Saving Cascadia

by John J. Nance

  She’d excused herself and left before he could even mouth the words, “I don’t really know.”

  And how would he answer the same question now? he wondered.

  Mick smiled. The answer was still complex, but at least he had one, and it was mostly yes.

  Mostly.

  An electronic tone broke into his thoughts, followed by his secretary’s voice.

  “Mick? Sorry to interrupt. There’s a gentleman from the San Francisco Police Department here to see you on an urgent matter.”

  Mick turned with a frown and moved back to the desk, intent on challenging the intrusion, but one of the walnut double doors to his office was already opening to admit a dark-haired man in his late thirties. His secretary was holding the door and looking worried.

  “This is Detective Craig Bailey,” she said, adding a mouthed, “Sorry,” before retreating. Bailey held out his hand and Mick took it as he quietly assessed the detective’s cheap business suit and regrettable choice of striped tie.

  “What can I do for you, Detective Bailey?” he said somewhat grandly, motioning to a sitting area across the office from his desk. Bailey looked uncomfortable, which was a satisfying response.

  “I’m sorry to… to…”

  “Interrupt? So late in the day?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “Perfectly all right. I am on my way to the airport, but I can spare a few minutes. Please, sit down.”

  Bailey allowed himself to be motioned onto the couch as Mick settled into one of the custom-made mahogany wing chairs.

  “Mr. Walker, we’re looking for a young woman who works for Chadwick and Noble. A Mr. Robert Nelms over there suggested you might have been in touch with her lately.”

  “To whom are you referring?”

  “A Miss Diane Lacombe.”

  “Diane Lacombe?” Mick felt himself involuntarily sit forward as he searched the police detective’s face, his reply even and unruffled. The mention of her name brought a sparkle of apprehension he carefully suppressed. He knew the detective was watching for his reaction with a practiced eye. “She’s an engineer over there, but tell me, why are you looking for her? Is this a criminal matter of some sort?”

  “There is potential criminal conduct involved, but she would be the victim. We’re concerned that she may have been kidnapped,” Bailey said, “from her place in the Mission District. Given the wrecked state of her apartment, we also think the perpetrator was searching for something either personal or professional, and if it’s professional, I thought you might be able to help us figure out what it was, and who might have wanted it.”

  “Diane Lacombe kidnapped? Good Lord. But I don’t understand why Robert would think I might have any information. She hasn’t worked on any of my projects for many months.”

  “I think he felt you might have had an ongoing… friendship with her.”

  “The word you’re stumbling for is relationship, right?”

  “Perhaps. Your call.”

  “I don’t particularly appreciate the innuendo,” Mick said, wondering just what the detective thought he knew about their friendship. The subject was unsettling.

  “Relationship was your word, Mr. Walker, but no offense intended,” Bailey said. “I’m just trying to gather facts.”

  “Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you. I have no knowledge of her activities.”

  “But, you do know her? You have had some sort of relationship, friendship, acquaintanceship with her in the past then, haven’t you?”

  “As I said, she’s been assigned to some of my firm’s projects, and certainly I’ve had some professional interaction. Is that all you’ve got, by the way? A torn-up apartment?”

  “It’s enough to worry us officially. I, of course, can’t discuss everything we’ve found.”

  “Of course.”

  “So… did you know Miss Lacombe socially, or personally… anything other than professionally.”

  Mick thought for a few seconds as he stared the detective in the eye.

  “Well, if you must know, yes. We have had a relationship, and we still do. But not what you’re thinking. Fact is, I’ve known Diane since she was toddling around in diapers, and I’m practically her uncle, since her dad’s been a close friend of mine for decades. But I don’t keep in touch with her, and I haven’t even talked to her in many months.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m deeply distressed that you think she’s missing, or the victim of foul play.”

  “I actually didn’t say she was the victim of foul play…”

  “What else would you call kidnapping?”

  Bailey shrugged. “It’s just semantics, I suppose.”

  “So what else have you got? Isn’t it possible she just ran off to Mexico for the week, just playing hooky, and someone burglarized her place in the meantime?”

  “It’s always possible. We’ve checked outbound flights, trains, that sort of thing. Fact is, we can’t find her. Did she ever indicate she wanted to disappear?”

  “No.” Mick sat back slightly, letting his mind race. “Are you aware that Diane’s father is State Senator Ralph Lacombe?”

  “Yes. We’re already in touch with her family. Her father has heard nothing from her. And I need to know when you last saw her, Mr. Walker.”

  “Actually, several months ago. Or longer. It was one afternoon when I dropped by Ralph’s house. I haven’t worked with her directly for maybe a year.”

  “Do you know whether she routinely kept company records at home?”

  He shook his head. “How would I know that? I’ve never seen her apartment, and I have no idea.”

  “No trade secrets her firm’s competitors might want?”

  “Chadwick and Noble don’t really have competitors, Detective. They’re the gold standard.”

  “All right.”

  Mick sat forward, his voice suddenly more intense.

  “Look, I’ll put the entire resources of my company behind helping in any way I can. Post a reward, pay for TV ads, pay a ransom, whatever. Whatever Ralph needs. Just let me know.”

  “That’s all premature right now. But I’ve got one more thing. Do you know a Don Brevin?”

  “No. Should I?”

  “Diane Lacombe’s boyfriend?”

  Mick sighed and shook his head. “Detective Bailey, let me make this really clear. I have had no participation in Diane’s daily private life. I have no idea who she was seeing.”

  “Again, sir, there’s no need to get defensive. I’m just trying to get as much background as I can, and I thought…”

  “You thought that, since I’m a single man, maybe I was somehow involved with Diane romantically. Right?”

  “Romantic or… sexual involvement is not normally what I think about when the male involved is the girl’s godfather.”

  “You’re aware of that?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sure Ralph told you, which is fine.”

  “Mr. Walker, forgive my directness, but… is there something you need to tell me?”

  The phraseology sparked another wave of worry. Fully composed, Mick laughed. “Hardly, Detective. I guess I’ve just been watching too many reruns of Columbo.”

  “Yeah,” Bailey chuckled. “That can get to you. Even as a detective. You know, you begin to suspect saints and little old ladies, and even your own mother.”

  “Mothers can be sneaky.”

  They moved toward the door and Mick accepted the detective’s business card. “That’s my cell phone number,” Bailey said. “Don’t hesitate to call if there’s anything you think of that could help. Anything.”

  “You can depend on it.”

  The detective’s cell phone rang as he moved down the corridor, and Mick turned to his secretary. “Get Ralph Lacombe on the phone. Quickly.”

  MILBRAE (SAN FRANCISCO)

  The fleeting shadow of someone running past a side window toward the backyard preceded a sudden rap on the front door by less than a second. Don
Brevin spun around in momentary confusion, the freshly opened beer on the counter already forgotten.

  “Hold on,” he bellowed in the direction of the door, wondering what it would be like to have a butler to take care of such irritations. It galled him that there were eighteen-year-old actors out there with staffs and Rolls-Royces in their sixteen-car garages, and here he sat in his parents’ San Francisco stucco rambler, which sported less than two thousand square feet, having to do everything for himself. Some success. Yeah, he had a Porsche and a Harley, but they were mainly owned by his bank.

  Scowling at the thought, he swung the door open on a collection of cops standing behind a man in a business suit holding out a badge wallet much like the one Don had carried in his last movie. So the guy was a detective.

  “Yeah?”

  “Don Brevin?”

  Brevin snorted, letting the crooked smile he intended to make an icon in American moviedom spread across his face. It was his James Dean fantasy.

  “Should I ask who wants to know?”

  “When you’ve got a face full of badges?” the suit replied. “I doubt it.”

  “Whazzup?”

  “May we come in and talk to you, Mr. Brevin?”

  “Hey, sure. You guys were nice to help me prep for my last flick.” He stood aside as the detective and the uniforms moved into the living room, the suit’s eyes obviously recording everything within as he introduced himself as Detective Craig Bailey.

  “So what’s going on?”

  “Do you know a woman named Diane Lacombe?”

  Something cold began spreading around his insides as he struggled to keep an even expression. He should have expected this.

  “Yeah, sure. She’s been my girlfriend for a couple of years. Or, at least, last year. I mean, we only lived together for a while, but… that’s over, and I just got my things back.”

  “When?”

  “Yesterday morning. Why?”

  Craig Bailey studied the young man’s eyes and waited. It was one of the habits that made him a better than average cop, the ability to keep his mouth shut until the silence became an uncomfortable void the subject just had to fill. Brevin was growing increasingly antsy, and Bailey let several more seconds pass before continuing.

  “Where is she, Mr. Brevin?”

  Brevin shrugged, his eyes flaring slightly in surprise. “Hell, I don’t know. At her place, I guess. She was taking the day off.”

  The sound of a car door in the driveway distracted Brevin for a second and he turned, spotting the doors of his Porsche being opened by a team of uniformed officers.

  “Hey!”

  “Stay where you are, Mr. Brevin. We have a warrant, if you’d like to see it, although we don’t need one to search your car.”

  “What are you looking for, man? I’m clean.”

  “We’re not looking for drugs, Mr. Brevin. We’re looking for Miss Lacombe, and you were with her yesterday. Exactly what time?”

  “Hey, I didn’t memorize the time, y’know?”

  He began to pace slightly, rocking left to look at his car, then right to stare with growing agitation at Craig Bailey, his hands stuck deep in the pockets of his jeans, then just as quickly on his hips, or running through his hair and scratching his chin. He was acting like a man in desperate need of a bathroom.

  “How was she when you saw her?”

  “Her usual self. Angry, selfish, unpredictable, bitchy.”

  “And did you leave her in her apartment, or did she come with you?”

  He snorted again. “Hey, what is this? Has she filed some sort of complaint? ’Cause man, I’m telling you, that was my damned snowboard! Okay? And… if she said I hit her or anything, that’s a lie! She slapped me.”

  Bailey stood his ground, his eyes boring into Brevin’s as the young actor turned to one of the uniformed officers with his hand out, palm up, then looked back at the detective.

  “What is it? What?”

  “Why was Miss Lacombe’s apartment ransacked, Mr. Brevin?” Craig Bailey continued.

  “Ransacked? It wasn’t ransacked when I left.”

  “Did Miss Lacombe leave with you?”

  “No. I mean, she swiped at me in the hallway like an angry cat and then went back in. She wouldn’t give me my things. What’s she saying? That I trashed her apartment?”

  “She isn’t saying anything, Mr. Brevin. We’re having trouble finding her.”

  “Then, I don’t understand.”

  “We need to find her.”

  “Well… did you check her office?”

  “Yes.”

  “How about calling her cell phone?”

  Bailey shook his head.

  “Then, hell, I don’t know. I mean, she could be anywhere when she’s pissed.”

  “Why was she pissed, Mr. Brevin?”

  “Who knows. We had a good thing and she got tired. Go figure. Hey, ah… can you excuse me a second? You know. The bathroom? I was headed there when you guys arrived.”

  Craig Bailey nodded and caught the eye of the policeman to his right. The uniformed officer followed Brevin into a back hallway. There was the sound of a door closing, then opening, and Brevin’s voice from around the corner.

  “Hey, dude… I’ve gotta snag another roll of toilet paper back here in the closet, okay?”

  “Yeah, go ahead,” the officer replied.

  Craig let his eyes wander around the living room, taking in several pictures Brevin had hung of himself in various roles. There was a huge movie poster on the far wall, and an unpainted rack of bookshelves crammed full of DVDs in no apparent order.

  An internal alarm began to sound in the detective’s head. Too much time had passed without the right sounds coming from down the hallway. He turned to move in that direction just as the engine of a large motorcycle roared to life at the back of the house.

  “Oh, shit!”

  Bailey made it out the front door in time to see Brevin smash a Harley through a flimsy wooden gate and roar off down the street as all the uniformed officers dove for their cars.

  Chapter 4

  UNIVERSITY OF WASHINGTON, SEATTLE 6:30 P.M.

  Quitting was definitely an option.

  Dr. Doug Lam blew out of the Administration Building too focused on masking his anger to spot Sanjay Singh, who’d apparently been waiting at a discreet distance while warming a stone bench. Singh jumped up and gave chase.

  “Doug, wait up. You okay?”

  Lam stopped and turned, relaxing slightly at the sight of his assistant, a newly minted PhD seismologist and one of the sharpest students he’d ever mentored.

  “What are you doing over here, Sanjay?”

  “Waiting to see what a sudden summons to the head shed meant. You look really mad.”

  “Do I?” Doug shook his head sharply, then motioned Singh to walk with him and continued on toward the center of the sprawling campus. The broad-shouldered, six-foot-one ex-halfback was walking so fast his much shorter assistant had to scurry to keep up.

  “So… what the heck happened back there?” Sanjay tried again.

  Once more the director of the university’s USGS-run seismology lab stopped and turned, his green eyes dark with anger as he shook his head and glanced back toward the source of his pain.

  “They’re blind, Sanjay! Plain and simple. A bunch of play-it-safe bureaucrats terrified of the slightest controversy. They’re dithering because we haven’t brought in any new grant money lately. Forget the fact that the United States Geological Survey pays my salary. The thinly veiled threat is: No grant money, no teaching position.”

  “But we’ve got three current grant applications out there.”

  “And two of them were rejected this past week.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because the lead researcher—me—is the same guy who had the unmitigated temerity to come up with that embarrassing cockamamie theory of Resonant Amplification triggering the Cascadia Subduction Zone, and it scares the pacemakers out of thei
r faint little hearts. They were upset enough when I named the locked area of the zone after the Quilieute tribe and ended up with all that publicity.”

  “Doug, frankly, your theory scares me, too.”

  “It also happens to be dead right. Whoa. Scares you? Are you doubting me, as well? Should I say, ‘Et tu, Sanjay?’ ”

  “No… but you know very well that I’m skeptical. Your reasoning is sound, but it’s a very bold, intuitive leap on a shaky foundation. No pun intended.”

  Doug chuckled and glanced around, as if looking for eavesdroppers. “Very diplomatic, Dr. Singh. Just like I taught you.” He began walking back toward the seismology lab several hundred yards distant as Sanjay struggled to stay in formation.

  “Doug, you don’t know for a fact that the turndowns were because of your theory, do you?”

  “Yes. They told me so. Flat out. Both grants failed because I’ve become too controversial. You know what one of them suggested? Get this! He seriously suggested that I consider retracting my paper and reversing course for the time being. For the time being!”

  “Just to get the grants?”

  “Yes! Jeez, whatever happened to academic freedom, not to mention academic courage?”

  “So, we’ll just write more grant apps.”

  “No, I’ll just resign and let them sleep at night, until the coming subduction zone quake dumps their candy asses out of their safe little beds. You want to run a slightly used seismology lab? It was hardly ever operated except on Sundays.”

  “You’re a gifted professor, Doug,” Singh replied, ignoring the sarcasm. “We need you.”

  “Well, thanks, but I can live just fine doing hardcore USGS work.”

  “They haven’t been too supportive either.”

  “Who, my guys in Menlo Park?” Doug asked, referring to the USGS Western Headquarters in California.

  “Yes.”

  “They think I’m smoking something strange, that’s true, but they are supportive.”

  “Doug, forgive me for challenging your creative memory, but they’ve jeered you in two conferences, insulted you in print, and essentially apologized to Washington for your stance.”

  “No, they apologized for my going on TV.”

  “Whatever. They’ve hardly been supportive.”