by Wolf Wootan
Damn! he thought. Maybe I can get her to stay and investigate Dynology. A few more days, at least.
He brought out two large Old Fashioned glasses filled with a concoction he had made with rum, canned pineapple juice, grenadine, and lots of ice. He handed one to her.
“Best I could do on short notice. If you don’t like it, we’ll dump it overboard and go ashore. Get you a decent one.”
She sipped it and said, “Perfect! Going ashore right now is not an option! It would ruin my fantasy! Here, sit next to me. Hold my hand.”
Sam did as he was bade. They sat in silence and sipped their rum concoctions. Bo lit a cigarette, stared into space, a thin smile on her lips.
“I’m going to really hate you, you know,” she finally said, nearly a whisper.
“I’m sorry. I thought I treated you well at all times. You had the option to say ‘no’ at any time,” he said quietly, a little stunned. He started to release her hand, but she held on tightly.
She peered into his eyes and said, “You know I was no match for you. You took advantage of me—a thirty-something, sexually naive spinster. You radiated your charm. You showed me what I’ve been missing all those years! A small taste of heaven, all the time knowing I’d have to leave! You’ve shattered my belief that I have lived an adequately satisfying life! Ignorance is bliss, I guess.”
“You shouldn’t measure the total value of your life by the number of orgasms you’ve had, for Chrissakes! You should focus on the positive. Now you know what you deserve and how to improve the sexual side of your life. Never settle for less. Just think of us as two strangers meeting for a superb weekend, and both of them better for it.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re used to this sort of thing. I’m not. But that’s not the worst of it,” she said, tears forming in the corners of her eyes.
Sam stayed silent.
Let her get it out, he thought, then I’ll try and fix it.
She continued, rubbing the tears away with the back of her hand, “You let me take a sip—a very small sip—from the cup of motherhood. Helping Becky get ready for her prom, seeing her off. Seeing her come home. That could have been my daughter, had she lived! She would have been Becky’s age. I can’t explain to you how much being with Becky this weekend has meant to me!”
“I’m sorry, Bo. I never knew that you lost a daughter. Tell me about it,” said Sam, squeezing her hand gently.
She told him the whole sordid story after he got her a box of tissues. When she finished her story, Bo lit another cigarette while Sam freshened their drinks.
“I’m extremely sorry for your misfortunes, Bo, but why blame me for the best weekend of your entire, miserable life?” said Sam, a smile forming on his lips. He wanted her to see how unreasonable she was being.
“Don’t you dare laugh! Yes, I do blame you! If you hadn’t set out to get into my pants, hadn’t invited me to your damned beach house . . .”
“OK, I get it. I’ll take the blame if it makes you feel better. But remember this: You’re the only woman I’ve ever dated—not that we’ve really actually had a date yet—that Becky has even said a civil word to. She really likes you! When you have to leave, give her your phone number and email address. Ask her to stay in touch. She probably will.”
“I thought of that. I wouldn’t do that without your permission, of course. Plus, it might be better just to get on a plane and forget this weekend altogether! Things like this only happen in movies!”
“That would be such a shame—and a waste. Good memories should be cherished, mulled over, chewed on and digested. It helps to offset the bad ones. I’ll certainly never forget you, whatever you think of me. You’re always welcome here, you know, even if it’s only to see Becky. I’m sure she would second that.”
“Oh, Sam! Dammit! Kiss me and shut me up!”
He did, a nice long one, his hand caressing her breasts. When the kiss was ended, he said, “It’s been a long time since breakfast, and I didn’t feed you dinner last night. How about some lunch—a light one, since we have a dinner date with Becky.”
“I suppose it’s time to go back to your house, though I’ve enjoyed it here. Thanks for suggesting this.”
“The more to hate me for.”
“Yes! Maybe we can go have some nachos somewhere—on the way back. Something to sop up the rum,” she said. “Let me get dressed and I’ll help you button up the boat.”
She wondered what Becky was going to tell her that would help her investigation. She couldn’t even imagine what a 16-year-old could know that would help her.
Chapter 33
Sunday, June 3, 2001
Capistrano Beach, CA
Becky came downstairs at 4:30 P.M. wearing a navy blue bikini under a short, white coverup, flip-flops on her feet. She found Bo and Sam on the deck playing backgammon, sipping iced tea. The dulcet tones of Sinatra floated softly across the deck and out to sea. She stopped at the sliding screen door and watched them for a silent moment. She liked what she saw.
Hmm. I’ll have to work on this. Give Sam a little nudge in the right direction!
She stepped out on the deck and joined them.
They listened to Becky bubble on non-stop about the prom for twenty minutes, enjoying every bit of her enthusiasm. An impartial observer would have easily come to the conclusion that Bo was a close friend or relative of Becky’s by the interest she paid to her story. Becky said that she got to dance with several of the boys, and the girls were, in general, nice to her.
“. . . and at breakfast at Denny’s, some of the kids even asked me what it was like to be in college. They’ll be going next year. I don’t think they realized how far along I am, and I didn’t tell them. Of course, I couldn’t answer their questions about sororities—since I’ve never been in one.”
Finally, the time had come to give Bo something that might relate to her investigation. Sam had talked briefly to Becky Saturday morning—without Bo knowing—and told her about this meeting. He had warned her to not speak of the bugs she had planted. She was to confine her story to the mysterious equations. She understood: No talking about illegal activities with an FBI agent, even if she was a friend.
Sam freshened their iced teas, fixing one for Becky while he was at the wet bar, then said, “Bo, now is the time to give you what info we have concerning the Jackson/Winston thing. It may, or may not, be useful to your investigation, but I think it’s related somehow to Winston’s murder. I’m just not sure how. Maybe you’ll figure it out.”
Bo straightened in her chair, all ears. “You mean you really do have something? I assumed this meeting would never take place. Just sorta never be mentioned.”
“I’m a man of my word. Let me set the stage. I don’t know what you’re really investigating, and I will make no assumptions. I’ll simply tell you what Becky and I think, then the ball’s in your court.”
He paused and took a slurp of tea. Bo lit a cigarette.
“As you know,” he continued, “Jackson—or Winston—had a Mickey Malone business card on his person. He had written a telephone number on the back of it. We know he wrote it, because Sparky saw him do it. Even loaned him a pen. You can verify that with Sparky if it’s not in your notes. I traced that number to a private line in a company called Dynology, Inc. in Irvine.”
Bo’s eyes widened, but she kept silent, exhaled smoke.
You’re good, Sam! she thought.
He went on, “I couldn’t find out much about that company—except the fact that they have an unusually high level of security for a small, unheard of company. Before I could plan my next move, an extraordinary opportunity fell into our lap.”
He didn’t dare mention his meeting with Danny. He had to stay focused on the equations for now.
Bo leaned back in her chair, shifted a bit to get more comfortable. Sam watched her T-shirt stretch across her chest—was momentarily distracted.
Bo smiled as she caught him looking, then said, “Should I be taking notes?”
>
“That’s up to you.” Sam pointed to a manila folder that Becky had brought with her and laid on the table earlier. “Becky typed everything up for you, but you might want to be more formal—for the record. Do you have a pad of paper in there, Beck?”
“Yes, sir. Here, Bo. And a pen,” replied Becky.
“You and Becky are quite a dynamic duo, aren’t you?” chuckled Bo.
“Yes, in more ways than you know. In fact, I should lay a little background info on you—to prepare you for what’s to come. Becky spends a lot of time with me while I’m working. As you’ve noticed, my parents vacation a lot—well deserved, I might add. When Becky was younger, they took her with them most of the time, which was nice for Becky—she got to see a lot of the world first hand. An education in itself. But in the last year, her school studies have intensified, making it harder for her to leave the area for long periods of time. Hence, I was the designated babysitter.”
Becky frowned. She hated that word. She spoke up.
“I prefer the phrase ‘adult companion.’ I certainly have never needed a babysitter!”
“Shush, child,” laughed Sam. “This is not the time for you to challenge everything I say. Bo, the Becky you’ve seen for the last couple of days was the Teenaged-Prom-Queen-Becky. That’s a Becky we like to encourage and nourish, because times like this weekend are far too few for her. The other Becky will speak to you in a moment, and to make sure that you take what she has to say very seriously, let me briefly go over her credentials.”
Bo interrupted, “You told me she was very brilliant, and is going to UCI.”
“Yes, but I didn’t give you any specifics. She has bachelor’s and master’s degrees in both physics and math, and a week from this coming Saturday, she will receive her doctorates in both. She holds down a job as a Teaching Assistant at UCI in both disciplines. They’ve offered her a job as some sort of professor next semester.”
“My God, Becky! I didn’t realize how far along you really were! I’m so proud of you!” exclaimed Bo. “You’re so accomplished!”
Becky blushed and said, “Thanks, Bo. That means a lot to me. You can skip back to Dynology, Sam. I think Bo’s heard enough about me.”
“I didn’t mean to embarrass you, Beck, but Bo will understand that I had to establish a foundation for what you’re going to tell her. ‘Lawyer speak,’ so to speak. As if you were an expert witness at a trial. Why don’t you finish the story, Beck.”
“OK. Well, Sam had discussed this murder with me, and the cops were messing around at Sparky’s, screwing around with the Mickey legend, and stuff. He also mentioned the Dynology phone number on the Mickey Malone card. I happened to see a posting on the UCI bulletin board announcing that Dynology was looking for entry-level mathematicians. You had to fill out an application, then go there and take a test. So I thought that would be a good way to get inside the place—so I could tell Sam what it was all about in there. You know, what with the security and all.”
Bo lit another cigarette. She was chain-smoking—unusual for her. She said, “That was your idea?”
“Well, yeah. I get good ideas for Sam’s cases all the time. Besides, I was qualified to take the test and I had the required bachelor’s degree in math,” answered Becky.
“I don’t think I’d let my daughter do that, Sam,” Bo said, glaring at Sam.
Becky came to his rescue. “Oh, he told me no! But I can be very persuasive!”
“I’ll bet you can!” smiled Bo. “Go on. What happened?”
“Well, to skip to the chase, I took the test. I flunked it on purpose—it was quite an easy test for me—so I wouldn’t get a call back. But now here’s the interesting part.”
She paused and opened the folder and took out a page. She handed it to Bo. Becky had carefully written all the equations from Problem 10 in black ink in her clear, feminine script.
Bo took the page, looked at it, frowned. “What’s this?”
“One of the problems on the test I took. My guess is that it got on the test by error. Whoever put the test together downloaded this from the wrong file without realizing it. What those equations represent is the partial—I say partial because some of the information is missing—design of a water-propelled submarine engine. A very quiet one,” explained Becky.
Bo sucked in her breath.
My God! So Dynology already has it! We weren’t sure if the info had been passed yet! I’ve got to get this information to D.C. ASAP! Now, how do I contain this? I can’t tell Sam and Becky what this is all about! Shit!
Bo continued to stare at the page, not understanding any of it, but Becky had deciphered it! What a girl!
“You’re sure about this, Becky?” she asked.
“I’ll pretend you didn’t ask that,” laughed Becky. She wanted to tell Bo about her new and better design, but Sam had told her to keep that quiet for now.
“I’m sorry, Becky! It’s . . . just so amazing! I can’t fathom how brilliant you are! Does anyone else know about this discovery?”
Becky replied, “Just me and Sam. Not even Pearl. We didn’t know who to tell, then you showed up. It may not mean anything. But my question was, what is a company like Dynology doing with the design of a sub engine? Do you know, Bo?”
“No. Did anyone see you copy this stuff down when you were taking your test?”
“Heavens no! I couldn’t take anything out of there. I memorized the equations.”
“God! I forgot your fabulous memory, too!”
Bo got up and paced the deck for a moment, then said, “I have to put my FBI hat on now, guys. I have to ask you not to mention this discovery to anyone else—at least until I’ve forwarded this to my group in Washington for analysis. If it turns out to be nothing, then . . .”
“Oh, it’s a sub engine,” said Becky. “Or perhaps a very powerful, very expensive squirt gun! I don’t think you’ll find one like this at Toys ‘Я’ Us! If I were you, I’d take a good look at that place. Tap all their phones, and stuff. Like in the movies. Or the X-Files.”
“Well, I can’t talk about stuff like that, Becky,” she laughed, trying to diffuse Becky’s enthusiasm. “What I do is highly classified.”
Becky pushed the manila folder over to Bo and said, “Everything is documented in here in more detail.”
“Thanks, Becky. You’d make a fine FBI agent.”
“I know. I do all sorts of detective stuff with Sam. We’re like Holmes and Watson—except we never agree on who’s who,” giggled Becky. “I’m very sleuthy!”
“I’ll fax all of this stuff to my boss tomorrow, then we’ll see what’s next,” said Bo as she sat back down. “I believe you when you say it’s a sub engine, but I know you, and my team doesn’t. They’ll want to do their own analysis.”
“There’s a fax on Sam’s computer. You could send it from there,” urged Becky.
“I’ll have to use a secure fax in the FBI office in Santa Ana, Beck. I have to go there in the morning anyway to handle those pirates,” answered Bo.
Sam decided to bring an end to this subject. “Well, there you have it, Bo. I agree with Becky. You should put a microscope on Dynology. Enough of this for now. It’s—let’s see—5:21. What fun thing should we do to finish off the weekend?”
Becky decided this was a good opportunity to play matchmaker. To her knowledge, Sam hadn’t taken Bo out yet. She made her move.
“Hey, Sam, why don’t you take Bo out for a nice dinner tonight? Say, to the San Clemente Pier. You know, The Fisherman’s, best seafood in town! Except for that terrible boat ride, she hasn’t been out of this house. I’m no expert on this, but isn’t that rude somehow?”
Sam liked the suggestion, because knowing that Bo wouldn’t have sex with him with Becky in the house, he figured they could sneak down to the boat after dinner and have a quickie. Bo might agree to that.
Bo had other ideas. Not that she wouldn’t like dinner alone with Sam, but she wanted to spend what could be her last night here doing something
that involved Becky. Her maternal instincts were boiling over.
Bo said, “I think that’s kind of you to suggest something so Sam doesn’t have to cook tonight, Becky, so I suggest the three of us go out together. My treat, though. I insist! I need something to put on my expense report.”
Drats! Foiled again! thought Becky. But in reality, she wouldn’t mind spending more time with Bo, and she hadn’t been out to dinner with Sam for awhile either, which she always enjoyed.
“You’re the guest, Bo. Whatever you want,” said Becky with a shrug.
Sam felt guilty for feeling disappointed because he did enjoy taking Becky out. But his sex plans were dashed.
“OK with you, Sam?” asked Bo, an eyebrow raised.
“Sure,” answered Sam as he shot her a questioning look.
She knew what he meant, but she would deal with that later. “What do I wear to this restaurant? As you can tell from my one bag, I didn’t bring a lot of clothing on this trip.”
Before Sam could give his stock answer of “this is the beach—anything is OK,” Becky—playing matchmaker still—said, “I think we should wear dresses. If you didn’t bring one, don’t worry. You’re the same size as my Nana, and she has a closet full of things to choose from. Right, Sam?”
Why you little minx! thought Sam. What are you up to? You always wear jeans and sneakers when we go there!
Sam said, “That would be fine, Beck. I’ll call and make reservations for eightish. They don’t really take reservations for less than eight people, but I know the manager. That gives us a couple of hours to kill. This iced tea has died, so how about a real drink, Bo? We have time for a quick dip in the ocean—or the pool, if you prefer. What do you say?”
“Yeah!” exclaimed Becky. “You haven’t even been in the pool yet, Bo! Have you even seen it?”
