by David Archer
Summer snickered. “Okay, I’ll behave. Besides, I get to melt a lawyer, and those are always fun.”
Steve took out his tablet and called up his notes on the case, reading once more through the details they did know. He studied the assumptions they were working with, that Williamson had stolen the chip and carried it to wherever it had been delivered to whoever had received it, that McGill had been the one to entice or blackmail him into it. As he read, new thoughts occurred to him, and he made notes to go along with what they already had.
Where did the transfer take place? Check out the place where McGill’s body was found, could have happened there.
What communications took place between McGill and Williamson? Need to know whatever we can get.
Ballistics report on the bullet that killed McGill. See if we can get it from police.
Lab report on the cyanide crap. See if we can figure out where it came from?
He made several more notes as thoughts occurred, and across the table, Summer was doing the same thing.
She had read the article about Becky McGill’s encounter with Landry, and shared Sam’s doubt of its veracity. With everything Indie had uncovered about this guy, there was no way she would believe his story; there was something he wasn't saying, something that would clear up what really happened, but since he was almost certainly involved in the original crimes, it wasn't going to be easy to get that information out of him. Just being seductive wouldn’t be enough, she knew; she would have to introduce an element of fear to the cocky bastard.
Make him think I work for the buyers, she wrote in her notes. Tease, but keep a threat hanging over his head. Disappoint me, and things will get ugly, but make me happy, and we might end up having fun together.
It was a technique she had used before, and it was almost always successful. Men like this could be kept on a leash for a long time without ever being given what they wanted, as long as they believed they might get it eventually. Desire is a powerful motivator, but it has to be tempered with a fear of failure or loss to make it supreme.
“Here we are,” Stanley said a bit later. The van seemed to slow for a turn, and then it was descending into what had to be an underground garage. It came to a stop a few minutes later, and Stanley hurried around to open the side door again, grabbing Summer’s bag before she could reach to pick it up.
“I've got your cars right here,” he said, “if you want to put your bags in them.” He indicated two black Cadillac sedans and handed Steve and Summer each a set of keys with a remote. Summer pushed the unlock button and the nearest car flashed its lights and beeped its horn, so she pushed the trunk button. Stanley set her bags inside as Steve opened the trunk on the other car, and he and Walter set their own bags into it.
Summer turned to Steve. “Unless you need me, I’m gonna go get settled into my room. Stanley, is it set up yet?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Stanley said. “You’re all at the InterContinental, it’s just a few blocks away. Really nice place, by the way.”
She smiled at him and got into the car, then started it up and backed out. She put the hotel into her phone’s nav app and was gone.
Steve looked at Stanley. “The clean room?” he asked, and Stanley nodded.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “I called Dr. Prentiss and he said he would arrange for you to have any access you want in the building. Right this way.” He led them toward an elevator and they rode up to the fifth floor of the building, then he showed them down the hall to the clean room itself. A pair of security guards was standing beside the door, and they stared at Stanley as the three of them approached.
“Guys, this is Mr. Beck and Mr. Rawlins from Windlass Security. Did Dr. Prentiss call you?”
“Yes,” said one of the two men. He reached over and opened the door without another word, and Steve took the lead as they walked inside.
They had entered a room with a number of lockers and racks of white coveralls. “You’ll need to take everything out of your pockets,” Stanley said, doing so himself, “and leave it in one of the lockers. You can take the key and wrap the band around your wrist, like this, then put on one of the coveralls. Once you’ve got that on, there’s some booties you put over your shoes and tuck the cuffs of the legs into them, then put on the hoods and tuck them into the neck of the coveralls before you zip it up all the way. Last thing is the gloves. Sorry, but we can’t allow any contamination into the room. Some of the stuff in there could be destroyed by a speck of dust you couldn't even see.”
Steve looked at Walter. “You okay?” he asked. Walter was notoriously fanatical about cleanliness, but he had never been asked to wear a clean suit before.
Walter nodded and put the contents of his pockets into a tray, then shoved it into a locker and took the key. Steve did the same, and then they started getting into the coveralls, which seemed to be of a universal size. Elastic strips throughout the fabric made it fit snugly.
Getting into the clean suit took about six minutes, and Steve made a mental note about it. It would have added that long to the job of stealing the chip, and then there would have been the time required to get back out of it and dispose of it. If it had been found, DNA from whoever wore it would have been detectable. Once they were fully covered, Stanley pointed to another door at the back of the room and used a key card to open it, then passed the card to Steve. “That’s for you, by the way,” he said, and Steve was surprised that he could hear him clearly; the suits didn’t muffle sound. “It’ll open any door in the building, so don’t let it out of your sight. There are only a few of those, and they’re carefully guarded.” Steve held onto it in his gloved hand.
They stepped through a doorway into a decontamination chamber, and the door closed behind them automatically. A moment later, a bright red light came on as a slight mist was sprayed from every direction. The clear faceplates on the hoods clouded up, but then air blasted down from the ceiling and the cloud evaporated. The other end of the chamber opened and they stepped into the clean room itself.
The room was about twenty feet square and held numerous cabinets, each of which required a key card to open. The floor was covered in a low-pile carpet that had undoubtedly been designed for use in such places, and the walls and ceiling were a blinding white.
“I’m supposed to tell you that nothing has been touched in here since the chip was discovered missing. Dr. Prentiss said they ordered the room off limits until you could get here.”
“What about the police? Didn’t they want to look at it?”
“Yes, but our government contracts require a Top Secret clearance for anyone to get into this part of the building or to know about the BCI project. We couldn't let them in because of that.”
“Okay, can you show us where the chip was kept?” Steve asked, watching closely as Walter seemed to be scanning the room with his eyes.
“Right over here,” Stanley said, and he led them to a set of cabinets. He pointed to one of them, a vertical unit about six feet tall. “It was right here, on the second shelf down from the top.”
Steve said nothing as Walter walked around the room. His eyes went everywhere, sometimes appearing to dart randomly from one point to another, but Steve Beck knew his friend better than that. He stood in silence while Walter continued to look at everything, even going back to the door they had come through more than once.
After almost fifteen minutes, he stopped and turned to Steve. “I see it,” he said.
Steve smiled. “Knew you would,” he said. “So, was it the way we thought? Dr. Williamson?”
Walter shook his head. “No,” he said. “Dr. Williamson wasn't here. The thief was a smaller man, about a hundred and sixty pounds. He came in and walked around the outside walls of the room instead of coming down the middle like we did. He had a key card that could open the cabinet and he used it, then he took the chip and went out the same way.”
“How can you tell all that?” Stanley asked, his face showing disbelief.
“I weig
h one sixty,” Walter said. “Carpet holds footprints for a long time if you don’t mess with it, and there are footprints just as deep as mine all around the outer edge. They come up behind the cabinet and then they come around it to the front. He stood there for a few seconds while he got the chip, because the prints are sharper, then he went out the same way he came in, around the edges of the room.” He looked up at Steve from where he had been pointing at the floor. “He wasn't wearing one of these suits.”
Stanley’s face went white. “What? How do you know?”
Walter knelt down and pointed, and both Steve and Stanley looked closely. There was a tiny fleck of something in one of the footprints Walter had pointed out to them, and it took a moment for them to realize what it was.
It was a small piece of dried-out bubblegum. The only way it could have come into the room would be on the bottom of someone’s shoe, but it should have been covered by the booties. Finding it this way meant that the culprit not only ignored the clean room protocols, he hadn’t even bothered to try to clean his feet off before coming in.
“No booties,” Steve said. “If he didn’t put those on, he probably didn’t bother with the rest of the clean suit, because it wouldn’t matter. This room is contaminated. You might want to notify whoever needs to know, and I’ll want to talk to your personnel people as soon as possible. Right now, though, I need to speak to whoever is handling this for the local police department.”
Stanley nodded. “That would be Detective Sellars,” he said. “I’ve got his number in the notes that I’m supposed to give you.”
They exited the clean room, changing out of the suits as they left, and Stanley led them to a small room he had set up for them to use as an office. There was a table with a computer, and two chairs. He picked up a file folder that was laying on the table and flipped it open, then pointed at a phone number.
“That’s his cell number,” he said. “He can give you any information you need from their end of the investigation, he said.”
Steve took out his cell phone and dialed the number. Sellars answered almost instantly.
“Detective Sellars? My name is Steve Beck, I’m an investigator with Windlass Security.”
“The CerebroLink case?” Sellars asked. “Yeah, I’ve been expecting a call. What can I do for you?”
“Well, I just arrived out here and took a look at the actual crime scene. Our crime scene specialist says that Doctor Williamson isn’t the one who stole the item, after all. We’re going to be interviewing potential accomplices today, but I’d like to meet up with you this evening and go over a few other details.”
“Sure,” Sellars said. “I guess somebody from D.C. called our chief, and I’m supposed to give you whatever cooperation you want. What is it you want to know?”
“Well, for starters, I’d like to know everything you’ve learned about Williamson and McGill. If possible, I’d like to take a look at the spot where McGill’s body was found, and any reports you’ve gotten back on ballistics from his gunshot wound or the poison that killed Williamson and his driver.”
“No problem,” the detective said. “I’ve got all of that stuff here on my desk. How about we meet up around six, maybe over dinner?”
“That sounds perfect,” Steve said. “You tell me where, and I’ll buy dinner for us all.”
The detective named the restaurant, and Steve scribbled it on a scrap of paper. “I got it,” he said. “Six o’clock, we’ll be there.”
*
Summer had gone straight to the hotel and checked in, and then went up to the room. She took a few minutes to get herself settled in, then called Indie.
Indie knew that she might be getting a call, but she didn’t recognize the number so she answered cautiously. “Hello?”
“Hi,” Summer said. “Mrs. Prichard, this is Summer Raines, I’m one of the investigators working for your husband.”
“Oh, yes,” Indie said. “He called a while ago and told me that I might be hearing from some of you. What can I do for you?”
“Well, I’m in San Francisco, working on trying to track down Mrs. McGill. I’ll be working on the lawyer, and Sam said you’ve been doing some research on Jonathan Landry. I was wondering if you might know anything about where he hangs out after hours.”
“Well, no, not particularly,” Indie said, “but if you give me just a minute to put the baby down, I can ping his cell phone and find out where he is at right at the moment. Would that help any?”
Summer smiled. “I think it might, yes. Don’t worry, I’ll hang on.”
The phone went silent for a moment, and then Indie was back. “Okay, give me just a moment. I’m setting up to get the GPS location on his phone, should be easy unless he’s got it turned off. And, we’re in luck, because he is currently sitting at a place called Favors, some kind of night club. From what I've read about him, that sounds about right.”
“Yes, it does,” Summer said. “Would you have an address?”
Indie gave it to her. “Summer, did Sam update you on Mrs. McGill? What I found out about her after she left the lawyer’s office?”
“He said you tracked her to the Greyhound station in Oakland, but that was all he knew. Is there anything else?”
“Yes, I found her at the San Diego terminal. She had apparently bought a ticket for somewhere else, because I saw her give it to a young girl before she went and bought another ticket. Unfortunately, I couldn't find out where she was going. The bus she got on wasn't parked where I could see its number or destination sign. All I know is she left San Diego on another Greyhound last night around ten, but there were four buses leaving around the same time and she could have bought a ticket to any of a hundred possible destinations between them all.”
Summer thanked her and hung up. She opened her suitcase and took out a few items, then started stripping out of the pantsuit she had worn for the flight. She went into the bathroom and carefully adjusted her makeup, brushed out her hair and then slipped into a pair of pantyhose and a short, black dress that left very little to the imagination. A pair of red stiletto heels completed her costume and she grabbed her purse and keys as she headed down to the garage.
Favors was only a few blocks away, and she got there in less than fifteen minutes. Crossing her fingers that her prey was still inside, she handed her keys to the valet and walked into the place as if she owned it.
Apparently, several other people thought she owned it, as well, because a great number of the men and quite a few of the women stopped what they were doing to stare. She looked around for a moment, realizing that the place was actually a strip club with a mirror-backed runway and several poles, and then she spotted Jonathan Landry.
He was sitting near the runway, and a couple of the dancers seemed to be enjoying his company. Of course, the stacks of bills in front of each of them explained the smiles on their faces, so she didn’t worry about the competition. She walked slowly through the place, feeling each and every eye that was on her as she did so, then took a seat at a table directly beside the one where Landry was holding court.
A barmaid hurried over and she ordered a vodka Collins. It was an easy drink that she could sip on for hours, because she had no intention of letting alcohol interfere with business. She sat back in her chair apparently watching the dancers on the runway, but actually keeping Landry in sight in the mirror.
It didn’t take him long to notice her, and even less for him to notice her watching him in the mirror. He looked directly into her reflected eyes and raised his glass, and that’s when she turned and looked directly at him. She glanced at the two dancers at his table and made a dismissive gesture with her left hand.
Landry stared at her for a moment, then told the two girls to move on. They picked up the stacks of money, kissed him on the cheeks, and then walked away. They hadn’t gone far before they were each sitting at another table, once again collecting money for nothing more than providing some company.
As soon as they were gone, Su
mmer picked up her drink and moved to Landry’s table. She sat down beside him in one of the vacated chairs and smiled. “I wasn't sure if you were going to notice me,” she said.
“How could I not?” Landry asked. “Do I know you from somewhere?”
“No,” she replied. “But the people I work for know you. I’m Summer.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “And are you here on business? Or pleasure?”
“Oh, personally, I always ignore that old adage about not mixing the two. I find that business and pleasure go together quite well, as long as everyone is cooperative.”
That got her a smile. “And what kind of business did you have in mind?”
“I’m supposed to find out why you let Rebecca McGill get away.” She picked up her Collins and took a tiny sip through the little red straw.
Landry’s smile faded, but only a bit. “I didn’t exactly let her,” he said. “Bitch attacked me, hit me with a stun gun and then took my pistol. I already told them about it.”
“You may have told the people you’re working for,” Summer said, “but my employers are a little bit higher up than that. They want some answers, and sent me to get them. If I do, then we can get past the business and onto the pleasure.”
Landry squinted at her. “Who are you? And who are your employers?”
“I,” she said, leaning close and looking into his eyes, “am either your greatest fantasy or your worst nightmare. That choice is up to you. My employers are the people your clients answer to. They are not even a little bit happy that so much potentially incriminating information is running loose somewhere. Mrs. McGill is supposed to have been dealt with by now.”
She was guessing, but her gut instincts were telling her she was on the right track. Landry, for some reason, was supposed to have enough control over Rebecca McGill to allow him to bring her in, to turn her over to the same people who had murdered her husband. Had he done so, she would undoubtedly already be dead, herself. The fact that the police were looking for her, however, made it likely that those people had not yet found her, either, and that’s what Summer was counting on.
