by Jon McGoran
He looked away from me, out the window, then turned back. “Nola saw him?”
“She heard it. She was there. She’s freaked out, and I totally get it.”
We were working surveillance in South Philly, parked across from the Oregon Diner. Some up-and-comer named Derek Hoyt was taking meetings, trying to expand his network. We were there to take a photographic record of the attendees.
“I hear you,” Danny said, raising the camera and snapping a dozen quick photos as two knuckleheads walked up to the front door. “Maurice Blaylock and Tonio Pesker,” he said, naming them. I wrote them down. Half a dozen names so far.
I laughed. “So I tell her who pulled the case, and she says, ‘Mike Warren, you mean the guy who botched the Kelly Drive shooting and the South Street stabbing?’”
We both laughed at that.
“So what are you going to do?”
I shrugged. “Depends on when we wrap up here.”
He nodded.
Five minutes later, the door opened and Blaylock, Pesker, and Hoyt walked out, grinning like they’re best friends on Christmas morning. Chances were good that by the end of the year, one of them would be dead and one or both of the others would have killed him.
Danny clicked another series of pictures as they shook hands and separated. Then he looked at me, cocking an eyebrow. “We’re done here. What’s your plan?”
I shrugged and looked at my watch. “I’m going to go to Energene, ask a few questions.”
He sighed. “Of course you are. I’m not going with you.”
“Perish the thought.”
He looked at his watch. “It’s two thirty. I’m going to log these in. Then I have a meeting with Cory Rogers at DEA about the task force.”
I nodded but didn’t say anything. Danny was excited about working with DEA, and I couldn’t blame him. But it meant he was leaving me all alone in the land of the assholes for two months, maybe longer. He knew I was annoyed.
He gave me a big fake smile and punched my shoulder. “So are you planning on getting screamed at right away or not till later?”
“Suarez is in a budget meeting, so I guess not until later.”
“Perfect,” Danny said, shaking his head. “Budget meeting. He’ll be in just the right mood for you.”
Suarez was our lieutenant. He and I were not besties.
Danny dropped me at my car, and I drove over to Energene’s North American headquarters in University City. It was a strangely likable twist of angled glass and steel, one of the newer buildings on the Philadelphia skyline, poking up into the airspace over the tracks around grand old Thirtieth Street Station.
The guy behind the desk was fifty, African American, with sharp eyes. He was friendly in a customer-servicey kind of way, but with an edge, like if he didn’t want me getting past him, I wasn’t getting past him. His name tag read BRYANT. I didn’t know if that was his first name or his last name.
I put my badge and ID flat on the desk so it wasn’t obvious to the people coming and going behind me. “I’m here to talk to Ron Hartwell’s supervisor,” I said. I had no idea who that was, but I was confident Bryant could figure it out for me.
He studied the ID intently for a moment. “Certainly,” he said. “Just a second.”
He tapped at the computer then picked up the phone. “Yes, this is the front desk. I have a Detective Carrick here who would like to speak to Mr. Vinson … I believe it has to do with Ron Hartwell.”
7
Two minutes later, a guy who was not Ron Hartwell’s superior stepped off one of the elevators and walked toward me. He was obviously ex-military, and I don’t think his hair knew he was out yet, cut close to the sides and a tiny bit longer on top.
“Detective Carrick?” he said as he walked up, extending his hand in a gesture that seemed a lot friendlier than the expression on his face. Luckily, before I shook his hand, I realized what he wanted and handed him my ID to study.
He looked back and forth between my face and the ID. Then he handed it back to me. “Okay,” he said. “Can’t be too sure these days. What can I do for you?”
“I came to speak to Ron Hartwell’s superior. Is that you?”
“I’m Tom Royce, head of security. I liaise with police. Try to make sure there’s a minimum of disruption to our operations here.”
He clasped his hands in front of him and leaned back, like he was thinking of all the ways I could disrupt their operations.
“Ron Hartwell is dead,” I told him, lowering my voice, figuring he didn’t know—otherwise, he wouldn’t be acting like such a prick.
“I know,” he said. “It’s very sad. But I’m wondering what it has to do with Energene.”
“He was murdered,” I said, loudly enough that several of the people walking by stopped or at least slowed down to look. Royce winced. I lowered my voice and leaned closer. “The police investigate these things.”
He looked around at the residual attention people were still paying us. Then he looked back at me, squinting to let me know he didn’t like me. “One moment,” he said, turning away and placing a call on his mobile phone. A few seconds later, he turned back around. “Okay. Come this way.”
I followed him to the elevators, where he placed his palm against a glass panel on the wall. A matrix of circles lit up, and he casually scrolled them down with his fingertips until he got to the top of the list. He tapped one of the circles on the top row.
We didn’t talk much on the way up or after we got off on the twenty-sixth floor.
I followed him down a carpeted hallway. After a maze of hushed cubicles, there was a series of heavy wooden doors. We passed one that read RON HARTWELL. It was closed. Three doors down, we came to one that read SPENCER VINSON.
Royce gave me an annoyed look as he knocked on the door with the back of his hand.
A voice on the other side said, “Come in.”
Royce opened the door enough to poke his head inside, and the voice followed it up with, “Busy, Royce. What is it?”
“Sorry, sir,” he said without entering. “That detective is here to talk to Mr. Vinson about Ron Hartwell.”
There was a pause, as if they were sharing some nonverbal communication. Then Royce stepped aside for me to edge past him. Up close, he was shorter than I had thought.
Inside the office, a heavyset man in his late forties was sitting behind a desk. His pale face had a glow of perspiration.
In the chair pulled up next to him was a slender man in his fifties who was clearly in charge. He wore a sour expression that probably had a lot to do with the other man’s sweat. It made me feel a little more charitably toward Royce.
“Mr. Vinson?” I said to the man behind the desk.
“Yes, that’s right.” His face remained oddly blank, like he didn’t know what expression he should be wearing.
“I’m Detective Carrick.”
I turned to the other man, letting him know it was his turn.
“Bradley Bourden,” he said. “I’m the CEO.”
Yes, you are, I thought. “I just want to ask a few questions about Ron Hartwell.” The man behind the desk almost jumped when I looked at him. “You know he’s been murdered.”
Bourden closed his eyes for a moment. “Won’t you sit down?” he said, waving me to the chair still facing the desk. He sent a dull glare in Royce’s direction.
I ignored the chair.
“It’s very sad,” Vinson said. “He was one of our brightest.”
“Any idea who might have done it?”
Vinson’s face went blank again, like he couldn’t imagine the question was for him.
Bourden glanced at Royce again, then at me. “I would hate to speculate.”
“Speculation is exactly what I’m looking for, Mr. Bourden. We’re trying to develop as many theories as possible. Then we’ll see which ones we can rule out.”
“Have you ruled out simple robbery?” Royce asked, still in the doorway.
“His wallet was unt
ouched.”
Vinson shifted in his seat. It was almost a squirm.
Bourden let out a sigh. “This is a very competitive industry.”
I nodded, waiting for him to continue. In the silent pause, I heard a faint buzzing sound behind me and realized it was Royce’s phone.
Bourden lowered his voice. “We had recently begun to suspect Hartwell of industrial espionage.”
“Really?”
He nodded.
“What do you think he stole?”
Bourden shrugged, suddenly more relaxed, like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. “Secrets. Who knows? It was just a vague suspicion.”
“Based on what?”
He gestured to Royce. When I turned to look at him, he was typing into his phone.
He looked up. “Oh, um, not much. Guilty behavior, I guess.”
“Do you have any evidence?” I asked.
Bourden shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Who do you think he was selling secrets to?”
Bourden glanced at Royce again, distracted. “Maybe the Chinese. Maybe one of our competitors.”
He was so distracted, I turned to follow his gaze just as he snapped, “Royce, what is it?”
Royce’s face was twisted in a grimace of awkwardness. “I … something came up. They need me at the front desk. I have to go.”
Bourden’s eyes flared. “Now?”
He seemed frustrated and annoyed. But there was something else in his voice as he said that one word. Nervousness, maybe, or even fear.
“I’ll be right back,” Royce said. Then he disappeared.
Bourden swiveled his eyes at me and shrugged, as if that was the end of the story.
“Do you think that may have something to do with why he was killed?”
“You want me to speculate?”
“Sure.”
“It’s a nasty business, industrial espionage. Very unsavory, as I’m sure you can imagine. Frankly, I have a hard time picturing Hartwell getting himself involved in something like that. But if he did, I could see him getting in over his head.”
I turned to Vinson. “What’s your impression of Miriam?”
He shrugged. “Seems nice.”
Bourden sat back, as if he was relieved to be talking about something else. I was surprised he thought it was something else.
“She wasn’t in today,” Vinson added.
“I’m sure she’s distraught,” Bourden said.
“I don’t know her as well,” Vinson said. “She’s a few levels below Ron in the company. She’s a nurse with our on-site health clinic, so it’s a different department, too. Human resources.”
“She seems perfectly nice,” Bourden said. “Of course, we’ve been looking into her, as well.”
“You think she’s involved?” I asked.
Bourden smiled, but he wasn’t very good at it. “If I had to speculate, I’d say she knew about it but wasn’t involved. But who knows, she could have been the mastermind.”
I nodded, studying him.
“Did they search his apartment?” he asked. “We’d be very interested in any intellectual property that he might have had there. Or anything to incriminate Ms. Hartwell. Or exonerate her, of course.”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that,” I said. Truth was, I didn’t know if they had or hadn’t. It should have been a no-brainer, but this was Mike Warren we were talking about. It was practically criminal negligence he wasn’t right there, asking Bourden and Vinson these annoying questions.
Then a voice in the hallway said, “Carrick? What the hell are you doing here?”
And there he was.
8
Warren looked annoyed and even more confused than usual. Royce was practically glowing with red anger. The muscles in his jaw were bulging, like he had a gerbil tucked in the back of each cheek.
“Hey, Detective Warren. Just asking some preliminary questions about the Hartwell case.”
“You mean my Hartwell case?”
I smiled. Then I turned to Bourden, whose mouth had fallen slightly open. “My colleague Detective Warren is here to ask some follow-up questions.”
As I squeezed past Warren, he grabbed my elbow. “I got this, Carrick,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Oh, sure,” I said, smiling. “Just trying to help.”
Bourden let out a quiet, aggravated huff. “And what can I do for you, Detective Warren?”
I turned to Royce, who seemed redder and shorter. “I’ll see myself out, thanks.”
I slipped past him and started walking down the hallway. I stopped when I heard Warren say, “Miriam Hartwell has gone missing. We think she might have killed her husband.”
I wanted to smack him in the head for giving away a detail like that. When I looked around, Royce was standing in the doorway looking back and forth between Warren inside the office and me outside.
When I turned toward the elevators, he was still there. But when I peeked back two seconds later, he was gone, and the door to Bourden’s office was closed.
Peering out over the maze of cubicles, I got the distinct impression they were all populated, but I couldn’t see anyone. The background hum of quietly clicking keys and human breathing was barely as loud as the ventilation system and the overhead lights.
As I approached the nearest cubicle, I could see a woman in her early sixties typing on her computer keyboard—old school, perfect hand positioning, never looking at the keyboard. She glanced up as I got nearer, startled but recovering quickly with a confused smile.
“Can I help you?” she asked in a hushed voice.
A younger woman popped her head over the cubicle divider, met my eyes, then looked back down.
“Hi.” I smiled, gentle and reassuring, as I showed her my badge. “I’m here because of what happened to Ron Hartwell.”
She stopped typing, and her face pinched into a sad grimace. “Oh my. Such a tragedy.”
“Did you know him well?”
“Not too well, really. He seems really nice. I know his wife better.”
“Miriam?”
She nodded. “I used to work with her in the HR department. They’re a really cute couple. They were.”
“Have you heard from her?”
She shook her head. “No, we’re not that close. I’m sure she’s devastated.”
“Had either of them been acting unusual lately?”
She cocked her head. “Unusual how?”
“Anything, really. Nervous or worried or angry or sad. Anything that sticks out?”
She shrugged. “They might have seemed a little more stressed than usual.” She leaned forward. “The scientists are always kind of stressed around here.”
“Did they seem happy? Together, I mean.”
“Oh, yes. Absolutely. If anything, they seemed closer than ever just lately.”
“How do you mean?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know really, just a sense.”
The head in the next cubicle popped up again. “Sorry, I couldn’t help overhearing. You’re talking about Ron and Miriam, right?”
The woman I’d been talking to rolled her eyes. “Yes, Sheila, we were.”
“They did seem happy. Or closer or whatever. I noticed it too.”
“In what way?” I asked.
“I don’t know. They seemed to be walking closer whenever I saw them together. And they were always whispering to each other, like they were in on this big secret no one else knew about.”
I smiled. “They seemed happy?”
She screwed up her face. “Kind of. More it was just like they were closer, like Lorraine said. Like it was them against the world.”
9
When I walked into the squad room, Danny was sitting at his desk. He looked up and opened his mouth, but I held up a hand.
“Me first,” I said, and I told him what happened at Energene. He listened, vaguely amused, as I told him the whole thing. “So I’m sitting there, talking to this jerk, an
d who do you think walks in behind me?”
“Mike Warren,” he says, like he wasn’t just guessing.
My shit-storm sensors started blinking. “How’d you know?”
“He asked me if that’s where you had gone. Someone saw you going in there. I said I didn’t know.”
“I was wondering what gave him the idea to go there. It seems kind of higher-level thinking for him.”
He shrugged.
“Come on, he’s an idiot,” I said.
He shrugged again. I knew he agreed with me. It annoyed me that he wasn’t conceding the point.
“Okay,” I said. “So he comes in all, ‘I got this, Carrick,’ and as soon as I walk out of the office, he tells these guys the wife disappeared and she’s the suspect. Didn’t ask them any questions, didn’t play them at all. Just gave it away.”
“So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying Warren’s a dumbass.”
He laughed and shook his head. “It’s not like you have to convince anybody of that.”
“Plus, I’m telling you, they were ready with the whole ‘industrial espionage’ thing. Be interesting to see if they keep going that way or if they drop it now that Warren told them the wife is his suspect.”
That’s when the door to the squad room swung open and Mike Warren stormed in. He didn’t look over at us—just stomped up to Lieutenant Suarez’s door and started knocking.
I looked at Danny and smiled. Danny opened his mouth, but I cut him off. “He’s not here,” I called out, trying not to laugh.
Then from inside the office, Suarez’s voice called out, “Come in.”
Warren flashed me an evil grin. Then he went inside and closed the door.
I looked at Danny.
He shrugged. “Budget meeting got rescheduled.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I tried to tell you.”
I scratched the back of my neck. “You could have tried harder.”
“You know,” Danny said, “this task force thing could happen any day. It’s not like we don’t have our own cases you could be working on instead of spending time trying to get into trouble or out of it.”
Suarez’s door opened, and he leaned out, glaring and beckoning me with one finger.
