She nodded.
The FBI would access McMahon’s emails and see if there was any indication of what his plans were yesterday. There also might be information about where he was living and who else he was talking to.
While Leo took all the files and information to the tech unit, Lucy walked Lisa and her brother out. She tried to reassure them that the FBI was doing everything they could to find the truth about what happened with Charlie, but she didn’t think they believed her—or that anyone could ever learn the truth.
Lucy walked back inside the office, frustrated that she couldn’t give Charlie’s widow any more reassurances. Leo caught up with her as she made her way to her desk.
“Our cybercrimes team is going to hack into his email,” Leo said, “but we already have a lead on where he was staying. Not a location yet, but he used his credit card multiple times in a six-block radius in the Harlandale neighborhood.”
“Are there cheap apartments down there?”
Leo nodded. “I convinced Jordan we needed officers to canvass the area. He agreed it was a good lead, so he’s assigning Jones and someone who speaks fluent Spanish. Plainclothes, because cops in that area will get the cold shoulder. Let’s go, we’re meeting Cortland Clarke at eleven thirty.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Clarke-Harrison Research had two identical three-story buildings that connected through a skywalk only minutes from the San Antonio airport. The easternmost building was completely secured with two visible guards and perimeter fencing; the western building was open, and that’s where Lucy and Leo entered the lobby. The only way to access the far building was through the guard gate, or the third-floor skywalk. The structures were elegant, sleek, functional, and a bit futuristic, which Lucy supposed was a plus in the field of advanced medical research.
They showed their IDs to the security guard who manned the camera-heavy front desk. Another guard was posted at the elevators and he had a view of both the elevator banks, sweeping staircase, and lobby.
Leo said, “We have an eleven thirty appointment with Cortland Clarke.”
“I’ll notify Ms. Clarke’s assistant.”
Lucy and Leo walked over to the front of the building where they had a bit of privacy. “A lot of wasted space,” Leo mumbled. The lobby itself was two stories tall and all windows. There were several sitting areas with couches and plush carpets on the cold cement floor, potted plants—Lucy touched one and noted they were fake, but high quality—and brightly colored artwork on sturdy easels since there was little wall space to hang anything. At first glance it appeared to be simple contemporary art. Lucy inspected the closest one to her—an intricate yellow-and-blue organism—and read the sign. It was the Ebola virus magnified more than one hundred thousand times. It was eerily beautiful.
“I read up on the company this morning,” Lucy said. “Cortland Clarke and Garrett Harrison started CHR sixteen years ago with a grant from Clarke’s grandfather, a philanthropist named Hiram Clarke. He died three years ago. Clarke has two master’s degrees—in biology and marketing communications. Harrison has a medical degree from Johns Hopkins, specializing in neurology. He was working in a trauma hospital in New York when the elder Clarke approached him about a paper he’d published on amnesia. Clarke wanted to fund research into amnesia and memory loss. Another research company had gone through trials but lost their funding after a scandal, so Clarke used the grant to buy out the company and they were already ahead of the game when Harrison came on board. Three years later Clarke-Harrison had their first drug approved by the FDA for migraine headaches. They received a larger grant and expanded into Alzheimer’s research—which is Dr. Harrison’s focus.”
“And is that when they brought McMahon on?”
“It doesn’t say on their website—they could have scrubbed all mention of him after they fired him. They received FDA approval for a drug two years ago that has shown some success in slowing the progression of Alzheimer’s, but I read some articles that indicate it wasn’t as well received by the industry because it’s very expensive for few benefits—or at least few benefits that the patients can see. They’re working on what they call a breakthrough in Alzheimer’s research that was approved for human trials earlier this year, and they hope to have it on the market by the end of next year. Early tests have indicated that the drug is able to completely stop the progression of Alzheimer’s. You can’t reclaim memories that have been lost, but the patients don’t get worse.”
“If that’s for real, it could change the quality of life for millions of families.”
Lucy had some knowledge of medicine, but not enough to fully understand Clarke-Harrison Research. But if what they touted on their website was true, they could become a household name in only a few years.
It was a good fifteen minutes—and Leo was growing increasingly frustrated—before Cortland Clarke’s assistant approached them.
“I apologize for keeping you waiting,” he said in a low, well-modulated voice. “I’m Edwin Bennett. Ms. Clarke was in the lab and the test took longer than we thought. Please, follow me.”
He used his key card to get into the elevator and then to access the third floor. The elevator opened into a plush lobby with a view of San Antonio in the distance. An airplane descended practically in front of them, over the freeway, landing on a distant runway. The soundproofing was as state-of-the-art as the building itself. Lucy could barely hear the plane.
Edwin led them to a set of double doors labeled with Cortland Clarke’s name, which opened into a smaller waiting room with two secretaries. Four closed doors showed people through glass working on computers or talking on the phone. A fifth door with Edwin’s name on it was open; he had the best view of the support staff. He passed his office and knocked on another set of double doors, then opened before waiting for a response.
“Agents Proctor and Kincaid are here. May I get either of you coffee? Water? Tea?”
“We’re good,” Leo said.
“Let me know if you need me, Ms. Clarke,” Edwin said and stepped out, closing the doors behind him.
Cortland Clarke was a beautiful woman with long straight blond hair and dressed in a sleek black pencil-thin skirt and creamy silk blouse. Her makeup was impeccable and she walked in four-inch spike heels with the grace of a ballerina, something Lucy had never been able to master.
Behind her sat an older man in a conservative-cut three-piece suit and burgundy silk tie with matching handkerchief folded and placed precisely in his breast pocket. Lucy didn’t know much about clothes—especially men’s clothes—but the ensemble looked expensive.
She shook their hands. “I’m so sorry to meet you under such terrible circumstances.” She motioned for them to sit at the conference table by the windows, then introduced them to Robert White. Before she even said lawyer Lucy knew he was the Clarke-Harrison corporate counsel. His whole demeanor practically screamed attorney.
“Please sit,” Cortland said as she herself sat at a seat with a mug of coffee already half gone. She sipped. “Are you sure I can’t have Edwin bring you something to drink?”
Leo sat across from them and Lucy sat next to the senior agent. All business, he declined the second offer for beverages, and said, “You’re aware of the hostage situation yesterday morning downtown?”
Cortland nodded. “Horrific.”
“How long had Mr. McMahon worked for Clarke-Harrison?” Leo asked.
“Nearly twelve years.”
“And he was fired—according to his wife—in May of this year?”
“Yes, his employment was terminated.”
“Why?”
“That’s confidential.”
“McMahon’s dead. Employee confidentiality doesn’t transcend death.”
“In this case, I disagree. His termination related to an ongoing proprietary research project and thus I can’t discuss any details with you.”
“I can get a warrant.”
White spoke up. “I doubt that. McMahon was termin
ated two months ago. The tragedy yesterday has nothing to do with his terminated employment. If—and I use this as a big hypothetical if—his termination led him down a mental slippery slope that resulted in him taking fifteen people hostage, we don’t have even a tertiary responsibility for that.”
“I didn’t suggest you did,” Leo said. “I’m trying to figure out why an otherwise brilliant scientist with a PhD took fifteen people hostage. Our investigation indicates his behavior changed around the time he was terminated.”
Cortland put her hand on the attorney’s forearm and said, “Agents, I am heartbroken over what happened. Charlie was a valued part of our family here at Clarke-Harrison. Other than myself and Garrett, Charlie was here longer than anyone. I can state without violating any confidentiality agreements that Charlie was going through a difficult time at home. He and his wife had been fighting, and he couldn’t seem to leave his personal problems outside the office. Garrett and I went to him and suggested he take a sabbatical—we offer a six-month paid sabbatical to any employee every seven years, and Charlie has never taken one. He refused. His wife left him. His behavior got worse, and a series of internal events forced us to terminate him. It was our last choice, but at that point it was our only choice.”
“And that, Agent Proctor,” the attorney said, “is far more than either of us should say on this matter.”
Cortland Clarke had said virtually nothing of substance in her long speech, but sat straight with a concerned expression, as if she’d been far more forthcoming than she actually had been. Lucy knew they wouldn’t be able to rattle her or get her to slip up.
“Please explain the circumstances regarding Mr. McMahon’s arrest for vandalism,” Leo said.
“We filed a police report. You should be able to access that, correct?” Cortland said.
“I’d like to hear what you have to say on the matter. It was less than two weeks after he was fired, you had him arrested but then dropped the charges. Why did you drop the charges?”
White slid over a thin folder. “In case you haven’t received the police report, here’s a copy. Ms. Clarke’s statement is in there, as well as the guard who uncovered the vandalism.”
Leo didn’t look at the information, but slid the folder over to Lucy. She glanced through it. There was nothing they didn’t already know. “Why did you drop the charges?” he repeated.
“As I said,” Cortland began, “Charlie is like family, and he’d devoted most of his professional life to our research. His behavior had been erratic, and I felt he needed help, that going to prison would not serve anyone’s best interests. He paid for the damages out of his severance package, and Garrett and I felt that was sufficient. I made it clear to Charlie that if he came back to the property I would have him arrested for harassment. He didn’t return. I had hoped he finally went to see a counselor or someone who could help him work through whatever he was going through, but it’s clear he hadn’t.”
Leo paused, and Lucy wondered if they were done. She almost stood when Leo said, “I regret to inform you that Paul Grey was found dead yesterday.”
The information was clearly not a surprise to Cortland. “Another tragedy. Diane called me last night in tears. I’m stunned.”
“Mrs. Grey filed a missing persons report Tuesday morning,” Leo said, “and based on her statement, Mr. Grey called her Monday and said he would be working late. When the sheriff contacted your office, Mr. Grey’s assistant said that he had left at four thirty Monday afternoon and had no plans to return.”
“I verified that with his assistant, and it’s correct. Our legal office offered security footage to the police if they needed to corroborate that.”
“You can give it to us,” Lucy said, speaking up for the first time.
Leo glanced at her. Was he surprised? Didn’t matter to Lucy—that security footage would be the most recent image they had of Grey. They could determine whether he was wearing the same clothes as when his body was found, plus they might be able to get some idea of his state of mind.
“Of course,” Cortland said. “But can I ask why? You’ve found him—I’m still stunned that Charlie killed his best friend.”
“We didn’t say that,” Leo said, a thread of anger in his voice.
Lucy realized that Leo was taking this case personally. He’d felt a connection—as many hostage negotiators do—with the hostage-taker. Like Lucy, he felt there was something more going on than what appeared to have happened, and he wanted to get to the bottom of it. But it was far more personal for Leo, and now Lucy understood what Nate was concerned about. This hostility could create problems, especially with witnesses like Cortland Clarke and her attorney, who were extremely savvy.
“Nooo,” Cortland said slowly, clearly catching on to Leo’s tone, “but Diane told me Paul’s body was found in Charlie’s house. I apologize if I jumped to the wrong conclusion. But you should know that Diane is certain that Charlie killed him—she was quite hysterical. Her sister was with her, finally got her to take a Valium and calm down. Poor woman.”
“We need to access Mr. Grey’s office, schedule, what he was working on, and to talk to his assistant—and Mr. McMahon’s assistant.”
“Slow down,” White said. “First, we can’t allow you access to Clarke-Harrison’s research. Mr. Grey was working on a highly sensitive and important clinical trial, and none of that information will be provided to the FBI or law enforcement. You can attempt a warrant, and I will quash it. Mr. Grey’s schedule is included in that—though I reviewed the day he left early and determined there was nothing proprietary on the sheet, so I made you a printout.” He slid it over to Leo.
Lucy glanced over. There was nothing on the calendar except at five thirty p.m.: Meeting with C. R.
“Who is C. R.?” Lucy asked.
“We don’t know. We assume it was personal. But he did leave at about four thirty—four twenty-six according to his key card and the security cameras.”
“We’d still like to talk to the assistant,” Leo said. “She may know who C. R. is.”
“We asked, she doesn’t.”
“We want to talk to her,” Leo reiterated firmly. “To ask about his state of mind and anything he may have said about this meeting.”
White sighed—it was clear he didn’t want them to talk to anyone else at CHR.
“In addition,” Leo said, “Mr. Grey is party to charges of assault against Mr. McMahon. His assistant may have pertinent information regarding their altercation. I can do this the hard way if you’d prefer, Mr. White.”
Cortland pressed a button on the conference table phone. “Edwin, please bring Nina Okala in.”
“We also need to speak to Mr. McMahon’s assistant.”
“Mr. Paine is no longer with us. We terminated his employment when we found he’d let Mr. McMahon into the building the night he was arrested, resulting in the vandalism.”
“We need Mr. Paine’s contact information,” Leo said.
“We’ll provide you with that, of course,” Cortland said.
“Have you seen Mr. McMahon since he was fired?” Leo asked.
She seemed surprised by the question. “No, I haven’t—Robert spoke with the police after the break-in.”
Leo turned to the attorney. “Did you talk to Mr. McMahon?”
“Yes, briefly. To sign the agreement about damages.”
“He didn’t use an attorney?”
“To my knowledge, he didn’t retain one. He appeared remorseful for his actions and apologized. The police detective was there, he can attest that the meeting was cordial. It lasted maybe five minutes.”
There was a knock on the door, and Edwin brought in a petite older woman in a suit as trim and professional as Cortland Clarke’s.
Cortland smiled and motioned for the woman to sit. “Ms. Okala, these are the FBI agents looking into Paul’s murder. They were hoping you could answer some questions about Paul’s demeanor on Monday when he left.”
“Anything to help,�
� the woman said.
Leo asked, “How long have you worked for Mr. Grey?”
“Two months.”
Lucy didn’t miss the fact that two months was about as long as Charlie McMahon had been gone.
“On Monday he called his wife at four and said he was working late and not to expect him for dinner, then he left the office to meet with someone with the initials C. R. Do you know who C. R. is?”
“I’m sorry, I do not.”
“What did he tell you?”
“I actually didn’t see him when he left. I knew of the meeting because it was on his calendar. I asked him that morning if he wanted to meet in his office or have me schedule a conference room, and he said it was off site.”
“Did you ask why?”
“No.”
“Did you schedule the meeting?”
“No, he put it on his calendar himself.”
“Did he have any other meetings with C. R.?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Wouldn’t you know? Did you schedule all his meetings?”
She glanced at Cortland.
Cortland frowned. “Why these hostile questions, Agent Proctor?”
“I’m sorry you’re taking this interview as being hostile,” Leo said. “I can assure you, our sole purpose is to find Paul Grey’s killer.”
Ms. Okala cleared her throat and said, “Mr. Grey didn’t have many meetings outside the building—he had a regular staff meeting twice a week with his division, and occasionally with other people in house. He was a research scientist.”
Cortland said, “What Ms. Okala means is that Paul worked in the lab. It’s public information that he was brought on eight years ago, on Charlie’s recommendation, to help with our expanded Alzheimer’s research program. Paul’s specialty was scientific data analysis.”
“No one thought it odd that he was leaving for an off-site meeting?”
“I assumed it was personal,” Ms. Okala said, “and he put it in his calendar so he wouldn’t forget.”
Almost verbatim what Cortland had said.
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