by David Freed
Castle Robotics’ relationship with the Pentagon, Sheen said, had taken a substantial hit following news reports of Dorian Munz’s unfounded, eleventh hour assertion that Ruth Walker had been murdered in part because she supposedly had knowledge of malfeasance on Castle’s part. The company had also taken a financial hit. In the weeks following Munz’s execution, the value of the company’s stock had tanked on the NASDAQ.
“The board is meeting next month in New York to hold a vote of confidence,” Castle said. “If I lose that vote, I’ll have no choice but to step down.”
“That won’t happen, Greg,” Sheen said. “Not as long as I have any say in it.”
Castle got up, patted Sheen on the shoulder and paced the room. “If Munz were still alive, I’d sue him for libel. To imply that I killed the daughter of the one man I most admire in this world, because I was somehow trying to protect this company, or that she and I had an affair and I impregnated her, is outrageous on the face of it.”
“Can you prove Munz lied?”
“Absolutely. I took a paternity test.”
“Voluntarily,” Sheen added, “and passed.”
“You took a paternity test?”
Castle rubbed his forehead. “I can’t believe I just admitted that. I’ve never told anybody, except Ray. And Munz, of course.”
I tried not to appear as surprised as I was.
“You told Dorian Munz you took a paternity test?”
“I don’t recall the specific date,” Castle said, “but it had to have been a few weeks before Ruth was killed. She told me Munz was running around town saying I was the father, so I offered to take a test, to prove him wrong.”
“Where did Munz come up with the idea you were the father?”
“You’d have to ask him.”
“Munz is dead. I’m asking you.”
Castle poured himself some orange juice. “I don’t exactly appreciate your tone, Mr. Logan.”
I reminded him that I was there to help, and asked him again where Munz had gotten the notion that he’d sired Ruth Walker’s child.
“Honestly? I have no idea. I’d always assumed that Munz was the father and simply didn’t want to accept responsibility. All I know is, I went to a clinic ten years ago, they swabbed the inside of my mouth, and the results showed it wasn’t me. I assumed that was the end of it. It never came up in Munz’s trial. Then, ten minutes before he’s put to death, he pops off with all these insane accusations, and the news media reports them like it’s fact.” Castle gulped his juice. “You have no idea, Mr. Logan, the strain this has put on my marriage. My wife’s a practicing Roman Catholic. She can’t understand how anyone could lie like Munz did, knowing they’re about to face their maker.”
“If you shared the results of that test with the news media,” I said, “you’d be golden.”
“Share the results? With those bloodsuckers? So they can boost their ratings or sell a few more papers? It’s none of their damn business.”
“It is if Munz’s accusations ruin your company and take you down with them.”
Castle looked over at Sheen as if for guidance.
“The press would probably just ignore it anyway at this point, Greg,” Sheen said. “You know how that tune goes—never let the facts stand in the way of a good story.”
“You mind if I have a look at the report?” I asked.
“I really don’t see how this is any of your business, either,” Castle said.
“Hub Walker hired me to help find a way to get you out of a jam, Mr. Castle. This could be that way.”
Castle thought about it for a couple of seconds, sighed, then crossed the room to a four-drawer oak filing cabinet.
“Greg keeps everything,” Sheen said admiringly. “He’s very well organized.”
It didn’t take Castle long to find what he was looking for.
“Here we go.” He pulled open a manila-colored file jacket, gave the single sheet of paper inside a quick look, and handed it to me.
It was a report, dated August 21, 2003 and printed on the letterhead of SoCal Genetic Laboratories in nearby Kearny Mesa. It stated:
“Sixteen genetic loci were tested using DNA amplification with the Accu-track/16 system, an XY-300XL genetic analyzer, and second-generation, Geno-Chromosomal marking software. Based on the DNA analysis, GREGORY CASTLE is excluded as the father of the female child, RYDER WALKER, because they do not share sufficient genetic markers. The percentage probability of the stated relationship is zero (0).”
“I rest my case,” Castle said.
I asked if I could have a copy to pass along to Walker. Walker would then distribute the results to the newshounds, proving that Munz had lied.
Castle rubbed the back of his neck. “I’d have to think it over. I don’t know, I just don’t know.”
“If I could weigh in here for just a second,” Sheen said. “Greg, my primary concern is that directors meeting in New York next month. I mean, do you really want to be having to explain to the board whether you did or didn’t sleep with someone ten years ago?”
“I may have no choice, Ray.”
“Maybe. But even if Munz’s allegations were true, which of course they weren’t, having a child out of wedlock reflects in no way on your ability or inability to manage this company,” Sheen said. “The more onerous allegation, obviously, is that Castle Robotics was stealing from the government. No paternity test addresses that.”
“An independent audit would,” I said. “Send out a press release. Tell the world you’ve commissioned one, and that Castle Robotics has nothing to hide.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Sheen said. “The transparency of a fresh audit could do us nothing but good.”
“And dignify the lies of a condemned killer who’s gone to his grave?” Castle shook his head. “Our bylaws already require an annual audit of the corporation’s books. A supplemental audit would be a waste of money—money better spent in product R&D.”
Castle readily agreed that Munz’s allegations had created a public relations nightmare for his company and him personally. He agreed that the federal government’s confidence in Castle Robotics had been undermined, and that something had to be done public relations-wise if the company hoped to continue securing the multimillion-dollar defense contracts that were its lifeblood. But Castle was hesitant to get involved directly. Decorum, he said, prevented him from standing up in his own defense.
“It would look undignified,” he said.
“Fair enough,” I said. “All you have to do is get a copy of that paternity test to Hub. He’ll do the rest.”
“I’d have to think about it.”
“It’s your rodeo.”
I got up to leave. Castle and Sheen walked me out.
“When we first heard that Ruth had been murdered,” he said, “quite frankly, we thought it was the Chinese.”
“Why the Chinese?”
“Because of the classified nature of the work we do,” Sheen said. “Ruth was involved from a design standpoint in some of our most sensitive projects. Chinese intelligence has always been eager to pirate proprietary technology from U.S. defense contractors, especially here on the Pacific Rim. Who’s to say they didn’t kidnap her, then kill her when she resisted interrogation? That’s what we assumed, anyway, before the FBI determined that Munz was the real killer.”
“Ruth was a good employee,” Castle said. “Boundless energy. Very ambitious. Highly intelligent. I probably would’ve hired her whether she was Hub Walker’s daughter or not.”
We paused at his office door.
“What about Janet Bollinger? I understand she used to work here, too.”
“Janet Bollinger?” Castle smiled to himself. “I haven’t thought about Jan in years. She was what we call around here a ‘short-time friend.’ I believe she was hired as an entry-level CAD operator, was she not?”
Sheen nodded.
“Her heart wasn’t much in the job,” Castle said. “From what I remember, she se
emed more interested in meeting Mr. Right. I’m not sure she even made probation.”
“She did,” Sheen said, “but she didn’t last long after that.”
“How close were Janet and Ruth?” I asked.
“Close enough that she started seeing Munz after Munz broke up with Ruth,” Castle said. “I remember that much. What either of them saw in that loser is beyond me. Tell you the truth, I was glad when they finally executed him. Why it took as long as it did, I’ll never know.”
“’Tis better that ten guilty escape than one innocent suffer.”
Sheen and Castle both looked at me funny.
“William Blackstone, the English jurist—at least I think it was Blackstone. I doubt it was any judge in Texas.”
Sheen scratched his ear. “What’s your interest in Janet Bollinger?”
“Somebody stabbed her yesterday, in her apartment.”
“Jesus,” Sheen said, “She was stabbed? Do they know who did it?”
“Not yet.”
Castle cupped his hand over his open mouth and asked me if she was going to be OK.
“I’m not a doctor.”
I studied Castle’s nonverbal gestures. Behaviorists commonly contend that covering one’s mouth when speaking is a sign of dishonesty, a clue that somebody’s covering up the truth. Others say it’s a self-soothing gesture, an innate human reaction to unsettling news. I didn’t know Castle well enough to speculate either way. As for Sheen, his response to the news didn’t strike me as anything other than normal. He seemed genuinely stunned. Neither man said they had any idea who would’ve attacked Jan Bollinger, or why.
“Dorian Munz is put to death and a month later a woman he dated is attacked in her own apartment.” Castle rubbed his chin. “I would think that’s more than coincidental, wouldn’t you?”
I shrugged. True Buddhists don’t believe in coincidence. They believe that cause and effect rule the universe. This philosophy is personally problematic for aspiring Buddhists like me. I find little comfort in the notion that there is some logic hidden in the chaos of existence. Call me jaded, or call me a pragmatist. Anybody who’s been kicked down the block a time or two recognizes that, sometimes, there’s no “why” to the happenstance of life. It is what it is.
Was there a conspiracy involving the murder of Ruth Walker, the execution of Dorian Munz, and the knifing of Janet Bollinger? Possibly. Maybe even probably. But right then, all I could really think about was the glorious night I’d spent with Savannah—and those delicious doughnuts speaking to me from atop Greg Castle’s credenza. I grabbed two on my way out—one for me and one ostensibly for Savannah.
Who the hell was I kidding? I wolfed them both down before I left the building.
WALKING OUT toward my rented Escalade, I caught a glint of sunlight coming from a pearl white Lexus idling at the far end of the parking lot. The car’s occupants, two young Asian men, were snapping photographs of Castle Robotics’ headquarters.
They noticed me noticing them, put down their cameras, and slowly motored on.
I told myself they were probably tourists.
Eight
I was driving back toward the freeway when I decided to try federal prosecutor Stephen Tassio one more time. Maybe he’d reconsider speaking out in Greg Castle’s defense if he knew that Castle had voluntarily taken a paternity test before Ruth Walker was murdered. I called his office intending to leave a message on his machine.
“This is Stephen Tassio.”
I waited for the I’m-unavailable-right-now-so-please-leave-your-name-and-number-and-I’ll-get-back-to-you-as-soon-as-I-can part of his message, but there was only silence on the other end of the line.
“Hello?” Tassio said.
“The real Steve Tassio? Not the voice of Steve Tassio?”
“Who’s this?”
“Cordell Logan.”
“I already told you, Mr. Logan, I have nothing to say to you.”
“I’m aware of that. But I came across something I thought you’d want to know.”
I told him about Castle’s paternity test. There was a long pause.
“Who told you Castle took a paternity test?” Tassio said.
“He did.”
Another long pause, which gave me pause.
“Well,” Tassio said, clearing his throat, “whether Mr. Castle did or didn’t take such a test is irrelevant to the case. Dorian Munz paid the price for his crime. Justice was served. That’s all I’m prepared to say. Good luck to you, Mr. Logan.”
He hung up.
Clearly, the prosecutor had been caught off guard by my mention of Castle’s paternity test. Why had he reacted the way he did? I wanted to ask him if his office had ever considered Castle a suspect in Ruth Walker’s death. Was Castle really the model citizen that Hub Walker made him out to be? Why had Castle balked at the prospect of an independent audit?
Inquiring minds wanted to know.
I’d done what Walker had hired me to do—uncovered information that could help clear Greg Castle. The paternity test confirmed that Dorian Munz had been lying when he claimed Castle had fathered Ruth Walker’s child. All Hub Walker had to do was persuade Castle to go public with the results of the test. I’d draw the remainder of the $10,000 Walker still owed me, and spend a few days hanging out in San Diego, getting reacquainted with Savannah—maybe I’d even take her to Sea-World. Then I’d return to Rancho Bonita and my exciting life as a flight instructor, almost earning a living. I was fully intending to do just that, when Detective Alicia Rosario called.
“Guilty as charged,” I said.
“Excuse me?”
“You caught me in the act, Detective. I’m currently under the influence of a highly addictive controlled substance.”
“What substance would that be?”
“Processed sugar.”
“Processed sugar is not considered a controlled substance under California law, Mr. Logan.”
“Well, it definitely should be.”
Rosario was in no mood.
“I thought you’d want to know,” she said. “Janet Bollinger expired last night.”
The lump in my throat came unexpectedly. I may not have known Jan Bollinger, but I felt her loss. Perhaps it was the way she looked at me when I entered her bedroom, searching my eyes for a glimmer of hope, when we both knew there was none. I pulled to the curb.
“She managed to regain consciousness for a few minutes before she passed,” Rosario said.
“Did she say anything?”
“She kept mumbling the word, ‘Money.’ Over and over. ‘Money, money.’ That’s what the nursing supervisor thought it sounded like, anyway. ‘Money,’ or maybe ‘honey.’ Something like that. The nurse couldn’t really make it out, what with the tube in Ms. Bollinger’s mouth.”
Money. Honey. Funny. Sunny. Runny . . .
“Maybe she meant Bunny.”
“. . . Bunny?”
“He’s a PI. Works for Charles Dowd, the attorney who represented Dorian Munz. Bunny’s his nickname.”
“Who’s Dorian Munz again?”
“The guy who went out with Janet Bollinger after Ruth Walker dumped him.”
“Dorian Munz, who got executed for murdering Ruth.”
“One and the same.”
I told Rosario about my run-in outside the federal courthouse with the Human Doberman, he of the squished scrotum, and his threat that I get out of Dodge or else.
“The dude’s a stone-cold thug,” I said. “Except for his ears. He looks like a jack rabbit.”
“Which explains the ‘Bunny’ part,” Rosario said.
“What keen powers of deduction. You must be a detective.”
“I’ll check him out.”
I asked her if her department had tracked down the tattooed gangbanger I’d exchanged pleasantries with outside Janet Bollinger’s apartment. Not yet, Rosario said. She promised to let me know when they did.
“The woman had lost a lot of blood by the time I got in there,”
I said.
“Nobody’s blaming you, Mr. Logan. There wasn’t much you or anyone else could’ve done.”
Her sentiments were appreciated. But they didn’t make me feel better.
HUB WALKER seemed genuinely surprised when I told him about the paternity test Greg Castle had voluntarily taken to disprove he was the father of Walker’s granddaughter, Ryder.
“Greg never told me he took any test,” Walker said. “Neither did Ruth.”
“Paternity tests aren’t exactly something you post on Facebook, Hub.”
We were sitting in Walker’s home office, looking out onto the backyard. His wife and my ex were lounging poolside in bikinis, sipping umbrella drinks and giggling about something, their legs swishing playfully in the turquoise water while Ryder swam at the shallow end. Granted, I may be biased, but Crissy Walker, former Playmate of the Year, had nothing in the looks department when it came to the former Mrs. Cordell Logan.
“That test could go a long way knocking down Dorian Munz’s lies, that’s for sure,” Walker said.
“Castle hasn’t decided whether he wants to release the results.”
“He will when he understands how important it is.”
I glanced around. Had I racked up a combat record like his, my walls and shelves might’ve been crammed with shadow boxes touting all of my many citations and medals, but there were none on display in Walker’s office. The decor included two framed photos of his granddaughter and a framed cartoon rendition of a bulldog wearing a red sweater—the mascot of the University of Georgia. Only the wooden model sitting on his desk of an O-2 Skymaster like the kind he flew in Vietnam conveyed any hint of his wartime deeds.
