by Gina Cresse
I punched Bo Rawlings’ number and waited for an answer.
“Hello? Mr. Rawlings?” I asked.
“Yes,” he answered.
“Hi. My name is Devonie Lace. Mathews. Lace-Mathews. Your attorney gave you a message to call me.”
“Right. I called last night. What can I do for you?” he asked.
I sat down at the desk and removed a pad of paper and a pen from the drawer. “I’m interested in the patent you filed back in nineteen eighty-nine. For the engine?”
“Oh, that. I’m sorry. I sold that patent a long time ago. You’re about ten years too late,” he said.
I noted down the ten-year reference. “I wasn’t really interested in buying the patent. I’m more interested in who bought it from you.”
There was a brief silence. “Can I ask why you want to know?” he said.
I bit my lip and searched my imagination to find the perfect excuse for wanting to know. Would it hurt to tell him the truth? That I suspect the rich and powerful oil companies are killing inventors who threaten their business? “I have a friend with a patent for an engine. She’s a little strapped for money and is interested in selling it. I found out you sold yours, and wondered if you had any suggestions who she might contact.”
“Really? What sort of engine?” he asked, his interest piqued.
“I believe she calls it a heat-exchange engine. Entropy?” I said.
He laughed. “Heat exchange? She won’t find anyone interested in buying that. You couldn’t power a trolling boat motor with the horsepower you’d get out of it.”
I tapped the end of the pen on the tablet of paper, wondering how I should proceed. “Hmm. That’s not what she told me. Are you sure about this?”
He chuckled again. “Sure as the sun rises in the east. Tell you what. Movell Oil bought my patent. I doubt they’d be interested in your friend’s idea, but there are others who might. A few people had contacted me back before I sold the patent. One guy was pretty persistent. Really interested in any new technology. I have his number here, somewhere,” he said. I could hear him fumbling with papers. “Here it is. Jack Pearle. You got a pen?”
My ears perked up. “Jack Pearle, you said?”
“That’s right. You know him?”
“No. But you have his number?” I asked.
“Yeah. Address too. It’s ten years old. Don’t know if he’s still in business, but you can give it a try.”
I wrote down the number and address. He chatted for a while longer, filling me in on the details of the sale of his own patent. Movell Oil paid him a small fortune for his patent—enough to set up a nice little cattle ranch on one of the Hawaiian Islands. He and his family were living a fantasy island dream—perpetual green pastures, beautiful horses, fat cows, and no worries.
I asked him if the oil company had ever done anything with his engine idea. “Now, why would they?” he said, laughing, as if it were a stupid question.
“Right. Well, thanks again,” I said.
There was no answer at the number Rawlings gave me for Jack Pearle. At least there was no recording that it had been disconnected. I thought I’d give it another try in thirty minutes.
I took the puppy out back to play. By the time we finished five rounds of tug-of-war and another eight games of fetch, he was ready for a nap.
When I tried Jack Pearle’s number again, there still was no answer. I powered up my PC and entered the address Bo Rawlings gave me into a mapping program. I printed out the directions, powered everything down, collected the puppy and headed for the door. I set the alarm.
I started for Uncle Doug’s house when I remembered that Aunt Arlene had left to go shopping. She hadn’t returned yet.
“Wanna go for a ride?” I said to the puppy, trying to raise some excitement. He hadn’t learned what that sentence meant yet. I unlocked my Explorer and loaded him into the back seat. He plopped down on the seat and promptly closed his eyes.
The address for Jack Pearle’s business was in a small industrial park in Los Angeles. I made a slow drive-by past the place to check it out. It looked legit, though there were no signs indicating that Pearle Manufacturing had anything to do with the place. In fact, there were no signs at all, just the unit number stenciled on the door.
I parked in an open spot in front of another unit across from Pearle’s. “You stay here. I’ll be right back,” I said over my shoulder to the puppy, who was still resting comfortably in the back seat. He lifted his head and slapped his tail twice on the cushion, then laid it back down and closed his eyes.
I tried the door, but it was locked. I knocked, but couldn’t raise anyone. I peered through the window next to the door to see inside. It was dark, but I could make out plenty of machinery. It looked like a genuine machine shop. I didn’t see any sign of life inside. I checked my watch. All the other businesses in the complex were busy attending to their enterprises. Where was Jack Pearle? I thought I’d try asking one of his neighbors when a hand on my shoulder startled me almost out of my skin.
“Something I can do for you?” the gruff voice said as I spun around.
“Jeez. You scared me,” I gasped, clutching my hand to my chest.
“Snooping women scare me. Guess we’re even,” he replied.
I took a step back. “I wasn’t snooping. I’m looking for Jack Pearle. You know him?” I asked.
“Who wants to know?”
“My name’s Devonie. You know him?” I repeated.
“I’m Jack. What is it you want?”
Jack Pearle stood about six feet tall. His thick white hair was combed back from his face and cut short. His hair looked even whiter against his dark tanned face. He looked as though he spent most of his time outdoors. His bushy eyebrows shaded his pale blue eyes from the bright morning sun. His features were striking. I estimated his age to be somewhere in his sixties. Even at his age, he was a handsome man, and I was sure that in his younger days, he attracted a fair number of women.
“I understand you buy engine patents?” I said.
He studied me. “Maybe. You have one to sell?”
I shook my head. “You contacted Ronnie Oakhurst a while back. Remember?”
He scratched his chin. “Yeah. Liked the look of her idea. Wouldn’t sell, though.” He pulled a set of keys from his pocket. “Come on inside. I’m late opening up.”
I glanced around at the other businesses buzzing away. I felt safe out in the open with people wandering around. Witnesses. “I’d rather stay outside, if you don’t mind.”
He gave me a curious look. I pointed toward my Ford. “I’ve left my dog in the car. I want to keep an eye on him,” I said.
He nodded, seeming to understand. “Do you know Ronnie Oakhurst?” he asked.
“Yes. But I’ll get to the point. Hers isn’t the only patent you’ve tried to buy. How many patents do you own?”
Jack Pearle frowned. “I don’t own any. Can’t get anyone to partner with me, and I ain’t got the capital to compete with the big guns.”
Big guns. Interesting choice of words. “You’ve been trying for a long time. None of the patent holders has agreed to partner with you?”
“Oh, a lot of them get excited and say they’ll do it. But then they get an offer they can’t refuse, and it’s goodbye Jack.”
I nodded. “I tried to find you’re phone number in the yellow pages, but you’re not listed. And there’s no sign,” I said.
“I’m semi-retired. Pearle Manufacturing is on its way out. Mostly just a hobby now. I do a little work for the neighbors. Pays the rent and lights, but that’s about it.”
We spent the next thirty minutes talking about the potential for an engine that could produce as much horsepower as an internal combustion engine without the fossil fuel restrictions. The cost savings. The benefits to the environment. The independence awarded to the public. I got the impression that Jack Pearle would like to be a part of that revolution. That was the reason he’d spent so many years trying to partner w
ith the right person—someone like Ronnie.
“You know what? I hope the price of gasoline goes to five bucks a gallon,” Jack said, apparently trying to shock me.
“Five bucks? Why on earth would you want that?” I replied.
“’Cause I want to know just how much the people of this country will take. There has to be some point when they get fed up and do something. Remember the Boston Tea Party? Where’s that spirit now? We’ve turned into a bunch of pathetic pushovers.”
Jack’s eyes flashed and his passion rose like an evangelist preaching to the sinners of the world to change their ways or face the inevitable. “I bet five bucks won’t even do it. They’ll all just whine louder as they fill their tanks and take out loans to pay their electric bills.”
I listened to his sermon without saying a word, but I wanted to raise my hands and holler, “Amen!” on several occasions.
“You know,” he continued, “everyone says the government ought to step in and fix it. Well that’s just a bunch of hogwash. What is it with this country? We pay our taxes then we wash our hands of it, as if the politicians in Washington have all the answers. We pay people to do the stuff we don’t want to deal with, then we’re stuck with the results. Heck, my son-in-law doesn’t even know his car has sparkplugs, let alone how to change them. You believe that? We pay people to raise our kids, fix our food, clean our houses—then we moan and groan because our kids turn out to be criminals, our diets make us fat, and our housekeepers rob us blind. But what do we do about it? We hire consultants to analyze. We spend more money to have someone else solve the problem. Only problem is, the problem never gets solved. It just changes to a new problem.”
He calmed down and his voice relaxed. “What this country needs is an attitude adjustment. That’s what I say. Fed up? Don’t get mad. Get independent.”
I nodded in agreement, but the magnitude of the obstacle keeping the people from independence seemed overwhelming. My thought was that Jack was right. Five dollars, six dollars, even ten dollars a gallon might not be enough to spur the people to overcome the powers that be.
I turned my eyes toward my Ford at the sound of a bark. A pair of brown eyes and a big black nose pressed against the window tried hard to get my attention. I motioned toward the Ford. “There’s my signal to head home. Thanks for your time, Mr. Pearle,” I said, heading off toward the Explorer.
“Wait a minute,” he called after me. “What’s this all about?”
I opened my door. “Nothing yet. Can I call you if I have more questions?” I called back to him.
He nodded, confused, and then watched me drive away.
I spent the rest of the day hanging around the house, keeping the puppy company. I spent an hour trying different names on him. Zeus. Zeek. Moose. Rex, as in Tyrannosaurus. Nothing seemed to stick. I checked the clock. It was almost time to meet Craig.
I carried the puppy back to Aunt Arlene’s and asked if she’d mind giving me a ride to the marina.
Craig was already there, waiting for me at Mr. Cartwright’s slip. I untied the lines and jumped aboard as he started the engine. We puttered along slowly through the rows of boats. I told him about my day, and my conversation with Jack Pearle.
“You went to see him alone?” he asked.
“Yes. It was fine, honey. He’s harmless.”
“But you didn’t know that. I wish you’d wait for me before you go confronting these guys.”
I slid closer to him and inspected his head. “Uh oh. There’s another gray hair.”
He grinned at me. We were out of the marina’s slow speed zone. He pushed the throttle forward and I nearly lost my balance. I was forced to grab hold of his waist to keep from falling.
Craig eased back on the throttle. I retrieved a pair of binoculars. We both scanned the horizon. The smiles left our faces. “It’s not in sight,” I said, handing him the field glasses. The Plan C was gone.
Chapter Eleven
The Sea Ray skimmed the surface of the water as we sped back to the marina. A million thoughts raced through my mind. Had someone found Ronnie hiding on the Plan C and taken her? Had they finished the job they tried to do earlier—the one that landed Ronnie in the hospital? Could Ronnie and Jake and the Plan C be sitting on the bottom of the ocean? I didn’t want to imagine the worst, but I couldn’t keep those thoughts from flashing through my mind.
Craig eased back on the throttle as we approached the marina. We made our way slowly through the rows of boats. We decided to return to the marina to ask around if anyone had seen the Plan C during the day. We’d barely passed the first row of larger vessels when I spotted her.
“Look! There she is,” I said, pointing toward the end of the third row of boats. The Plan C was nestled between two larger boats. I wouldn’t have even noticed her, except an angry sailor was trying to dock his boat, and apparently, the Plan C was in his slip.
“I’ll move her,” I called to the irate sailor. “My friends mistook this slip for mine. Sorry.”
He forced a smile and waited while I fired up the engine and slowly moved the large sailboat out of his space.
I motored to a vacant spot on the dock and cut the engine. Craig met me there. I threw him a line and he tied her up to the dock.
“Anyone on board?” he asked as he hurried over the rail.
“Not that I can tell. I haven’t searched her. I just called out, but got no answers.”
We exchanged worried glances as Craig reached for the hatch door. I bit my lip as I followed him down the steps to the main salon.
“Ronnie? Jake?” I called.
No answer. Everything looked normal. There was no sign of a struggle. Nothing overturned. Nothing broken. Craig checked all the cabins. There was no one on board.
I made my way through the galley and spotted the note stuck to the refrigerator. Ronnie had scribbled it in a hurry by the looks of it. It read:
Rick from Caper and Lawless called. They found Lance, but there’s a problem. I have to get there right away. Ronnie.
I pulled the note from under the magnet and headed for the main salon to show it to Craig.
“They’ve gone to Mexico,” I said, handing him the note.
“What? Why?” he asked. He read the note, then handed it back to me.
“They probably caught a flight to Cabo. That’s where Caper and Lawless were headed. I wonder what sort of problem it is they’ve run into?” I said.
Craig picked his cell phone up from the coffee table. “If they’d kept this with them, we could have called to see where they are.”
I frowned. Craig was right. We couldn’t know for sure they were in Cabo. They could be anywhere. We had no way of knowing unless they contacted us.
“Well, the good news is that they’re okay. I was worried someone may have taken them.”
“I know. Me too,” Craig said, reading my mind.
The short days of January meant it was dark by the time we were ready to set off for home. Craig led the way in the Sea Ray and I followed.
By the time we tied up to our dock, retrieved the puppy from Uncle Doug and finally settled into our house, I was exhausted.
“I guess all we can do now is wait,” I said as I searched the refrigerator for something quick and easy to fix for a late dinner.
Craig eased up behind me and peered into the illuminated box. “How about leftover spaghetti?”
“Sounds great. I’ll heat it up. You want a salad?” I asked.
“Sure. I’ll set the table.”
At two in the morning, the ringing phone startled me out of a deep sleep. Craig reached over to the nightstand to pick it up. Most calls at this hour were from the hospital for some sort of emergency.
“This is Doctor Mathews,” I heard him mumble into the phone.
I closed my eyes and attempted to drift back to sleep.
“Ronnie? Is that you?” he said, more alert this time.
I rolled over and turned on the lamp.
“Where are you?�
�� he asked.
I listened with anticipation as he tried to get information.
“Wait a minute. Slow down. Say that again,” he said, fumbling around the nightstand for a notepad and pen. He couldn’t find one. He looked at me and mimicked writing in the air. I understood his sign language, then jumped out of bed and grabbed a tablet and pen from the desk and handed it to him.
“Okay. Okay. Now, tell me how to get there from the airport,” Craig said, scribbling something illegible on the paper I’d given him. He’s joined the ranks of the top doctors with the worst penmanship in the world. Only he and a few well-trained pharmacists can actually decipher what he writes.
I watched his face as he listened to Ronnie’s instructions. His chin dropped and he gave me a look as if he’d just learned a massive meteor was headed for Earth.
“Repeat that,” he said. “How much?”
I scooted around to see what he wrote.
“How many zeros are we talking about?” Two? Three? Three zeros? Okay. I think we can—”
His eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. “Each? How many are there? Ten?”
I watched him jot ten thousand on the paper, and then in bold letters, he printed “CASH.” I searched his face for a clue.
He glanced at the clock on the nightstand next to the bed. “I don’t know. We’ll get there as soon as we can. It may take some time to come up with the money. I don’t suppose I can call you there. No, I didn’t think so. Hang tight. The cavalry is on the way,” he said, and then hung up the phone.
“What? What?” I said, anxious to find out what that was all about.
Craig looked over the words he’d written. “They’re all fine.”
I waited for the rest. “But?”
“They’re all in jail in Cabo.”
“Jail? What for?”
“She didn’t say. But one of the policemen said they could expedite their release for a thousand dollars—each,” he explained.
