by David Archer
He sat back in his chair a moment later and started laughing. The buses that left San Diego at ten o’clock were going to four main terminals: Dallas, Texas; Seattle, Washington; St. Paul, Minnesota; and Denver, Colorado. Only one of those would make any sense, as far as Sam was concerned.
Rebecca McGill was coming straight to Sam Prichard.
He dialed Indie on his cell phone and told her to check his work. It took her a moment, but then she was back on the line.
“Sam, I think you’re right,” she said. “I've had Herman scanning security cams at every terminal on those routes, and he found a couple I didn’t even know would be there. He saw her during a stop at Las Vegas, which is on that route, and again at Grand Junction, Colorado. That was yesterday around three, but that confirms she is on her way to Denver. None of the other bus routes would bring her anywhere near those two terminals.”
“If she’s coming here,” Sam said, “then she’s probably coming to us and looking for help. From what Landry told Summer, there is a triad out of San Francisco’s Chinatown that wants her silenced at any cost. Ron told me yesterday that we’ve been getting a lot of calls because of the news coverage out there, saying that Windlass Security is running the investigation. I’m guessing she picked up on it and figures we’ve got the best chance of offering her any kind of protection.”
“Okay, but I've been going over what Herman has put up here,” Indie said. “Sam, I see her getting off the bus in Grand Junction, but she didn’t get back on it. It left without her.”
Sam held the phone to his ear for a moment and stared at the ceiling. “Well, there goes that theory,” he said. “I wonder who she might know in Grand Junction? See what you can find out, will you?”
“I’ll get Herman on it,” she said. “I’ll call you when he gets something. Love you, babe.”
“I love you,” Sam said. He ended the call and sat back again, just thinking for a moment. A moment later, he leaned forward and hit the intercom button on his desk.
“Yes, sir?” Jenna said through the intercom.
“Jenna, find Rob Feinstein and tell him I need him, and then ask Darren Beecher to come down here as soon as Rob and I are done.”
“Yes, sir.”
Feinstein arrived seconds later, and it took Sam only a moment to explain what he had in mind. Rob grinned broadly and threw him a salute, then turned and went to gather a few of his men for Sam’s “special assignment.”
It was less than two minutes later when there was a tap on his door and Sam called out for Darren to enter. He stepped inside and shut the door behind him, then took the chair Sam pointed out in front of his desk.
“Darren, I know I put you on Williamson and McGill, but we’ve pretty well got them figured out. Williamson sold out for a hundred million dollars, which is enough motivation to get most people to do something like this.”
Darren’s eyebrows had shot upward when he heard the figure. “Yeah, I’ll say. And I can’t really say I’m surprised. Everything I found on him suggests that he was a doctor who loved money and a lavish lifestyle. He was a competent surgeon, but he’s been known to perform operations that weren’t exactly necessary or even legal, as long as the money was good. A hundred million was probably many times what he could expect to make as a surgeon, so it would let him spend more time on girls and parties.”
“Yeah, well, it worked. He not only threw away his career, he ended up losing his life and still never got to spend a dime of it. McGill, on the other hand, I could understand. This was the kind of thing he did for a living, basically, and people like him get killed fairly often, especially when someone wants to make sure they stay quiet. We’re pretty sure that’s what happened in his case.”
“Yes, I didn’t find a lot of surprises there. McGill liked money, too, though he seemed to have mellowed out the past few years. I’m thinking his wife had a lot to do with that.”
Sam nodded. “She’s actually the reason I called you down here,” Sam said. “Have you done any kind of a workup on her?”
“Of course,” Darren said. “She’s a peripheral on my main subject, so I have to study her in order to understand him.” He closed his eyes for a second and then began speaking. “Rebecca McGill is twenty-six years old, five feet tall, blonde and blue-eyed and weighs about ninety-five pounds, but that may be soaking wet. She’s actually pretty small, but decently proportioned. I dug up some background on her, and I was surprised to find that it claimed on several occasions that she ran away from an abusive home life when she was fourteen and ended up on the streets. Started out in Houston and then moved on to Fort Worth. By the time she was seventeen, she had several minor arrests for soliciting, and then she moved to Vegas. She spent three years at the Mustang Ranch as one of their most popular girls, but then she met Steven McGill. He started going to Vegas every week just so he could pop out and see her, that went on for about three or four months, and then one day he asked her to marry him. She agreed and they were together from then all the way up to his death a few days ago.”
“What was her involvement in his business? Any idea how much she knew about it?”
“I sincerely doubt she would have known much,” Darren said. “McGill was the sort to keep things close to the vest, and I didn’t find any indication that she was ever directly involved in any of his transactions. She might have been the bookkeeper or something, but she wasn't going out on any of the actual deals with him.” He shrugged. “Want my profiler’s opinion? She married McGill because it was a way out of the life she was in. He provided a good life with a home and luxuries, and she played the part of the dutiful wife and arm candy. I don’t think she loved him, but she probably liked him. And she would have known how to keep him happy, so it was all a win, for her.”
“Darren,” Sam said, “do you know where she was from? Were you able to find that?”
“To be honest, no. I’m not even sure that Rebecca is her real name. There is no record of a missing person report anywhere on Rebecca Downey, and I didn’t find any for anyone named Rebecca that could be her. Now, that being said, I did find a missing person report filed twelve years ago for a Delia Quincy. There wasn't any photo attached, but the description fits Mrs. McGill from that time. Delia Quincy was from Joliet, Illinois. She had a minor police record, mostly for running away, but that last time she just plain disappeared. Officially, no trace of her was ever found, but I suspect it’s her.”
“What about Grand Junction, Colorado? You find anything that might connect Rebecca McGill to Grand Junction?”
Darren pursed his lips and looked at Sam. “Nothing that comes to mind,” he said. “Can I ask why?”
Sam told him about the discovery that Rebecca had been on a bus bound for Denver, but had gotten off in Grand Junction.
“Mr. Prichard,” he began, but Sam cut him off.
“Just Sam, Darren,” Sam said. “Mr. Prichard was my dad, and he’s gone.”
“Okay, Sam, I think you were on the right track. Based on everything I know about her, the only thing that might draw her toward Denver at all would be the hope of some kind of protection or rescue. If she got off the bus in Grand Junction, I’d suspect that she felt it was necessary.”
Sam looked at him for a moment, then slowly nodded his head. “Another question for you,” he said. “When you were with the FBI, did you ever learn anything about the triads? Chinese mafia?”
“Quite a lot, actually,” Darren said. “I did my stint in the organized crime units, and part of that was spent in Los Angeles. Triads out there are pretty ruthless. Are you thinking that’s who she’s running from?”
“Apparently, it was a triad in San Francisco that originally was supposed to arrange the theft of the chip. They went to a lawyer out there who apparently can arrange things, and he went to McGill. McGill must have approached Williamson, who got an accomplice to work with him on stealing it. Trouble was, McGill found out that the triad was going to kill Williamson after paying him the hundred milli
on. Landry believes that McGill got his wife to follow Williamson until he got tossed out in the alley and take the package that would have given him access to the money. The gambit was supposed to leave the McGills with the hundred million, but the triad killed him. Now, Mrs. McGill has everything connected to that money and the triad wants to get it back and silence her in the process. What I’m wondering is whether the triad would be capable of tracking her down on that bus.”
Darren shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t think they could do it on their own,” he said, “but they wouldn’t have to. California triads seem to have people inside almost every police department out there. All they would do is tell their police contacts who they were looking for, and let them put out an alert. If they play it right, they could even get the FBI involved and make it a national search. All they’d have to do is list her as a person of interest in a major investigation and the FBI’d be happy to put an all points bulletin out on her. She’d have every cop in the country showing her picture around and asking questions.”
Sam chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment. “But what would make her get off that bus? My wife found security camera video from the bus station there, and there was no sign of police anywhere near the bus.”
“They wouldn’t have to come near it. They could just call the driver and have him look for someone matching the description. If he finds someone that fits, they’d just plan to pick her up at the next stop. Now, it’s possible she overheard something like that and decided to ditch. I would, if I was in her position.”
“I know she didn’t have much money when she left San Francisco,” Sam said, “so she could be stranded over there. Grand Junction is not huge, but I’m sure it wouldn’t be easy to find her, especially if she’s not sure who it is that’s looking for her.”
Darren shook his head. “I seriously doubt she’s stranded,” he said. “Mrs. McGill is a very resourceful young woman. Remember, Sam, she spent four years surviving on the street as a hooker, and never ended up dead in the gutter. She’s got to be a pretty sharp gal. If she was headed here, and I think you might be right on that, then she’s probably either already in Denver and working on how to make contact with us, or she’s working on how to get here. She is not the type to roll over and play dead, not by a long shot.”
Sam made an exasperated noise with his lips. “It’d be a lot easier if she would just pick up the phone and call us,” he said. “I’d be more than happy to drive over there and pick her up. I suspect she’s going to be able to help us solve the whole case.”
“She probably will,” Darren said, “if we can keep her alive long enough. Triads are pretty well known for silencing people, even when they seem to have really good security around them. You’ll need to be very careful with her, once you get her. If the triad knows she’s with us, they’ll do their level best to shut her up for good.”
Sam thanked him and let him go back to his own cubicle, then pushed the intercom button again. “Jenna? Can you find Denny Cortlandt and tell him I’d like to see him?”
“Yes, sir,” Jenna said, “and Mr. Streeter is here.”
14
“You got how many employees?” Steve asked, his eyes wide.
“At this facility,” Doctor Prentiss said, “we have roughly seven hundred and thirty. Throughout the company, however, there’s nearly twice that number.”
“Oh, boy,” Steve said. “Well, we need to take a good look at every employee who is between a hundred and fifty and a hundred and seventy pounds, and wears a size nine and a half up to ten and a half shoe. Is there any way you can give me a list like that?”
Prentiss, who happened to be Chief Operations Officer of the company, turned to his computer and began typing. “It shouldn’t be a problem,” he said. “Give me just a minute.” He watched his monitor for a moment, then touched something on the screen and the printer behind him began working. “I don’t actually have their shoe sizes, but the company has a wellness program that keeps track of weight, so I’m going off of that. That dropped it down to only a hundred and twenty-one. I’m printing them out for you now.”
“Can you tell me how many of those people are here at work today?”
“Well, it looks like most of them. There are a few who are out on external assignments, and I see two of them are out sick today, but everyone else is here.”
Steve let out a sigh. “So, we’re looking at about a hundred and ten, hundred and fifteen? Let’s start calling them in, then. One at a time. Walter and I will interview them. Got an interview room we can use?”
Prentiss waggled a finger and Stanley Harper stepped up from where he had been waiting at the back of the room. “Stanley, set them up in the tactical room.” He turned back to Steve. “That’s what we call the room where we ream someone’s ass. I figured it might add a bit of seriousness to your interviews.”
Steve grinned. “Good idea,” he said. “Make them nervous before we start hitting them with questions.”
Stanley took them down a hallway and showed them into a room with a single rectangular table and four chairs, two on either side. There was a water cooler on one side of the room, and a smaller table held glasses and an ice maker. Walter got himself a glass of water immediately and sat in one of the chairs, and Steve followed suit a moment later.
“I’ll be your liaison,” Stanley said. “Let me know when you’re ready for the first one.” He indicated the list, which he had mounted on a clipboard.
“We’re ready,” Steve said. “Who’s up first?”
“Jerry Waller,” Stanley said. “Jerry’s a technician on our prosthetic fingers project. I doubt he would be involved in this, but I guess we have to go through everyone, right?”
Steve looked at him. “Why do you think he wouldn’t be involved?”
“Well, Jerry works in a different section, and never even goes into the high-end labs. He’s more of a fabricator than a scientist. His job is to make the individual pieces of a prosthetic finger, measured to match the size and shape of the original fingers.”
Steve watched him for a moment, then looked at Walter. “What do you think?” he asked.
“Stanley knows the people,” Walter said.
“I agree,” Steve said. “Stanley, why don’t you bring us the ones you think are most likely to have had access to the chip, or been able to get to it? Let’s talk to them first.”
Stanley blinked, then looked down at his list. “Um, well—then I’ll go get Mark Bixby. He works in the bioengineering lab, and he would know where the chip was kept.” He turned and walked out, and Steve turned to Walter again.
“How much can you tell about someone by looking at them?” he asked.
“I can guess how much they weigh, and how tall they are,” Walter said. “I can tell the shoe size pretty well if I get a good look.”
“Okay. I've heard you can tell when someone is lying. Is that true?”
“Faces give it away most of the time. People make a face that says they’re not sure what they’re saying, or they’re mad about what they’re saying. That usually means they’re lying.”
Steve nodded. “Microexpressions,” he said. “Did you ever see that TV show about that?”
Walter nodded. “Yes. It was a good show. I wish it was still on.”
Steve grinned at him. “Yeah, it was all right. Okay, then, how about this: I’ll ask questions, and you watch to see if they’re telling the truth, okay? If you think someone is lying, just look over at me and I’ll try to push it a bit, make them tell the truth.”
“Okay.”
Stanley came back a couple of minutes later with Mark Bixby and introduced him, then stepped out the door. Bixby looked nervous, but he smiled.
“Hi,” he said. “Can you tell me what this is about?”
“Hi, Mark,” Steve said. “I’m Steve Beck with Windlass Security, and this is my associate, Walter Rawlins. We’re investigating the theft of the BCI chip last week, you heard about that?”
&
nbsp; Mark grinned. “Everyone has heard about that,” he said. “Nobody can believe it, either. Dr. Williamson was a good guy, I don’t think anyone ever would have guessed he could do something like this.”
“Yeah, well, they would’ve been right. Dr. Williamson may have carried the chip to someone to sell it, Mark, but he didn’t steal it out of the clean room. Right now, we’re working on the hypothesis that he was afraid to try it on his own, but it seems he had an accomplice here within the company. We were wondering if you might know of someone who’s been acting strange lately, somebody you think might’ve been willing to work with him on this.”
Mark’s eyes had gone wide. “Me? Why would I have any idea?”
“Well, I don’t know that you do. I’m just asking everyone if they can think of anyone who might have been acting out of character, lately, especially someone who might know how to get hold of a master key card, and who would know where the chip was stored. Does that sound like anyone you know?”
Mark actually seemed to be giving it thought for a moment, but then he shook his head. “I can’t think of anyone,” he said.
Walter turned and looked at Steve, who sighed. “Okay, Mark,” he said, “let’s try this again. I’m pretty sure you just thought of at least one person who might be the one we’re looking for. Want to tell me who it was, or do I have to resort to more persuasive measures, like a polygraph?”
Mark’s eyes shot open wide again. “No, I...”
“Don’t,” Steve said, leaning forward and using all the practice he had gained in thirty years of police interrogations to make his gaze look threatening. “At this moment, you have the chance to avoid getting yourself into any trouble by telling me who you suspect, but if you refuse to do so, you could eventually be charged as an accessory to the crime. Right now, that means you could face up to twenty years for colluding in industrial espionage; if it turns out the buyer was a foreign company, it could become economic espionage and get much worse. It's time to think about yourself, son, not your friends.”
