OMEGA

by Patrick Lynch

  “Please please please please please…”

  “Okay, Scott, here comes the question.”

  “He’s peeing in his pants,” shouted the gunman, looking down at the floor. “Don’t step in it, man.”

  “Shut the fuck up!” snapped the astronaut.

  “Now! For the right hand and a weekend for two in Acapulco. What did Wray want? And don’t give me the wrong answer, Scott. Not this time.”

  “She works for Stern,” blubbed Griffen. “They want Omega.”

  “There,” said the astronaut, stepping back. He breathed quietly for a moment.

  “I knew you could do it, Scotty. Now, that wasn’t so bad.”

  Griffen shook his head.

  “That wasn’t so bad,” echoed the gunman.

  Then Griffen was shaking convulsively. A bitter taste of bile surged into his mouth, and it felt as if his legs were going to give way.

  “Okay,” said the astronaut. “Okay, nearly over now.”

  He came close again, holding Griffen’s jaw with his left hand.

  “Now, Scott. Scott!”

  Griffen struggled to control his trembling body.

  “I want you to tell me what she said. And I—”

  “Stern Corporation…” blurted Griffen. “The Stern people feel Omega belongs to them. When they bought Helical … the drug was already a viable product at that time. There was testing to do, trials, but the groundwork … it was already done. It should have been part of the Helical purchase, but it was … it was hidden.”

  “But Ms. Wray wasn’t appealing to your sense of justice, right? She was here to make you an offer.”

  Griffen shook his head.

  “No, not an offer. It was a warning. She said if Apex made the drug, they would litigate, I mean against us personally.”

  “Us?”

  “The Helical people. The team. She said she could prove we stole the technology. That we kept it from them.”

  “And are you?”

  “Are we what?”

  “Is Apex making the drug?”

  Griffen was confused. It was as if the guy knew all about Omega already. All he seemed to be interested in was the players—Stern and Apex. Again he asked himself who they were with.

  “No.”

  Then the astronaut was smiling.

  “But you could, couldn’t you?” he said quietly. “You’ve had the information all along. You and Novak.”

  There was a moment of complete silence. Griffen shook his head.

  “Sure,” said the astronaut. “Kept it for a rainy day, right? Thought maybe it would come in useful some time.”

  “Who are you?” asked Griffen. “Who are you working for?”

  The astronaut took a step back so that the overhead light struck a bar of shadow down from his nose.

  “So does Stern have the drug now?”

  “No,” said Griffen. “No, how could they?”

  “You’re sure about that? You’re sure you’re going to say the same thing when you’re through eating?”

  “Please, I swear.”

  The astronaut put the knife down and looked at the ground for a moment, thinking. “Okay,” he said. “Take off your clothes.”

  3

  The meeting had been scheduled six weeks in advance, and CEO Bill Donnelly had made it clear that he expected everyone to be there. On her own initiative his personal assistant, Carla Samuels, had rung the offices of the various directors and department heads the day before, just to make sure that nobody was planning to be anywhere else. In an ordinary company it probably wouldn’t have been necessary, but with some of these Apex people you could never be sure: most of them had come up through the technical side of the business, she reminded herself, and while they might know all there was to know about DNA and protein synthesis, they weren’t above a little creative absentmindedness when it suited them. Thankfully, this time everybody was planning to be there, or so they said.

  The meeting was scheduled for nine o’clock, but at a quarter past there was still one chair empty. Donnelly and Arthur Ross talked sotto voce about yachting—they both kept boats down in San Diego—while Carla tried to locate the absentee. It was the R&D director, Scott Griffen. Apparently he hadn’t shown up at the office that morning and his secretary hadn’t been able to raise him on the phone. Secretly Carla wondered whether Griffen wasn’t trying to make a point by staying away. After all, he was very much on the technical side of the company. Maybe he knew what was coming and wanted no part of it. Carla didn’t know much about Griffen, but by all accounts he was pretty stubborn and didn’t like anybody telling him what to do. There was also a rumor that he was thinking about retirement.

  Reluctantly Donnelly got the meeting under way. Carla positioned herself on his right—not actually at the table—and got ready to write. Just as she had expected, Donnelly began by talking about how the company was perceived in the market. The idea was gaining ground, he said, that Apex was hostage to fortune, more than was appropriate or desirable for a venture of its size and maturity. It was essential to the continued independence of the company that this perception be reversed. And then he began to unveil the new resources allocation system he wanted to introduce, with its targets and regular performance assessments.

  Donnelly was still talking when the phone rang. Carla hastily put down her pad and hurried to pick it up, annoyed that anyone should have the nerve to interrupt the meeting. It was Marcia Burridge, the new girl on reception.

  “Pardon me, is Mr. Donnelly there, please?”

  She didn’t sound very sure of herself.

  “Mr. Donnelly is in the middle of a meeting. He is not to be disturbed.”

  Donnelly turned back to his colleagues and went on talking.

  “Oh,” said Marcia, “but you see there’s—”

  “Marcia,” Carla hissed. Some of these girls just had no idea. “This is a board meeting. You do not interrupt board meetings. You can get whoever it is to leave a message on my voice mail. Now good-bye.”

  “But, Miss Samuels, there are two gentlemen here”—her voice dropped to a whisper—“from the F-B-I. They’re right here.”

  “The FBI? Are you…? Just … just tell them to wait a moment.”

  Carla put down the receiver and stood there, trying to decide what to do. Donnelly was in full flow now, punctuating his speech with little karate chops against the polished walnut tabletop. Should she interrupt him? She decided not. It was probably just a routine inquiry, something that concerned an ex-employee more than likely. No need to get excited. Just deal with it.

  “Excuse me,” she murmured and slipped out of the room.

  There were only two men in the reception area; so it had to be them. They were trying to look like everyday visitors, one of them standing, leafing through a company brochure, the other sprawled out on the black leather sofa, gazing down on Century Plaza two hundred feet below. They were dressed like businessmen—dark suits and white shirts—although there was something incongruous about the brass tie clasps they both wore. They were big men, and one of them had a sandy-colored mustache. As Carla approached, Marcia looked up from behind the desk and nodded in their direction, her eyes as big as saucers.

  “Can I help you gentlemen?” Carla said in her best strictly-business voice. The man who had been sitting stood up. “My name is Carla Samuels. I’m Mr. Donnelly’s personal assistant.”

  The two men looked at each other.

  “Good morning, ma’am,” said the mustache. There was a touch of the South in his accent. “I’m Agent Monroe. This is Agent Buford. We’re from the Commercial Crimes Section, FBI.”

  Two of the junior managers from Marketing appeared, laughing as they headed for the elevators. Carla waited for the heavy glass doors to close behind them.

  “Do you have some identification?” she said.

  Monroe reached into his jacket and produced an ID card fixed inside a black leather wallet. Carla examined it closely, even though she had n
o idea what an FBI agent’s ID was supposed to look like.

  “Well, what exactly can we do for you?” she said, unable to keep the indignation from her voice.

  Monroe tucked the wallet back inside his jacket. Carla glimpsed a fine leather strap running vertically from his shoulder and realized with a jolt that the man was armed.

  “Ma’am, we have a federal warrant for the removal of any and all documents in this company’s possession relating to research and development activity carried out at, or on behalf of, Apex Incorporated. I would like to present that warrant to Mr. Donnelly so that we can proceed.”

  Carla blinked, unable at first to take in what she had been told.

  “You … You have a warrant? What’s the charge?” she stuttered, realizing immediately how stupid the question was.

  “There’s no charge, ma’am,” said Buford, one side of his mouth tightening to a smile. “We’re not here to arrest anyone.”

  Carla straightened up. A bunch of people—she recognized Lisa Wallbach and Greg Tanner from Corporate Affairs—were rubbernecking from halfway down the adjoining corridor. A door slammed and rapid footsteps receded into the distance. Carla shot a hostile glance at Marcia Burridge, who immediately ducked down behind the reception desk.

  “Anything relating to research and development would be highly confidential. You’d have to talk to the director concerned, and he’s … he’s not here at the moment.” The thought flashed through her mind that maybe this had something to do with Griffen, with his absence. Was he some sort of fugitive? “In any event, I … I must ask that you talk first with our senior in-house legal counsel. “I’ll … Just one second.”

  She hurried back to the reception desk. Marcia looked up at her guiltily, her hands pressed together between her knees.

  “Get Frank Pellegrini on the line,” Carla hissed, “now. And keep your mouth shut otherwise, missy.”

  Marcia got the senior counsel on the line, then handed over the receiver.

  “Frank? It’s Carla Samuels.” She tried to sound calm, set an example. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m in reception with two gentlemen from the FBI. They say they have a warrant to take all our documentation relating to research and development.”

  From the receiver came a strangled shriek of disbelief. Then Pellegrini was shouting at his secretary—Carla had to hold the phone away from her ear—telling her to call “Phil at Kirkland” right away. Then the phone went dead.

  Carla handed back the receiver. She felt a little steadier, knowing she’d done the right thing. When in doubt, leave it to the lawyers; that was the rule. But then she was struck by a new anxiety: what was it all about? “Commercial crime,” they’d said. It sounded serious. Was it serious enough to damage the company? Serious enough maybe to cost jobs, her job? And who’d want an ex-employee of a bent company? No job, no insurance coverage, no pension plan, no healthcare plan—elements of the impending catastrophe loomed up before her like warning signs on a road she wasn’t meant to be on. It was a road that led to exclusion. She’d be out there—instinctively she cast a glance towards the low-rent sprawl of Central LA—on her own. She could end up like one of those people, people you knew about, knew were there, but never actually met, spoke to, touched, people you paid money to keep away from.

  Frank Pellegrini came hurrying down the passage in his shirtsleeves, one cuff hanging loose at the elbow.

  “Where are they?” he demanded, as if it were difficult to spot them.

  Carla shook herself and escorted him to where Monroe and Buford were standing, their hands buried in their pockets. Pellegrini’s head just about made it to the height of their shoulders.

  “I understand you gentlemen have some kind of a warrant?” he said.

  Monroe took an envelope from his side pocket and handed it to him. Pellegrini read the contents, making loud sniffing noises as he went. Carla got the feeling this wasn’t the kind of situation he’d had much practice with.

  “‘Technology acquired through illegal means’?” he said. “Is this some kind of a joke?”

  Buford planted his hands on his hips and looked down at the floor, as if trying to restrain himself from saying what he wanted to say.

  “No joke, Mr….?”

  “Pellegrini, Frank Pellegrini.”

  “The warrant is effective immediately. We have six more men waiting downstairs. Now, we just need to know where the documents are located so that we can remove them as quickly and with as little disruption as possible. I’m sure that would be in everyone’s best interests.”

  “Remove them? Those documents are … are of huge potential value to our competitors. There is no way we can let them off the premises. How do we know…?”

  There was a commotion behind them. Donnelly, Ross, and half the board were marching towards them.

  “What the hell is this, Frank?” Donnelly demanded.

  Monroe took his hands out of his pockets and put them behind his back. Buford didn’t.

  Pellegrini handed over the warrant. “They want to take away the research data. Some bullshit about stolen technology.”

  “What?”

  Pellegrini turned back to the FBI men. “This is an outrage. We are going to seek an injunction preventing you from removing any confidential information from these offices. I have someone working on that right now. In the meantime, I would like to know who the hell—who the hell in Washington authorized—”

  “I’d love to stand around here talking about it,” said Monroe. “But I’m afraid I’m gonna have to make a start with the execution of that warrant. It’s also my duty to warn you that any attempt to conceal or destroy documents of any kind likely to be of interest to this investigation may constitute a criminal offense punishable by fine or imprisonment.”

  For a moment there was silence, then a sudden loud buzz from the direction of the main doors. Everybody looked round: a messenger boy carrying a large brown envelope stared back through the glass.

  “Now, it would be much appreciated,” said Monroe, “if you could tell us where to begin.”

  4

  Sergeant Ruddock was halfway through a king-sized pot of instant noodles when Pat McNally came over to his desk holding the latest batch of teletypes.

  “Jesus, what is that, Duane?” he said. “You’re stinkin’ the whole place out.”

  “Spicy Chinese chicken,” said Ruddock, defensively. “Just thought I’d give it a try.”

  “Smells like a dog’s breath.” He pointed at the splashy Chinese characters on the side of the pot. “Jesus, I’m right. Chinese dog’s breath flavor.”

  Sam Dorsey looked up from his side of the desk and sniffed at the air.

  “Hell, I thought that was you, Duane. California armpit flavor.”

  Someone on the other side of the room let out a single snort of amusement. Ruddock sighed wearily and put the noodles down.

  “So what have you got for me, Pat?”

  McNally tore off one of the teletype sheets and handed it to him. The report was about ten lines long and listed the preliminary details of a homicide investigation. Like all the reports the different police forces put out, it was designed to highlight peculiarities that might suggest a link with cases in other jurisdictions. With so many different police departments working in such a small area, the teletype system, while far from high-tech, was an indispensable tool for detectives of all kinds, but most especially those dealing with violent crime.

  “This one just came in from LAPD. Possible one-eighty-seven in Bel Air, a drowning.”

  “Only possible? Does that mean they think it could’ve been suicide?”

  “Doesn’t say. This is what’s interesting, see?” He pointed to the beginning of the second paragraph. “The victim, Dr. Scott Griffen, was a senior executive at a pharmaceutical company and had a PhD in biochemistry. They actually put that in there. Must have thought it meant something.”

  “Sounds like they’re as desperate as we are,” said Dorsey. “Have
they checked his computer for messages?”

  Ruddock ignored the joke.

  “Pharmaceutical companies make drugs, right? All kinds of stuff.”

  “Sure,” said McNally.

  “And biochemists know how to make ‘em, the refining and cutting and all that.”

  “I guess.”

  “Wait a second, Duane,” said Dorsey. “You think this could be a narco thing, now? Thanks for sharing.”

  “It’s just a thought. Maybe there’s been some moonlighting going on. It would explain a lot of things.”

  “Better give ‘em a call, first,” said McNally. “It isn’t much of a connection. Just thought you needed all the help you can get.” He began to walk away. “Don’t let it spoil your lunch, though.”

  The senior LAPD detective assigned to the case was Sergeant Jim Tolbert, a linebacker-sized black man with a brisk, confident manner and a habit of rapping his fingers on the tabletop when he talked. Ruddock had worked with him on a serial-killer case a few years back and, despite the minor intrusions of professional rivalry, couldn’t help but be impressed by the way he operated. His lumbering, heavyweight appearance concealed a quick mind, and he was good at getting people to talk to him, even pimps and hookers, who were not always inclined to be helpful. It was something to do with his demeanor: being around him, you felt safe. As a team player, though, he left something to be desired, preferring to trust his own judgment rather than anybody else’s. Ruddock left a message, and Tolbert called back a couple of hours later.

  “How you doin’, Duane? You take that vacation yet?”

  “No,” said Ruddock, reaching for his pen and notebook. “Sore point, actually. What about you?”

  “Yeah, just got back. Went to visit my mama in Florida. It’s nice down there, once you get away from the tourists. So what can I do for you?”

  “That case you got in Bel Air. It’s ringing a few bells. Can you talk me through it?”

  “Sure, just a second.” He cleared his throat. “Okay, let me see now. Scott Griffen, fifty-one years old, research director at Apex Inc. That’s in Century City. Married, son in college, daughter married, living in San Francisco. The wife was visiting up there when it happened. Housekeeper found him at the bottom of his pool, nude. That was two days ago, about half past nine in the morning.”