Targeting the Telomeres, A Thriller

by R. N. Shapiro

“How many brothers do you have?”

  "Only Ron. What do I have to do to get him back?”

  “Your brother died in the crash.”

  "So you’re not here about Ron? Then what do you want from me?”

  “I ask the questions. What’s your supposedly dead brother doing if he’s still alive?”

  “Research for the government.”

  “What kind of research?”

  “Uh, I just know it has to do with telomeres.”

  “What about them?”

  “I don’t understand it since I’m not a biologist, something about extending cell life, longer lifespans.”

  “China wanted this research bad enough to sabotage a jet?”

  “They thought Ron was gonna sell the technology to the Russians, at least that’s what I was told. But it was all a setup by the U.S.”

  “You better not be lying to me.”

  “Why would I tell you Ron’s alive if he was dead? That would be stupid. He vanished yesterday from the research lab, so I assumed you were here to demand ransom money or something.”

  Andy refuses to believe there's no connection between the gunman and Ron’s disappearance, and is now wondering if Ron is still alive or not.

  “You have the jet maintenance files from the crash lawsuits, right?” the masked man asks. “The files showing all the electrical work for the week before the crash?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got a box or so.”

  “What did the evidence show?”

  “That the electrical system likely failed. But personal injury lawyers typically are looking for preventable defects, we don’t try to prove criminal sabotage.”

  “Put those files by the side door of your house when you come home tomorrow. Don’t say a word about this visit, especially to your FBI friends. Believe me, I’ll found out if you do. Sit here and look straight ahead for five minutes before you get out. You’ll be hearing from me again.”

  Andy hears the rear door open and softly close. He notices both of his hands shaking uncontrollably, and tries to steady them on the steering wheel.

  Nothing makes sense anymore. What do they want, and why?

  Dashing through the unfenced yard behind Andy’s home, into the front yard of the home on the adjacent street, then turning and racing along the sidewalk past several homes, Ryan locates the bike he stashed in the hedge where Rock Creek Park borders the Georgetown neighborhood. He stashes the ski mask in the black cinch sack before cycling away.

  Chapter 57

  Bad Blood

  Angie can’t take it anymore. This polite awkwardness between her and Andy is worse than being outed as a mistress. Worse than being fired. He knows about her and Franklin, but she’s not sure how he found out. She confirms with Myra that he’s alone in his office and walks in unannounced.

  “Andy.”

  He slowly turns away from the monitor on his credenza to face her. He has played this moment in his head a dozen times and prepared as many different dialogues, but is caught off-guard by her initiating the inevitable confrontation.

  “Andy,” she says again.

  He meets her gaze, but nothing comes out.

  Guess it’s up to me, she decides. “I can’t imagine…no, I don’t want to imagine what you must think of me.”

  “I don’t understand. Why him?”

  “This is going to sound stupid, but I always do what’s right—putting myself through school, working for the good guys, eating healthy, paying my bills on time. I needed to do something wrong. Having an affair with a married man who was also my boss’s enemy, it doesn’t get much worse than that.”

  “And?”

  “Something made it exciting. I liked having control over Paul, even if it was only in bed. And for a while I believed I could wring some good out of him, but that ended when he asked me to plant a bug in your office and I found out I wasn’t the only one he was cheating with.”

  “Um, back up. He asked you to bug my office?”

  “I didn’t do it.”

  “But you never told me either. I feel like I don’t know anything about you anymore. Did you give him information to use against me in the RICO suit?”

  “Of course not! I never did or said anything that would put you or the firm in jeopardy. Our relationship and my work were completely separate. That was my main rule.”

  “I’m not sure I believe you. Why didn’t you tell me about you guys?”

  Angie finds herself going on the defensive. “Because I knew you’d lose it, like you are right now!”

  “You don’t think I have a right to be pissed about this? I trusted you, took a chance on you, even hired your friend Myra, against my better judgment. I expect this kind of behavior from her, not from you. God knows I’m not perfect in the relationship department, and who you shack up with after-hours would normally be none of my business. But I worked hard to build a solid reputation in this town and your choice of sex paramour could have destroyed everything.”

  Andy catches his breath, then continues, “I’ve been tiptoeing around my own office for days, trying to figure out how to make this situation work, how to trust you again, but now, I’m not sure—”

  “Tell you what, I’ll save you the trouble. I quit.”

  “Wait a second!” he calls out, but she is already gone.

  Angie storms back to her office, grabs a couple personal items and her purse, and walks out.

  A few moments pass before Myra appears in his doorway. “Uh, Angie just left and said she’s done here. What’s that mean?”

  “It means…she may not be working here anymore. Tell anyone asking for her she’s out of the office for now.”

  Chapter 58

  Chinese worm

  As an analyst for Ron Michaels, Fletcher processes blood samples and reports his findings to other members of the Dirty Dozen team at Sherwood. He also recently picked up a lucrative side job with definite fringe benefits.

  He met Monica at a bar not far from the research lab a few months ago. Walston, his wing man, had gone home early, leaving Fletcher with no one to consult when the gorgeous woman made her subtle approach, and he asked if he could buy her a drink. He was so taken with her he never questioned why a woman like her would cozy up to a relatively nerdy lab rat like him.

  The amazing sex that ensued in her room at the Constable Inn that night convinced him he did the right thing by not looking a gift horse in the mouth. They exchanged numbers before he reluctantly left in the early morning hours and they continued to meet at the motel once a week.

  About four weeks into their arrangement, Monica asks him if he’d like to make some extra money. Intrigued by the thought of getting cash in addition to sex, he asks for more details.

  “You know those vials of blood you process for your boss?”

  Fletcher knows exactly which ones she’s talking about. Although there is no name or patient ID on the vials, he determined a while back the blood belongs to Ron’s daughter, Amanda. The fact Monica knows anything about what he does puzzles him, but not enough to nix further discussions.

  “What about them?”

  “The company I work for is really intrigued by Amanda Michaels and how she survived the plane crash, and I know the blood in those vials is hers. They’ll give me a promotion for a tiny sample of her blood, and they’ll pay whoever gave it to me. If you get me a sample, you’ll be $10,000 richer and I’ll be a very happy woman. You know what that means…”

  As her words trail off, Monica runs her hand down Fletcher’s chest toward the zipper of his jeans, and any chance of him saying no disappears. By just supplying the blood and not the test results, I’m not selling any state secrets, Fletcher rationalizes. And after not having sex for over a year, he doesn’t want to lose her.

  “Okay, I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Oh, thank you, Fletch! You won’t regret it.”

  Now every week, when the unmarked tubes of blood arrive, Fletcher skims the tiniest bit of blood off the top and put
s it in a separate vial for Monica. After he delivers it to her, she pays him $10,000, and they spend the rest of the night in bed. When his body isn’t entwined with hers, he occasionally wonders about this arrangement and toys with the idea of telling Walston. But when he’s with her, he can’t bring himself to end it.

  Chapter 59

  Homicide

  Less than 24 hours after Franklin's death, a homicide detective calls Stephanie DeFalzo and asks if he could interview her about one of her clients, Melanie Franklin. That morning, Ryan is making one of his appearances at the shop—getting a mediocre cup of coffee from the ancient pot in the neglected break room and talking to Mike Robinson, another PI with a pocket protector full of pens and a comb-over meant to disguise his still-obvious hair loss—when Stephanie casually asks for their advice.

  "Guys, a detective wants to talk to me about Paul Franklin. Do you think I need a lawyer? Who was the one the agency recommended for Miller when he needed one?”

  The men regard each other for a second before Robinson answers. "You only need one if you've got a problem. There’s no problem, is there?"

  "No, all my contact with Mrs. Franklin was confidential, and there's no court order."

  "Then you can talk to him, but remind him your conversations with the wife are off limits. Do you think she was involved?" Ryan asks.

  "No. Considering what the bastard was doing, I wouldn’t blame her for wanting him dead, but I don't think she had anything to do with it."

  "Sounds like you have nothing to worry about then. Give him a bunch of general stuff and he’ll move on."

  The detective arrives at the Franklin home. With its stamped-concrete semi-circle drive and tiered fountain in the immaculately manicured front yard, the mid-century modern reeks of new money and a desperate desire to keep up with the Joneses. He walks up to the furniture-less porch and pushes the doorbell, setting off a series of canned chimes, and a teenage boy who appears to be about 17 comes to the door.

  "Hi, is Melanie Franklin home?"

  He's holding his badge despite no request to present it, and his car in the driveway isn’t marked, but anyone who has watched a cop show on TV would realize it’s a government-issued sedan. A few moments later Melanie Franklin appears at the door and tells her son to go do his homework. Her freshly manicured nails and well-pressed linen suit hardly fit the image of a grieving spouse.

  "Mrs. Franklin, I'm Detective Upshaw from the D.C. homicide branch. Could I ask you a few questions relating to your husband's death?"

  Melanie nods and steps aside. Once inside, Upshaw admires the expansive marble foyer and fine paintings and fanciful glass pieces on display. Before she can lead him to the white leather couch in the formal living room, he asks a seemingly harmless question: “Can I take a look in your bedroom as part of my investigation?”

  “Detective, my husband may have been the attorney, but I still know you can’t search our home or belongings without a warrant.”

  Upshaw pulls a single sheet of paper folded in thirds from his pocket and hands it over. Melanie steps aside to let him pass.

  Twenty minutes later, the detective returns to the first floor and Melanie gestures to the kitchen table where two glasses of water are waiting. They each take a seat on opposite sides of the table.

  "How would you describe your relationship with your husband in the last few months before he died?"

  Melanie meets his gaze without blinking. "We had a solid marriage for many years, but it became a little strained recently." She doesn't volunteer any information about Paul’s affairs.

  “Tell me about Angie Tipton.”

  “You obviously did your homework.” She takes a few sips of water from a glass before setting it back down on the round, sand-colored porcelain coaster in front of her.

  "How long had you known about her and your husband, Mrs. Franklin?"

  He notices her eyes following a lone fly buzzing around to his left. He can tell she wants to kill it because it is so out of place in her immaculate home, but she reluctantly returns her focus to him, the much larger pest sitting at her kitchen table.

  "Not that long, less than two weeks. I was given an anonymous envelope of photos at the gym."

  Upshaw weighs her demeanor and concludes she must be seething, must want to tell him more. But she’s still not talking.

  "So you went to a private investigator?”

  "Of course. Why else do spouses hire them? I wanted to know what he was doing, and who he was doing it with."

  “What did you find out?"

  "That he was involved with more than one. Surprise, surprise."

  "So your husband was cheating on you with multiple women? Some people would say that might make you a very angry spouse."

  "Look, if you're implying I could have killed him, well, you're wrong. So if you’re looking for someone with a real motive, it’s Angie. Plus, I agreed to talk to you without an attorney. Would a lawyer’s wife agree to do that if she had anything to hide?"

  The Detective doesn’t answer. "Do you mind if I look around your home one more time?" he asks, seeing if she's going to cut him short.

  "Help yourself."

  His instincts tell him she's not the killer, but he’s not sure Angie Tipton is either. And why would Melanie’s earring be in Franklin’s office on the night he died if she wasn’t involved?

  Chapter 60

  Farmer Vance

  The four black cars speed down the one-lane dirt road leading off State Route 18, kicking up swirls of dust along the eighth-mile stretch. They drive under the branches of blooming crepe myrtles lining the road and pass several head of cattle before reaching the farmhouse. It sits on 130 acres, not a huge farm in rural Loudoun County, but certainly a respectable size for a family-run operation. Three of the plain-clothes agents trot into position, two on either side of the door, one in front. The door opens and a woman with close-cropped hair and an apron printed with red and green apples appears. She looks at the men, bewildered.

  One of the agents flashes his badge at her.

  "Mrs. Vance, I’m with the FBI. We're here to talk to your husband. Is he inside?"

  "Why? What's this about?"

  "Mrs. Vance, please tell us if your husband inside. We don't want anyone to panic or get hurt."

  "He's here, but he's out at the pond, picking raspberries. Larry and John are out that way too. We pay them to come help us with our cattle. He’s supposed to be bringing the berries back so I can make a pie."

  "Where is the pond, Mrs. Vance?"

  "That way,” she says, waving her hand in a general direction. “Follow the road ‘round that way and you'll find it."

  "Men, back in the vehicles."

  Four FBI agents form a ring around Dr. Vance under a live oak tree draped with Spanish moss. The men instinctively position themselves under the shade of the tree’s canopy to avoid the sun beaming down from overhead.

  "Dr. Vance, we understand you were close with Ron Michaels."

  "Ron was a good student, but that's not why you gentlemen came all the way out here I suspect. Ron is dead. It was a goddam tragedy what happened to him and his family."

  "Let’s cut to the chase. You provided a laundry list of equipment to someone, and we think it was for Mr. Michaels."

  "Are you saying Ron rose from the dead?"

  The agent kicks around a few pebbles on the gravel drive. "I’m saying I want to know who requested the equipment and who received it."

  "Me too, but I don't. I was asked to obtain legal, off-the-shelf laboratory equipment, put it in a box, and leave it in my office."

  "Who picked it up Dr. Vance?" the agent demands again, scowling.

  "I just told you, I have no idea."

  The agent takes out his card and hands it to the professor.

  "Dr. Vance, you want to help your government any way you can, particularly against the threat of some kind of biological terrorism, don’t you?"

  Vance looks down at the card. "Of cours
e. If I find out anything I'll give you a call."

  As the black sedans stream down the road, Vance kneels down, picks up the bucket filled with raspberries, and begins walking back toward the house.

  Those guys are the last people who would get any information about Ron Michaels out of me.

  Chapter 61

  Pale Moon

  The man sits in a rickety rocking chair in front of the Pale Moon tattoo shop, enjoying a smoke. He hears the unmistakable rumble of a Harley slowly making its way down the Middleburg back street and swears he can feel the vibration inside his body even though the bike is still several hundred feet away.

  The man on the Harley steers into an open parking space in front of the store down the block. After strapping his helmet to the bike, the rider strides into the smoke shop next door and emerges a few minutes later.

  In a hoarse southern drawl the smoker says, "That's a fine hog you got there. Like them stars and stripes on the gas tank, solid custom work. What year is it?"

  "It’s a rebuilt ‘03 Road King," the biker replies in an accent the smoker can’t exactly pinpoint.

  "Never seen you round here before, what brings you to Middleburg?"

  The biker ponders whether to give out any information about his visit to Crossroads Farm, then decides a lot of people must go there to visit relatives who are being rehabilitated. Answering won't blow his cover.

  "Going over to the rehab place at Crossroads Farm to see my nephew. He's got a brain injury and he’s being treated there."

  "You mean cold bitch farm, don’t ya?" the smoker sarcastically responds.

  This catches the biker's attention.

  "Why do you call it that?"

  "Because I knew Kent Perless and Kyle, his daddy. Kent was a fine young man, was friends with Erika, my youngest. All the bad stuff started happening once that girl done came into his life. Next thing I know, Kyle doesn't own the farm anymore, she does, and his boy is dead. That's why I call it that. I know she was the only survivor of that famous crash, but that don’t mean nuthin’ to me.