The Evolution of Evil (The Blackwell Files Book 6)

by Steven F Freeman

  “What do you mean?” asked Alton.

  LeFlore hesitated a moment before continuing. “There are a fair number of biotech companies researching Alzheimer’s. If any of them get wind that Beauchamp is negotiating a deal, they might start worrying about being left behind and make Lexington a better offer. More competition is bad for Beauchamp. It means we’d have to pay a higher price.” He gestured to a passing waiter. “A screwdriver on the rocks.” LeFlore now seemed quite at ease now. “Can I order anyone a drink? Mr. Blackwell?”

  “No, thanks,” replied Alton. “Regarding Dr. Summit…she wanted to meet late because it was least disruptive to her research schedule, and you wanted to meet late to avoid alerting your company’s competitors? Does that about sum it up?”

  “Oui.”

  “Well, Mr. LeFlore, I think we’re about done…for now,” said Delaney. “In the meantime, would you mind providing a copy of your passport?”

  “Why? I have already told you why I am here. You can call my employer to verify it.”

  “It’s just routine.”

  A glint of steel flashed in the man’s eyes. “I have cooperated with you, but this is going too far. Does Ecuadorian law require I provide a copy of my passport outside the customs office if I’m not under arrest?”

  Fuentes shook his head.

  “In that case, you are not getting it unless you have a warrant.”

  “Then how about providing your cellphone number?” asked Delaney.

  LeFlore removed a business card from his wallet and handed it over. He produced a plastic smile. “Anything else, my friends?”

  “Not for now,” said Fuentes, “but don’t leave the island. And trust me, amigo, I will get a court order for that.”

  The waiter returned and delivered the vodka and orange juice cocktail. LeFlore took a sip of the drink and rose to leave. He stopped and glanced at Mallory’s hand. “You’re married?”

  “Yes,” she replied, declining to mention her husband sat mere feet away.

  Alton fought his first instinct to intervene. Surely, he and Mallory had come to the same conclusion: better to let this scene play itself out. Perhaps they would learn something about this enigmatic suspect.

  “And you are happy?” asked LeFlore.

  “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  The biotech rep exhaled long and loud. “This island is quite remote. At times, a person can get lonely. I cannot bear to see a beautiful woman in such a condition.” LeFlore flashed a dazzling smile, one that probably would have served its purpose with some women. Alton suppressed a roll of his eyes. The man certainly didn’t lack self-confidence.

  Mallory snorted. “That’s altruistic of you.”

  “Oui. That is what I am known for. If you are ever unhappy, you can call me, day…or night.”

  “Don’t hold your breath, LeFlore.”

  A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “You say that now, but maybe you will call me later. We will see.”

  The group watched the man stroll back to the bar and order a drink for the blonde who had waited for his return.

  “I don’t trust that guy,” said the Gooch. He turned to Mallory. “And I don’t think you should, either.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Mallory. “Even if I didn’t already have a wonderful husband, I wouldn’t walk within twenty yards of that dude. He gives me the creeps.”

  “I think we’ve done all the damage we can do here,” said Delaney. The investigators stood and turned to leave the resort.

  “Wait just a minute,” said Alton. He walked across the lobby and approached the main desk, where a young lady wearing a navy blue suit and name badge smiled as he approached.

  “Can I help you?” she asked. Her ponytail bobbed when she talked.

  “Yes,” said Alton. “I met some friends here last Thursday for drinks. I lost my wallet sometime during the evening, and it occurred to me that if you have security cameras, maybe I could watch the tape and see where it might have fallen.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said the girl, “but we don’t have security cameras in the resort. We do have security guards, though. Have you talked with them? Maybe they found it.”

  “I haven’t yet, but that’ll be my next stop. Thanks.”

  Alton rejoined the group. “Crap—no security cameras. That would’ve made it easy to confirm LeFlore’s story about last Thursday.”

  Delaney turned to Tuttle. “Did you recognize LeFlore?”

  The doctor bore a grim expression. “Not his face, but his voice did sound familiar. I’m pretty sure he was the man who called the lab a few weeks ago when I answered the phone. He asked to speak to Dr. Summit.”

  The group made its way out of the lobby. Trudging through the parking lot, Fuentes dialed a number on his cellphone and conducted a brief conversation in Spanish. He ended the call and turned to the Americans. “I have put a twenty-four hour tail on LeFlore. I’m also having my men track down the resort bartender who worked last Thursday night. Maybe he can confirm LeFlore’s story.”

  “It still might not exonerate him, depending on when he left the bar,” said Alton.

  “I agree,” replied Fuentes. “We will just have to see where the truth leads us.”

  The group piled into the policeman’s SUV.

  “It is getting late for an inter-island trip,” said Fuentes, “but I would still like to try to visit Wendy Chin.”

  “Agreed,” said Delaney. “The sooner, the better.”

  Fuentes accelerated out of the parking lot onto the main coastal road. Palm trees and flashes of the Pacific Ocean flitted by.

  Mallory removed her cellphone from her purse. Her fingers flew over the screen, typing at speeds that always amazed Alton.

  After ten minutes, she sat back in her seat. “You know, something isn’t adding up.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Alton studied his wife. “Really? What’s not adding up?”

  “LeFlore said his company is researching a cure to Alzheimer’s, right? Well, I just reviewed Beauchamp’s stock prospectus and latest quarterly financial reports. They both describe the company as focused solely on cancer research. Neither report said anything about Alzheimer’s.”

  Cragmire looked up from his phone. “Maybe they just entered the Alzheimer’s field. It happens.”

  “Beauchamp filed its last quarterly statement only three weeks ago, but LeFlore admits he’s been here for several months looking into Summit’s research. Why would a cancer company want to buy research in a field that’s not their specialty?”

  Cragmire stared straight ahead, mulling over the question. “Let me do a little checking of my own.” He turned back to his phone and riveted his attention to it, oblivious to the sharp turns and exotic landscape unfolding outside the SUV. For once, the man’s focus on his cellphone seemed justified. The wind whistled past the windows as the researchers waited in silence for the biologist to conclude his search.

  Cragmire put down his phone. “I scanned Beauchamp’s last few articles in the Journal of Biomedical Science. It’s the biotech industry’s premier scientific newsletter. All the latest findings are published in it. It confirmed what Blackwell said. Beauchamp confines itself to cancer research. There’s no mention of Alzheimer’s in any of its articles.”

  “Which still leaves us with the question of why they’d be so interested in Summit’s work,” said Mallory.

  “Maybe they’re interested, but for a different reason,” said Alton.

  “What do you mean?”

  Grasping a door handle to steady himself in a sharp curve, Alton turned to Cragmire. “When you were explaining Summit’s work yesterday, didn’t you say that too little of the protein she’s researching, LPR-six, causes Alzheimer’s but that too much can cause cancer?”

  “Yes,” replied Cragmire. “The challenge is walking that fine line.”

  “Beauchamp’s medicines treat cancer. Are they based on manipulating the level of LPR-six?”

  “Yeah, tha
t’s right,” said Cragmire, his face reflecting the first glimmer of admiration Alton had observed. “There are hundreds of cancer treatments. How’d you know what approach Beauchamp uses?”

  “Just testing a hypothesis, really,” said Alton. “We know that Beauchamp uses medicines that treat cancer by lowering LPR-six levels. Now suppose word gets out that raising LPR-six cuts the risk of Alzheimer’s? Won’t scientists decide that the ‘fine line’ of the perfect LPR-six level is higher than they previously thought?”

  “That’s right,” said Cragmire, nodding. “The appropriate level of LPR-six would have to be fine-tuned based on a patient’s family history of both cancer and dementia, but overall yes, the recommended baseline level of LPR-six would be increased, based on Summit’s research.”

  “And wouldn’t that make Beauchamp’s cancer medicines suddenly less popular, once people realize it increases their risk of Alzheimer’s?”

  “By golly, it would!” said Tuttle from the backseat.

  Cragmire nodded again. “Yep. Some people—those at high risk for cancer or already in remission—would probably still be better off taking Beauchamp’s meds, but most other customers would likely be scared away by such a major side-effect.”

  “And that means Beauchamp’s profits would tank,” said Alton, feeling grim. “We have to consider the possibility that Beauchamp is buying Summit’s research to bury it, not sell it.”

  “In a weird way, it makes sense,” said Cragmire. “All of Beauchamp’s products are based on LPR-six manipulation. They could go out of business if that approach fell out of favor.”

  “And didn’t LeFlore say Beauchamp wanted to strike a deal before the research was complete?” added Mallory. “Not only would that save them a ton of money, it’d also help ensure that Summit doesn’t complete her research herself and eventually share the results with Lexington or some other company. Striking a deal now could keep her research out of the market for the foreseeable future.”

  “But would someone really do that?” asked the Gooch. “Would they really keep an important medicine like that locked up when they could be curing thousands of people?”

  “Maybe, when there’s this much money at stake,” said Cragmire.

  “I doubt Beauchamp would spend the money to finish Summit’s research,” said Alton. “By the time they took it through all four levels of the FDA’s clinical trials, they’d still end up spending billions. Why do that for a product that will eliminate all your existing product lines, medicines that are already earning you big profits?”

  Captain Fuentes’ cellphone rang. He withdrew it from his pocket and hit the “talk” button in one fluid motion. “Hola.”

  Fuentes steered with one hand and held his phone with the other. Alton noted with some alarm that the act of driving with only one hand on the wheel hadn’t deterred the captain’s rapid progress along the winding coastal highway.

  In the middle of his Spanish-language conversation, Fuentes issued a grunt of surprise. The pace of the conversation quickened. In the space of two more minutes, he ended the call.

  “What is it?” asked Mallory.

  “Lieutenant Cordero, my top officer on Isabela Island, called me. They found a body on the beach there…as if I don’t have enough to do here.”

  “Was it a drowning?”

  “Oh, no. The man’s throat was cut. It was definitely a murder.”

  “Does that happen very often?” asked Mallory.

  “No, not really—not for the past few years, at least.”

  “A murder,” mused Delaney. “Could this be connected to our case somehow?”

  “I don’t think so. I think there is something really different going on here,” said Fuentes. “Lieutenant Cordero’s men found a fragment of tortoise shell near the body.” He gripped the wheel with both hands for a moment to navigate a particularly sharp curve.

  “There are tortoises all over the islands,” said Alton, still hanging onto the door for balance. “Is finding a shell fragment near the body really that surprising?”

  “In this case, it is. There are no indigenous species of Galapagos giant tortoises on Isabela Island. And this particular species, the Negrita, is only found here on Santa Cruz.”

  “So the shell was transported there?”

  “Yes, and that is why it is significant. It suggests this man was involved in the smuggling of rare species. The tortoise shell is a calling card. It gives a potential buyer proof of the type of animal up for sale.”

  “Wouldn’t taking a piece of shell hurt the animal?” asked Mallory.

  “No, the fragment is small,” replied Fuentes. “It only needs to be big enough to show the kind of species it comes from. You take it from the side, the tortoise never knows.”

  “I can see why finding the shell is important to discovering the man’s murderer,” said Alton. “It shows the dead man was probably involved in some kind of rare-animal, black-market deal gone bad.”

  “Exactly,” said Fuentes. “I’ll have my men look into this murder, but I don’t think it will help us find Summit.” The SUV rounded another curve, and the harbor of Puerto Ayora rolled into view. “In the meantime, let’s hurry to Isabela Island. We have another person of interest to interview, and Summit’s time is surely running out.”

  CHAPTER 25

  LeFlore had been afraid to take a full breath as long as the investigators had lingered in the resort. Having witnessed their departure, he exhaled and turned to his companion. “What was that about your gym membership?”

  Sarah continued to rattle on with her usual vapid small talk, leaving the biotech rep with the majority of his attention available to consider the events of the past half hour. How had the Americans learned of his rendezvous with Dr. Summit? She had assured him their meetings would remain strictly confidential. But it hardly mattered now. They knew, and their knowledge of events would have to be incorporated into his plans going forward.

  Sarah paused, and LeFlore’s concentration reverted to their conversation. “Ah, of course you couldn’t let Jenny talk to you like that,” he said.

  Speaking of rendezvous, tonight seemed to be going well. LeFlore had commented and smiled at all the right moments during the conversation, and his blonde companion signaled every intention of accompanying him back to his room that night.

  And about time, too. Sarah was attractive, but overall the pickings at this resort had been pretty dismal. Only rich patrons could afford the resort’s exorbitant prices. As a consequence, almost all of them were middle-aged or older, and virtually none were single. He didn’t mind older women per se, but most of the ones here had long ago abandoned aspirations of physical beauty.

  His current companion was the daughter of a doctor and his wife visiting from Boston. LeFlore hoped Sarah had provided them with a suitable excuse for her absence that evening. With a herd of NSA agents and the Galapagos police nosing around, the last thing he needed was a couple of hysterical parents questioning his character.

  Sarah continued to chatter on, and LeFlore’s mind drifted back to the married American agent. She was a damn fine piece of leg—smooth skin, dark hair, full lips, tight frame…everything a man could want. The island suffered no shortage of beauties, but of course most were Galapagos natives, and LeFlore preferred other ethnic groups over Latinas. And on that score, he had experienced good luck, even here on this remote, South-American island. Fate had thrown a few lookers in his path, and who was he to turn down such opportunities?

  Sarah’s conversation seemed to be drying up. She bit her lower lip and eyed him expectantly.

  LeFlore made a point to swallow. “Sarah…my dear, dear Sarah,” he said, emphasizing his French accent just a little, “Do you feel as I do?”

  “I don’t know. How do you feel?” she asked with wide eyes.

  “Like I’ve made the connection I’ve been seeking for years. Who would have thought that here, under South-American stars, I’d stumble upon the woman I’ve dreamed about all my li
fe?”

  “I’m your dream woman?”

  “Indeed. Tell me you feel as I do, that we were meant to be together.”

  “Oh, Charlie,” she said with some difficulty. “I don’t know…I guess so.”

  LeFlore cast down his gaze. “You don’t need to explain. I can see it. You don’t feel as I do. I have made a fool of myself.” He sighed. “I will go.”

  “Wait, I didn’t say that. It’s just all so sudden. Of course, I like you. And my friends won’t believe how hot you are.”

  “Then come back to my suite with me. I want you all to myself.”

  LeFlore stood and grasped Sarah’s hand, helping her off the barstool. She smiled and slipped her arm through his. They exited the bar, and the naïve socialite rested her head on her companion’s muscular shoulder.

  LeFlore glanced at the blonde by his side. His friends back in Montreal might laugh at his obsession with strength training and early morning runs in cold weather, but the practice paid dividends. And he planned to enjoy those dividends all night.

  CHAPTER 26

  Fuentes and the American agents pulled to a stop in front of the Puerto Ayora police station and found Lieutenant Rios waiting for them.

  “We will go now,” said the captain, falling in step with Rios and making a beeline for the harbor.

  “How long will it take us to reach Isabela Island?” asked Delaney, puffing a little as she extended the length of her strides to keep up.

  “Not long—not in our boat. Usually two and a half hours, but I think we’ll make it in less.”

  The others followed and climbed aboard the police boat, the same one Alton had noticed the first day. He didn’t know much about watercraft, but this one seemed to be the aquatic version of the classic police “pursuit” automobile. Both vehicles were built for speed.

  Rios took a seat behind the wheel, while Fuentes occupied the adjacent chair. Mallory sat on a bench next to Alton, while Cragmire, Tuttle, and the Gooch faced them from the other side of the craft.