The shame of that night burned his cheeks even now as he remembered. He had failed spectacularly! A cold had clogged his ears and given him a headache. The music had sounded distant, and his voice went scratchy a few lines into the song. His mortification had only made things worse. He’d run from the stage as soon as it was over and hadn’t picked up a guitar or sung since. His backup plan became his focus, and he moved to Silicon Valley to pursue another kind of success. After that one early setback, he was about to achieve it.
Unless his crew fucked things up. But he couldn’t do everything himself. Now he had to deal with the ramifications of Bowman’s body being discovered. He pressed the button on his wireless again and said, “Call Harlan.”
Absentmindedly, Shawn counted the rings. He tracked almost every piece of information he might need later, a compulsion since fifth grade, when he’d first realized he was smarter and more driven than his classmates. The only thing he’d lacked was the ability to focus for long periods of time, but the right medication had finally given him that.
“Hey, Shawn. What’s up?” Harlan, his go-to man, always sounded upbeat—the by-product of a simpler mind. Harlan had defended him from bullies in school and stuck by him through his adult failures. His loyalty made him a true friend, even if they didn’t have much in common.
“We need to talk. Get Rocky and come to my office.” He clicked off before Harlan could ask any questions.
While he waited, he researched Dana Thorpe and discovered she was giving a public lecture the next evening. Maybe that was their opportunity. A half hour later, the two men entered his office, Harlan Romero in front, looking worried. His pudgy body never seemed comfortable in the tight black jeans and pullovers he wore, but Harlan liked to emulate Shawn, including how he dressed. Only Harlan didn’t have his super-toned physique.
“What’s going on?” Harlan crossed the big office and stood in front of his desk.
“Nick Bowman’s body turned up. How the hell is that possible?”
Harlan blinked and his chubby face blushed. “We pushed him out over a wilderness area. I can’t believe someone found him already.”
Shawn’s right temple pulsed, and he pushed to his feet.
Rocky, his new pilot and strong-arm man, stepped forward. “It was my idea. I thought the coyotes would eat him long before anyone found him.”
“You thought?” Shawn shouted. He turned back to Harlan, who should have been in charge. “Why would you leave something like that to chance?”
Harlan grimaced, then looked down. “The odds were against it.” Harlan had been his best friend in high school—his only friend—and now the dropout was his right-hand man. More accurately, his left-hand man, who needed coaching on everything.
Shawn exhaled, trying to calm himself. Blood pressure medicine wasn’t magic. His high level was a side effect of the dextro. “You should have landed and buried him.”
“I’m sorry.” Harlan looked up, distressed. “I never expected to have to kill him. We were only supposed to transport him to the mine.”
“You got lazy and stupid, and now the FBI is looking into his death.”
“Oh shit.” Harlan shuffled his feet.
Rocky cut in. “I filed a flight plan under Celltronics’ name, like you said to do. So that should help.”
Shawn nodded but didn’t praise him for following directions. Casting suspicion on his competitor probably wouldn’t be enough. He might even need to plant evidence to keep the feds off his back for a few months.
“What do you want us to do?”
“An agent named Andra Bailey is investigating. If she contacts you, tell her as little as possible, then walk away. Then make yourself unavailable.”
Harlan blinked, obviously alarmed. “Do you think she knows what’s going on?”
“No. But once we take Dana Thorpe, the connection might be obvious.” Shawn mapped out their directions, just to be clear. “Just grab her after her speech tomorrow night and take her directly to the mine.” He’d tried to recruit Thorpe right after partnering with Max, but she’d turned him down. Her mistake. He hoped she would be more cooperative and easier to handle than Bowman. But Bowman’s kidnapping had initially gone well, so Shawn wasn’t afraid to try again. “You can find the details of her location online.”
Harlan nodded. “Got it.”
Shawn’s mind went back to the federal agent. Just because she was investigating didn’t mean she would focus on him. He processed the possibilities out loud. “We’re only one of dozens of US companies with an obvious interest in rare earth materials. And there are hundreds more around the world. So this agent has a big job, and we’ll stay one step ahead of her.”
“But you think she’ll come here and question us?” The crease in Harlan’s brow deepened.
“Yes.” Shawn made up his mind. “We’re all going to relocate to the Washington facility. So pack a few bags before you fly up today. You’ll be there for a while.” Getting away from their well-known headquarters seemed like a good move.
Both men were silent for a moment.
“For how long?” Harlan asked, obviously unhappy. He had family in town.
“Until we have what we need and this investigation goes away.”
His special-ops man shook his head. “What if it doesn’t? What if the FBI gets too close to the truth?”
“We’ll take care of the agent. Only this time, you’ll be more thorough.” The thought was repulsive, but he was in too deep to take chances. Fortunately, the mining facility in central Washington seemed like an ideal place to mulch a body and make it disappear forever.
CHAPTER 9
Wednesday, March 18, 9:05 a.m., San Jose, California
Bailey drove to the dead man’s address again, hoping to catch his widow at home, and got lucky this time. She’d made the trip to the upscale neighborhood yesterday afternoon and also checked in with the local bureau, but neither had been productive. Today she needed to make some progress. Mrs. Bowman opened the door, and Bailey did her usual quick assessment: excessive makeup and jewelry this early in the morning indicated she was insecure, but her eyes were inquisitive, indicating at least some curiosity, if not intelligence. The widow might be capable of killing her cheating husband, but pushing him out of a plane wouldn’t have been her style. Bailey held out her hand, gave a charming smile, and included her first name to soften her first impression. “Agent Andra Bailey. I need to ask a few questions.”
“Again? I’ve talked to a cop and someone from the FBI. I’d really like to be left alone.”
“I’ll be brief. I promise. And I’ll ask different questions.”
Amy Bowman let out a long sigh as she stepped aside to let Bailey into the oversized house. They took seats on barstools at the edge of a massive kitchen.
“How are your kids?” Bailey asked, keeping her voice low and warm.
“They’re struggling.” Mrs. Bowman blinked back tears. “I sent them to school because they wanted to go. But they’re also seeing a counselor.”
“That’s good.” Bailey had never lost one of the few people she loved, so she didn’t know how grief would feel. But she was about to find out. A longtime friend was terminally ill. Bailey hoped her brain would reject grief the way it did pain, fear, and stress. “Let’s get the hard question out of the way. Did you kill your husband because he was cheating on you?”
Anger flashed in the widow’s eyes. “No! That’s a heinous accusation.”
Technically, it hadn’t been an accusation. But Mrs. Bowman’s body language indicated she was telling the truth. Her hands stayed in her lap, she made reasonable eye contact, and she didn’t overexplain.
“Had your husband received a job offer recently?”
“Yes, why?”
“Tell me everything he said about it.”
Mrs. Bowman shook her head. “Nick said h
e couldn’t talk about it, but that it would mean a lot of money. He acted like it was a big secret and he only had a short time to decide.”
That seemed unusual. But the tech industry was weird and paranoid—with good reason. They liked to poach one another’s employees. But Bowman had been a metallurgist who worked outside the tech hub in Silicon Valley. “Tell me exactly what he said about the company.”
The widow sat up straight. “What are you saying? You think a competitor killed him because he didn’t take the job?”
“So he turned it down?”
“I don’t know. Nick had pulled away from me. I think that’s why he didn’t tell me much about the job offer.”
“Tell me the words he used to describe it.”
Flustered now, Mrs. Bowman twisted the ring on her finger. “I think he called it a startup. And he said the money would make him filthy rich.” Her mouth tightened in anguish. “That’s when I knew he planned to leave me, because he said it would make him rich, not us.” She burst into tears.
Bailey jumped up from her barstool and stepped back, irritated by the crying sounds. She had to get the widow talking again or get out. “Did your husband say anything else about the company or the job offer?”
After a moment of sobbing, the widow finally choked out, “He mumbled something about sacrifice, but I don’t know what he meant.”
“Thanks. You’ve been helpful.” Bailey headed for the door. What kind of sacrifice? A move to work somewhere else? Or more likely a cash payoff in exchange for giving up all rights and credit for any potential discovery.
In her car, she realized she’d forgotten to offer condolences to the widow. Oh well. Words didn’t change anything.
She wanted to question the mistress, but they hadn’t found her yet. Bailey keyed ZoGo into her GPS and started the rental car.
The phone rang in her hand. A California number she didn’t recognize. “Agent Bailey.”
“Mike Shatner with the FAA returning your call.”
“Thank you. What did you find out?” She’d asked him to track down all the small-craft flights that had been registered to fly when and where Bowman’s body had been found—on the off chance the kidnappers had signed in.
“Three flights Saturday morning in that area: MidValley Agriculture; Ross and DeVinter, a law firm; and Celltronics.”
Score. The startup device manufacturer was near the top of her suspect list. “Do you have the name of the pilot?”
“No, there was some last-minute change.”
“Thanks.” Bailey hung up. She loved having leverage going into an interrogation. She deleted ZoGo from the GPS search field and typed in Celltronics. She would investigate the other company as well, but she had to follow the obvious lead. What strategy would she use with the CEO? Careful at first, probing without accusing. Asking for his help, rather than putting him on the defensive. She could be intimidating and usually enjoyed it, but she saved the tough-guy act for when it was most effective.
Celltronics sat between two other businesses in a little manufacturing mall on Phelan Avenue. A newer building with a bright exterior and no landscaping to water. Another car waited to pull into the hub from the other direction. Bailey gunned her rental and turned in front of it, a small thrill just to keep her juices running. She parked in the only open space, pleased that she’d been aggressive. Whatever saved her time. This case had too much going on to waste even ten minutes.
She strode to the entrance, unimpressed by the facility. Did they actually manufacture phones here? More likely, they were produced in a foreign country, like most other tech products. China made a good portion of them, which explained why it had quit exporting rare earth metals. Their supply was running low, and they had to keep their own factories operating. South Korea and Vietnam were likely hurting from the shutdown too, but the United States, which imported materials from all three countries, was in the most serious trouble.
Inside, a young receptionist chatted on the phone. It sounded like a personal call. The woman held up a finger, indicating Bailey should wait a moment. The twit. Bailey pulled out her badge and commanded, “Hang up, now!”
The receptionist went silent and her mouth dropped open. She started to say something, but Bailey cut her off. “This is a federal investigation. Where can I find Mark Ziegler?”
The receptionist blinked, as if confused, then said, “He’s in the first office on the left.”
Bailey walked away without comment. There was nothing to gain by being charming to a rude receptionist. At the first door, she knocked loudly, waited a full second, then grabbed the knob. Catching people off guard could be effective, but she changed her mind and waited. A moment later, the door opened and a tall silver-haired man stared at her.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, I’m with the FBI.” She smiled, meeting his eyes for a long moment. “Agent Bailey.”
The CEO’s face tightened and he stepped back. “Come in and have a seat.”
Bailey waited for him to settle into his worn office chair, then sat across from him. “You’re Mark Ziegler?”
“Yes. What is this about?”
He wasn’t an aggressor. She could tell by his casual posture, soft eyes, and concerned tone. But maybe someone else in his company was. “Rare earth metals. Where are your products made?”
“Some parts are made in Vietnam, but we assemble the phones here. Why?”
“Is your factory having trouble getting the materials it needs to keep up with production?”
“Everyone is.”
“Who’s your supplier?”
“We were buying them from Zing Metals in China, but we’re looking for a new producer now.”
“Is your manufacturing shut down?”
“Almost.”
So they were getting desperate. “Do you know Nick Bowman?”
The CEO hesitated. “I’m familiar with his work. What’s this about?”
“Someone killed him. What do you know about that?”
“What?” A startled expression. “Why ask me?”
“Why did you take a flight over the Sunol Regional Wilderness Saturday morning?”
He recoiled, as if physically afraid. “I didn’t. I was right here at my desk.”
“Can you prove that?”
“Yes. My manager was working too. What is this about?”
She would check his alibi, but it didn’t mean anything. He could have hired a contract killer. “Nick Bowman was pushed out of a plane Saturday as it flew over the forest.” Bailey kept constant eye contact and scooted toward him. “Celltronics was one of the only companies that filed a flight plan in that area at that time. Who was on that plane if you weren’t?”
“I don’t know.” But Zeigler was thinking about it. His eyes shifted as he processed the possibilities, and his lips twitched with worry.
“Who in your company would kidnap and kill a metallurgist trying to produce a replacement for dysprosium?” It occurred to her that they might have stolen Bowman’s research, then dumped him because they no longer needed him.
The CEO seemed stunned into silence. Bailey tapped her hand on the desk. “I need answers, or you’re the one coming into the bureau with me. You won’t like our interrogation room.” She hadn’t seen the one in the field office, but they were all the same.
He grimaced as if in pain. “Only my partner owns stock in the company and would benefit directly from such a thing.” A disbelieving headshake. “But Miguel isn’t capable of murder.”
He might be surprised. Even empaths could commit murder out of passion, anger, or greed. If his partner was a sociopath, he wouldn’t even feel guilty about it. “I want to speak with him right now. What’s his name and where can I find him?”
“Miguel Carina. He’s out of town on business.”
“Where?”
“Seattle. He’ll be back in two days.”
Bailey stood. “We believe more scientists’ lives could be at stake, so don’t warn him about our conversation.” She handed him a business card. “Text me his contact information. And call me if you find out anything.”
The drive across the Valley to ZoGo was slow and frustrating, but mostly uneventful. The GPS guided her smoothly with no wrong turns, and nobody in traffic pissed her off. That almost never happened. Was she mellowing with age? Relief and disappointment surfaced at the same time, and Bailey laughed at herself. She was feeling good about this assignment—the challenge and the potential payoff when she resolved it. The sunny California weather was helping too.
ZoGo’s headquarters occupied a significantly more valuable piece of real estate than their competitor’s. A prime location north of Willow Glen and a new building with metal sculptures and a small courtyard off to the side. ZoGo—a stupid name, but in keeping with other internet darlings—had less operating capital than Celltronics, so it had to have considerably more debt. Or an off-the-books source of revenue.
The interior was trendy too, and the lobby had stone-and-laminate walls, a high ceiling, and a travertine floor. The receptionist’s counter was a long piece of black-and-rose granite. Gorgeous. A middle-aged woman with a nice smile greeted her pleasantly. “How can I help you?”
“Agent Bailey, FBI. I need to speak with Shawn Crusher.”
The receptionist pressed her lips together. “He’s not here.”
Point of Control Page 5
