it was a hand-held electromagnetic scanner. About the size of a paperback book, the device could not only detect EM emissions from as far as thirty feet away, but it could also compare their frequencies, amplitudes and strengths to a database of electronic equipment and determine what the emissions were. The tricorder could do this for multiple sources and do something else as well, which was particularly useful during clandestine SEAL ops.
Once identified, the device could modulate a transmitter of its own to match that of the selected device and put out a short-range signal that could disrupt the targeted device’s emissions. This could be done to as many as four EM sources at once, although it did take a considerable amount of power. The effect didn’t last long, but it usually didn’t have to.
There were limits, of course. I couldn’t, for example, neutralize a security system, at least not entirely. It was mostly good for passive electronics. I could deactivate a window or door sensor, disrupt a video feed and even douse a light or two. At close range, the device could also modulate to the frequency of electric motors and send a spurious signal through their servos and cause them to actuate.
“Now the time has come for the Evil Doctor Jarvis to initiate his evil plans… nyhehehe…” I muttered as I activated the tricorder and began my scan.
The EM sensor’s small screen lit up with a series of items. It identified lights, a security camera, motion sensor, control pad, electronic motors for the gates and high-voltage current running through the fence. I couldn’t disrupt the fence, it was far too powerful. I didn’t need to worry about the code box either. I selected the camera and motion sensor along with the gate motors. I ignored the lights, as there was less chance of me being seen from a distance than somebody noticing both lights go out.
