by JP Ratto
Mac reached over and turned off the music. What the hell? I whipped my head toward him. I gave him a no-one-messes-with-my-radio look. He pointed to the front windshield.
“Go about an eighth of a mile and make a right,” he said. “Slow down so you don’t miss it.”
I did and turned off the road onto a hidden driveway that stretched for another eighth of a mile and ended at a wrought iron gate. Looking beyond it, I couldn’t see a house. Mac made a phone call and within seconds, the gate opened. We drove over a long gravel lane, curving through neat rows of beech trees, vibrant in yellow and orange.
The house, an odd mix of majestic and quaint, appeared as we left the canopy of trees. Large by most standards, the French chateau style transported me to Burgundy, France, where I’d spent a glorious romantic week, drunk on love and great wine. As we pulled around the circular drive to the entrance of the house, Charles Gates came out to greet us. A figure worthy of the term “commander,” belying his age, Gates sprinted down the steps and clasped my hand in both of his for a strong, warm shake.
“Lucas, I can’t tell you how good it is to see you.”
“Same here, sir.”
“Come, come inside.” Gates turned and nodded to one of his house staff. “Johnson, take Mr. Holt’s belongings inside and park his car in one of the garages.”
Gates led me into his home, a magnificent example of what money can buy. The global security business must be lucrative. We passed through the considerable marble-clad foyer into a sitting room. I thought it more suitable for afternoon tea than a business meeting and was proved right when the commander mentioned how the room was a favorite of his late wife. Perhaps it was his way of telling me he shared my grief for the loss of a loved one.
I sat on one of two tufted white sofas. Gates offered me a drink, which I declined, and poured himself a bourbon over ice. When I realized he had a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle, I regretted my refusal. He leaned against the fireplace mantel, swirled the liquid in the glass and sipped. I waited not so patiently for him to tell me what I was told was urgent.
Gates pushed off the mantel and paced back and forth. He stopped in front of me, drew a deep breath, and exhaled loudly. “Lucas, my grandson is missing.”
I’d spent three years under Commander Gates without knowing any of the particulars of his personal life. I knew he was married. He had joked that whenever he saw his wife on leave, her hair was never the same color. He’d wink and say it made him feel like he was making love to a different woman every time. I glanced around for photos of her, but there weren’t any.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Commander. I’ll do whatever I can to help.” The concentration of my work is the recovery of kidnapped victims. I asked the logical questions. “Sir, do you believe he’s been abducted? How long has he been missing? How old is he?”
My mind racing with more questions, I rose from the sofa to face him. Gates held up his hand before I could ask anything else.
“Lucas, let me tell you what I know, which isn’t much.”
I sat back down.
“First of all, Brandon is twenty-four and the only child of my son, Spencer, and his wife, Cynthia. He’s a law student at George Townsend University. As far as I know, he has a political science degree and lives in D.C. with two roommates. According to my son, his roommates haven’t seen him since before the weekend. He works part-time at a non-profit in D.C.; I’m sorry but I don’t know the name of the organization. He didn’t show up on Monday.”
“So no one’s heard from him for a few days. I take it that’s unusual, and you believe he may have come to some harm.”
Gates sighed. “I don’t know what to believe. I mean, he’s a grown man and may have needed some time to himself. But in my business I have to consider everything. I deal with people who have secrets and can attract enemies. I always worry about the risk to my family.”
“I understand, but there has to be more than the fact that he hasn’t been in contact with anyone. Have there been any threats?”
“Not so far.” Gates tugged at his collar. He lifted the glass of bourbon to his lips. “Can you look into it, Lucas?”
The story Gates gave me was incomplete, and I thought it was unlike the commander to give a report so full of holes. He was providing second-hand information, and that wasn’t good enough. Why weren’t his son and daughter-in-law here to fill in the blanks? I tried not to sound patronizing.
“Commander, it would be helpful to speak with your son and his wife.”
“Yes, of course. I wanted to see you first. They live a few miles away. I could have them come here as soon as possible.”
He reached in his pocket for his cellphone and tapped the screen. Before the call connected, I said, “Actually, I would prefer to go to them—alone.”
Gates’s head jerked, and he raised his eyebrows in surprise. He was undoubtedly used to leading the charge. But I needed to interview people in their surroundings where they felt safe and uninhibited. It was the complete opposite of how I interrogated suspects when I was with the NYPD. They weren’t suspects—yet. He was about to respond when someone on the other end of his call spoke to him.
“Spencer, it’s me. Lucas Holt is here. He would like to speak to you and Cynthia.” He paused while his son spoke. “No, not here. I’ll give him directions to your house. I’m not sure when he’ll be there.” Gates looked at his watch and at me. “Holt’s come a long way. After we eat something, I’ll give you a call. Make sure you’re both there when he arrives.”
Right on cue, Johnson entered the room and announced lunch was served. Strangely, the disappearance of Brandon Gates was not of the highest priority and could wait until after we sated our hunger.
Chapter 10
While he ate breakfast, Vilari had planned his day. By the time he dressed for work, he had revised the plan. When he reached the office at seven o’clock, he was confident he had a meticulous approach to finding the error—if one existed.
Vilari left a message at a pool secretary’s desk to hold his calls and not allow any interruptions. He entered his office and closed the blackout curtains to block the distracting view. His desk was exactly as he’d left it: the report in the center, open to the first page of the appendix. Throwing his jacket on the couch and yanking off his tie, a determined Vilari sat down and fired up his computer.
He accessed the share drive and found the folder labeled “Windstorm Anti-toxin.” Scanning down, Vilari could see spreadsheets, documents, and charts submitted by the five departments. There were seventy-six files. This seemed odd to him; he remembered seventy-five in total.
Vilari began the long process of transferring the documents to his hard-drive, loading them into the computer’s memory, and mapping the amounts to the body of the report.
Clearing his desk of everything except the Windstorm files, he analyzed the detailed results. Line by line, he followed the logic that created the anti-toxin. Fifty-five pages later, he reviewed the calculations on expected results.
Shit. This has to be wrong!
Alarmed at the calculations on the anti-toxin’s expected results, Vilari retrieved the extra report from the network. He noticed it was dated one week later than other submissions. He went to the summary statement:
After injecting the first test subject with the toxin and three hours later with the anti-toxin, the subject expired within one hour. Two more subjects were infected, treated, and observed on film. They also expired. An autopsy indicated the mice were infected with a virus immune to the Windstorm anti-toxin prior to being treated. New subjects are on order. Upon arrival, testing will be redone.
The summary report imported this data and changed the previous result. No wonder Halpern thinks the anti-toxin is ineffective. The problem isn’t the formula; it's contaminated mice.
Relief engulfed Vilari as if he’d reached the end of a long journey. He gathered up his reports, placed them in a portfolio, and took the elevator to Mark Halpern’s office.
Gazing into empty space, he imagined going home, having a late dinner with Francesca, and getting a good night’s sleep.
He passed through the first glass enclosure where Halpern’s secretary acted as a sentry. She was gone for the day and the lights in the reception area were off. He knew Halpern often stayed late. Noticing light coming from under the double doors, Vilari rapped lightly. When there was no answer, he knocked harder. Determined to speak to Halpern that night, he eased open the door. “Mark?”
Vilari entered Halpern’s office and could hear the shower running in the CEO’s private bath.
He noticed Halpern’s suit hanging in the open closet and a duffle bag on the floor. Vilari presumed his boss had been working out in the company gym. He sat to wait in one of the two guest chairs facing a desk even larger than his own. Should I get to the point immediately or take him through the process to show how thorough my research had been? No, it’s late. I’ll get to the point and leave.
Listening to the water run and becoming impatient, Vilari shifted in the chair and checked the clock on Halpern’s desk. Fifteen minutes. He let out a long sigh. Francesca entered his thoughts again and his anxiety to get home surfaced. Vilari rose and walked to the bathroom door and knocked.
“Mark? Sorry to interrupt, but I would like a few moments to talk.”
Halpern didn’t answer. Vilari knocked again and raised his voice.
“Mark?”
He began to feel uneasy at the silence on the other side of the door. He turned the knob. It was unlocked. Taking a deep breath and bracing himself for Halpern’s rage at the breach of privacy, Vilari shouted to be heard over the sound of the shower.
“Mark, I’m sorry to intrude…”
Steam filled the small room, making it difficult to see. The walls and floor were slick with condensation. Vilari grasped the door tight to keep himself from falling when his shoe skidded on the wet tile floor. He passed the sink and commode to the shower at the far end. He called out to Halpern again as he moved closer to the stall. Vilari’s eyes widened with shock, and he fell back against the wall.
Mark Halpern lay crumpled on the shower floor, his face, a grotesque pink mask, pressed against the glass as the hot water streamed over his naked body.
Chapter 11
I arrived at Gladiolas Lane stuffed from a late lunch of perfectly cooked sliced beef tenderloin on fresh bakery rolls and a side of homemade coleslaw. The commander must have done his homework as he offered Smithwick’s to go with my sandwich. My choice of beer varies with the season and the imported Irish ale is my fall preference.
Parking on the street, I walked up the long cobbled driveway to the front door. Compared to the commander’s, Spencer and Cynthia’s home was modest, and I’d guessed had only five bedrooms.
Spencer answered the door and led me to a room off the foyer. He introduced Cynthia, who was sitting on the sofa with a cocktail in hand.
“Please sit down.” Spencer indicated a chair opposite his wife. “Drink, Mr. Holt?”
“No, thank you.”
I waited for Spencer to have a seat next to Cynthia and began my inquiry.
“The commander—sorry, I hope you don’t mind my referring to your father that way.” Spencer waved off my apology. “He told me it’s been a few days since you had any contact with Brandon and that’s unusual. How often do you speak to your son?”
Spencer and Cynthia glanced at one another, and if either of them gave the nod to go ahead, I didn’t see it. Cynthia answered.
“I either speak with Brandon or receive a text from him every day or so—I like to know he’s okay.”
“Has it ever been more than a day between calls or texts?”
“Yes, but a day at the most. Never like this. It’s been five days.”
I wondered why they didn’t sound the alarm sooner. Perhaps they had.
“The commander only contacted me yesterday. Was there some reason for the delay?”
The Gateses looked at each other again, and this time Cynthia’s hands twisted in her lap. They had an uncanny knack for stealth communication. It was Spencer’s turn to speak.
“There’s been tension between us and our son of late. He used to spend a long weekend with us here and there, especially during a holiday. Brandon hasn’t been here in two months and is not forthcoming with the activities in his life. My wife is quite upset about it, as they’ve always been close.”
“And how is your relationship with your son?”
Spencer had no physical reaction to the question and answered easily. “Not what you would call close—but not distant either. We have a sort of neutral, cordial rapport with one another. I’m an academic and my son is studying law. We can find common interests. Except—”
Gates stopped short. I swore he’d received a mental message from his wife because when he turned toward her, she nodded approvingly. They were hiding something.
“You know, I can only help you if you’re honest with me. If your son is in danger, every detail is valuable.”
“It’s nothing,” Cynthia bristled. She rose from the sofa, replenished her drink, and sat again. “Brandon is seeing a young woman.”
“And?” I waited for more.
“And my wife doesn’t approve of her. It’s been a bone of contention between Brandon and Cynthia—and if I’m honest—between my wife and I as well.”
“Seriously, Spencer?” Cynthia nearly slammed her drink on the coffee table. “You don’t like this woman any more than I do.”
Did the commander know about Brandon’s strained relationship with his parents? About the woman he was seeing? I was beginning to think they had called on me to stop an elopement. I posed the question.
“Absolutely not!” Cynthia sprang from the sofa. “There is no way he would do that to us. But that’s not even the worst of it.”
Spencer rose and joined his wife, putting his arm around her. Cynthia closed her eyes, visibly shaken. What could be so dire and upsetting?
“I need to know everything. What is it about this woman that you object to?”
Spencer squeezed his wife’s shoulder. She raised her head. “She’s not like us.”
That statement could have many implications and for some reason Spencer and Cynthia were having difficulty with the specifics. I decided to press them later. “Could I have a look at the room Brandon uses when he’s home?”
Spencer removed his arm from around his wife and walked toward the foyer. I followed.
At the foot of the stairs to the second floor, Spencer gave me directions. “His room is the third door on the left. It’s pretty much as it was when he was in college. He would board during the week and most weekends he came home.”
All the bedroom doors were open, and I had a quick glance at one or two others. Professionally decorated, the rooms reminded me of those in posh boutique hotels. I wondered if they entertained many guests. Brandon’s room was a typical teenager’s space, almost out of place in the lavish home. Painted blue, the walls were covered in gaming posters and old maps. The oak furniture looked used but well maintained. Nothing lay on the desk or the nightstand.
Books filled deep, square cubbies of a bookshelf along one wall. I scanned the titles of his impressive collection. In addition to a variety of genres, including popular fiction, mostly thrillers, Brandon had kept college textbooks. Charles had said his grandson was a political science major, but I didn’t see any books related to American politics. However, there were a number from the same publisher on Middle Eastern politics.
In several of the cubbies, rows of books stood two deep. I pulled out the ones in front to read the titles of those behind them. Science fiction dominated. It appeared he relegated certain books to the back of the shelf, leaving the most recently read ones in front. The only thing I surmised was that Brandon was an avid reader—until I saw a lone paperback lying flat on the lowest shelf. At a glance, I could see the well-worn cover and the ends of the pages curled from frequent use. I took it from
the shelf.
It was a Koran.
After searching the rest of Brandon’s room, which yielded nothing more, I asked his parents for their son’s D.C. address and the names of his roommates. It was early evening, and I thought it would be the best time to catch two young grad students at home.
I didn’t mention the Koran I found, but I had a good idea what Cynthia Gates meant by “she’s not like us.” For she and Spencer, people like them meant affluent WASPs of high religious and social standing. Having a son who studies the Koran and has a Muslim girlfriend would indeed rock their elite whitebread world.
Chapter 12
The trip to Brandon’s apartment on M Street in Washington D.C. was thirty minutes. I found parking close by and entered the high-end residence. I gave my name and identification to the concierge, who called to see if Brian Green and Matthew Somers were home. Both were, but I had to answer numerous questions about who I was and what I wanted before they agreed to see me. I rode the elevator to the sixth floor. One of them was waiting in the doorway. After introducing myself and presenting my ID, Brian Green let me inside.
Modern, with a spacious open-concept living dining kitchen, the hard surfaces in the apartment were light and the metals, shiny steel. I thought about the difference between where I lived as a youth and their primo Georgetown-area digs. A patio slider leading to a balcony was open and let in a cool fall breeze. I appreciated the fresh air, as I could smell the faint odor of marijuana. It might be the reason for the downstairs interrogation, which gave them enough time to aerate the place.
Before I could ask where Somers was, he stepped out of another room to join us. The two were as physically different as night and day. Green had dark, model good looks and towered over Somers’s slight pale frame. They stood together looking uncomfortable, shifting their stance and crossing and uncrossing their arms. I needed them to relax.
