Island of Thieves

by Glen Erik Hamilton

  At any other time, he’d have let the lack of information go. But after Karla’s subtle nudge about the value of the missing chemical sample and the attack on him this morning, Shaw’s antennae were quivering.

  Addy returned to the living room to say good night, or good morning.

  “I’d like you to do me a favor,” he said.

  “From your tone I can tell I may not enjoy it.”

  “It’s easy. But it’s also a little . . . creepy. You told me once that some of the jobs Penelope had filled were government posts with security clearances. Deep background checks and things like that.”

  “Yes.”

  “I want a profile on someone. They might have changed names one or more times. They might even have covered their tracks to make a search hard for the average person.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “How’d you know it’s a woman?”

  “You said it was creepy. You wouldn’t think twice about this for a man.”

  “The name I know her by is Karla Lokosh. It used to be Karla Haiden.” He spelled the names for Addy. “She went to Berklee College in Boston. She supposedly works for an investment firm called Bridgetrust Group. That’s the sum total of the verifiable facts.”

  “Do you know her personally?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  “I’d take more credit, but you are an open book.”

  “If this isn’t something you want to do—”

  Addy scoffed. “Part of the reason you’re easy for me to read is that I know you well. You’re not asking me to help you stalk the woman. There must be some impetus beyond your sex drive. Is she in trouble?”

  “More like she is trouble. The short version is that she may have a connection to the men who made a run at me this morning. Or maybe not. I need to know.”

  “Whether she can be trusted. I see. Sounds urgent. I’ll tell Penny later today.”

  “Thanks, Addy.”

  “All part of the service.” She headed off to the bedroom. In another moment Shaw heard her pulling the blackout curtains closed. He’d hung those when Addy had started subbing the night shift at Holliday House.

  He went to the kitchen and fried some sausages and rolled them in buttered toast. Stanley had been paying attention since the meat had touched the cold pan. The dog found the strength to get up from the rug and lumber out to join him on the front porch. Shaw sat in one of the Adirondack chairs and ate the food with a liter bottle of water. He tossed bits of an extra sausage to Stanley. When they were done, he set the plate down for the dog to lick and resumed stretching his back and legs. His shoulder ached where the guy built like a fireplug had twisted it. He figured the bastard’s nose was in worse shape. That was a satisfying thought.

  As he stretched his quads, his subconscious nudged him about something.

  Nelson Bao had worked at the company called Avizda until at least February, according to his pay stubs. The date stamp on the chemical sample Shaw had found in Bao’s apartment had been from January. Could the sample be from Avizda instead of Jiangsu Manufacturing?

  He returned to the computer to look up Avizda. It wasn’t difficult to find. The company looked to be a close competitor of DuPont and other industrial conglomerates. Based in Dallas, as Shaw had seen on Bao’s pay stubs.

  It was a leap to guess that the sample might be from the Dallas company. Chen and Zhang could have brought it from China. Hell, the label on it might mean nothing. The vial could have been reused a dozen times since the label had been printed. But all the secrecy and what Karla had told him about Chen’s purported innovation made Shaw wonder if there was another wrinkle to the corporate deal.

  He texted Professor Mills, asking her to call when convenient. The phone rang within a minute.

  “Hello, Professor,” he said. “Thanks.”

  “No problem, I was just starting the day.”

  “I have a question. Or a guess. You know the company Avizda?”

  “Everybody does in my world,” said Mills.

  “Do you know if they’ve had any thefts of their research in the last few months?”

  She made a sound of surprise. “Nothing they’ve shared publicly. That would be industry news. Why?”

  “It’s conjecture. But I came across a chemical sample like we were talking about.” He described the vial and label and contents to her. “It was in the hands of a former Avizda employee. I wondered if it might be stolen. And why.”

  “It does sound like something out of a QC lab. A five-milliliter vial, probably one of a batch of other samples that would be tested during the same shift. The first number, 146, would be the lab’s room number, the rest being the batch number and the date and the initials of the chemist who created the sample.”

  “All the . . . activity around the sample makes me think it could be worth a lot. Worth stealing, maybe straight from Avizda’s Room 146.”

  Mills paused for a moment. “You said the vial was only about a third full. That’s a tiny sample on its own. Could be they’ve already done their testing and used up most of the vial.”

  Shaw considered it. Could Morton and Bao have completed their work on the island before Bao had died?

  “I know some employees at Avizda,” the professor said. “And even more people who have friends and relatives there. You’d be surprised how interwoven the scientific-research community can be. People gossip. I’ll ask around and see if anyone knows whether they’ve had trouble.”

  “Thanks. Again. This might be nothing.”

  “Or it could be industrial espionage. I’m intrigued by all the mystery.”

  She hung up.

  Espionage. The word made Shaw think of Zhang’s hidden passports and Bao’s multiple names.

  Bao’s—and Karla’s.

  “Karla,” said Cyn, coming around the hall corner. Maybe reading Shaw’s thoughts.

  “Yeah?” he said.

  “Who is she?”

  Shaw looked at her. “Big ears you have.”

  “I wasn’t listening. It’s a small house. Who is she?”

  “A friend.”

  “A girlfriend?”

  “We could go round and round like this all morning, Cyn. What do you want to know?”

  “Why are you going out with her?”

  “Same reason you have a dozen video calls going every day with your friends. I like her. I want to spend time with her.”

  “You don’t even trust her.”

  “Different question. Maybe a different answer.”

  “Well, it sucks,” Cyndra said. Her feet planted as if straining to grow roots.

  “Which part?”

  “It’s a shitty thing to do to Wren.”

  Shaw leaned back and folded his arms. “That’s between me and Wren, kid.”

  “You owe her more.”

  “And neither of us owes you an explanation. Not if you’re gonna plant a flag on the moral high ground before you know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  Cyn turned and walked into her room and slammed the door.

  Shaw let out a breath. Stanley stared at him from his place on the rug.

  “That sure could’ve fucking well gone better,” he murmured to the dog.

  Stanley, maybe reluctant to take sides, laid his huge head on his front paws and sighed heavily.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Back in his apartment that afternoon, Shaw took a shower, turning the water on to full cold after he’d soaped up. He forced himself to stay under the frigid spray until his knotted muscles gave up and relaxed. He slept until evening and made a patchwork meal out of leftover pasta, roast beef, and half a head of questionable lettuce that he chopped into a salad. After he’d finished the food, he took out the contract from Sebastien Rohner to look it over again. He owed Droma International an answer.

  His phone rang before he’d gotten past the first paragraph of legalese.

  “Van? This is Penelope Walker.”

  “Hello. How are you feelin
g?”

  “Better. I’ve found some information for you.”

  “That was fast.”

  “It was nice to work a bit. I felt strong this afternoon. Addy said this woman might be some kind of con artist, is that right?”

  “I’m not sure what she is.”

  “I once saw Addy tell off a U.S. senator to his face. If she doesn’t care for someone . . .” Penelope whistled softly. “You didn’t give me much to go on, but fortunately the name Karla Haiden was uncommon enough. I’ve got a few pages of preliminary background notes here. Do you want the full rundown?”

  Shaw didn’t want to exhaust the woman, even if she was feeling stronger. “Give me the high points.”

  “All right,” Penelope said. Shaw heard her shift in her seat, winding up for the pitch. “Karla Ann Haiden, born Salem, Mass. Attended Bishop Fenwick High School. Graduated Berklee College with a bachelor of fine arts—”

  “I’ll rephrase. What surprised you?”

  “Got it. Well, first thing, Karla Haiden was a police officer for six years.”

  Shaw sat up straight in his chair. “Say more.”

  “Massachusetts State Police. Stationed in Brighton for a while and then in Andover. Received a citation for bravery in helping citizens escape an armed shooter and another for community service. She left the force as a corporal. She got married to a man named Stephen Reid, and they divorced three years after, while she was still on the force. Earned an M.B.A. from Boston College during those years, too.”

  “Busy woman.”

  “Then she moved to New York City and obtained a private-investigation license.”

  “This gets better and better,” said Shaw.

  “In New York she worked for two years and a few odd months for a small PI firm called A&A Investigations. They’re in the West Village. Then the public record of employment ends. That was about three years ago.”

  “Ends?”

  “Yes. I imagine she has tax records from somewhere, though I wouldn’t have access to those. But there’s no public trace.”

  Shaw thought about that for a moment. “I didn’t find much on Karla Haiden online. Not even a marriage record. It was like she had vanished after college. And now again, after A&A Investigations.”

  “In my experience, candidates with law-enforcement or government-agency backgrounds learn early not to post much online. And to remove anything that might identify them. No pictures, especially if their job might involve undercover work.”

  “There’s nothing to indicate where she’s employed now?”

  “Her PI license is still valid. She’s kept that up.”

  “And yet Karla Lokosh exists as an employee of Bridgetrust.”

  “Such as it is,” said Penelope. “Bridgetrust Group exists, too, as a New York corporation established eight years ago. They have all the required public filings. There are some news stories of client deals on online business blogs, cut and pasted from press releases. Nothing in any of the major periodicals. And even their clients are unknown factors. Their nominal president, William Flynn, has a few professional data points but nothing substantial behind them. I can’t even ascertain where he went to school.”

  “Is it a front?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far, but if Bridgetrust is really a capital-investment firm, they don’t do much to promote themselves. Which is odd in itself. That line of work is all about trumpeting your victories, real or imagined.”

  Karla Haiden did have an M.B.A. Was she putting that to use after a short career as a PI? Or was Bridgetrust something else?

  Penelope broke in. “Do you want me to e-mail you everything I’ve found? It’s dry reading, but maybe there’s something else in all this that will be useful to you.”

  “Yes.”

  There was a pause on the line. “Can I give my opinion? As a woman who’s seen more job histories than blades of grass?”

  “Please.”

  “I’d remind any hiring manager of the obvious points here. Within a decade Ms. Haiden has had at least two major shifts in career, police and PI, and maybe a third if you count the M.B.A. and Bridgetrust. Plus the short marriage and changing cities. This isn’t just a person looking to find a job, this is someone looking to find herself. She’s willing to wipe her slate clean to do it. I’d caution anyone against investing too much in a flight risk.”

  “Personally or professionally.”

  “Exactly.”

  Shaw remembered what Cyndra had said. You don’t even trust her.

  “You okay?” Penelope said.

  “Yeah. Thanks. This was great work.”

  “Funny how doing a good job uncovering secrets rarely makes anyone happy. Bye.”

  Shaw got up and poured himself three fingers of bourbon. The sun was low. The western light streamed in boldly through the glass door to the balcony. He sat on the chair in front of the TV but didn’t turn it on.

  Karla had been a cop, then a PI, then . . . something else. Whatever job she had now, Shaw felt sure it wasn’t within spitting distance of financial services. Even if she’d put on a good front.

  An expert front, he corrected. It wasn’t just that Karla could talk mergers and acquisitions like a Wharton grad. Shaw had been attuned to spotting cops from childhood. He hadn’t seen one hint—a leading question, an overly focused gaze—that Karla had once been law.

  The woman was a damned chameleon. Impressive. He’d have been even more admiring if his embarrassment at being fooled weren’t so complete.

  No legit private cop would have slept with him, he thought ruefully. Whatever she was now, Karla hadn’t felt obliged to follow any professional ethics. Whoever she worked for might be similarly unbound.

  He picked up the phone again.

  “Hey,” he said when Karla answered. “It’s Van.”

  “Hello, you,” she said, laughing. “Glad you called.”

  “Good day?”

  “Slept in and woke up happy, and except for trying out the hotel’s gym I haven’t gone farther than the bathtub. How are you? Wait. You’re still in town?”

  “I am. I asked for the day to consider Rohner’s offer.”

  “And the day’s almost done. Are you leaning one way or the other?”

  “I’ve been too busy thinking about what happens if that chemical sample really is missing. If someone stole it from the island. Would it really torpedo the deal with Jiangsu Manufacturing?”

  “Bill Flynn thinks it will. Mr. Chen contacted my boss and the Rohners today to say he expected a new chemist from China in about a week. Bill suspects that Chen’s plant is manufacturing more of the chemical but that Chen might also be stalling while he decides whether to continue.”

  “And maybe to see if someone comes forward with an offer.”

  Karla paused. “You mean the thief?”

  “Yeah. Kilbane or someone else. I’ve been thinking about what you said, about the smart play being to sell the stolen sample back to Chen. Or Rohner.”

  “Sure. To sell to anyone else, the thief would have to know exactly what the chemical was and how it worked.”

  “He’d also have to be very careful. It would be natural for anyone to assume the guy who took the sample was the same person who killed Nelson Bao. Even if he were innocent of Bao’s death he might wind up hanging himself if the Rohners decided not to play ball.”

  “That’s right,” said Karla.

  Shaw waited.

  “I suppose the right person to approach about buying the sample back would be the one who needs the deal to happen,” she said. “The one who’d lose the most if the thief went to jail and the sample was lost.”

  “Rohner’s already a billionaire. Chen can make more of his chemical.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I see. You think Kilbane might offer the sample to us. Bridgetrust.”

  “I might. If I were the thief.”

  Shaw waited again.

  “It would be safe,” Karla said at last. “I’m sure Bill would make a
ny exchange safe for everyone. He’s . . . experienced.”

  “We’ll see,” said Shaw. He laughed, low and soft. “If Kilbane’s really clever, he’d come to you instead of Flynn.”

  “How’s that?” Karla returned his laughter. It sounded a little uncertain.

  “You’re smarter than Flynn. And a lot better company.”

  “I am,” she said. “But you know me better than most.”

  “Not as well as I’d like. If I’m not on a plane to Hungary tomorrow and you’re not busy putting this deal together . . .”

  “Yes.” Karla hummed happily. “I’d like to see you again, too.”

  “Great. I’ll call you when I know more.”

  Shaw hung up.

  He’d set the bait about as well as he could manage. Somewhere beyond his perception, he felt sure that something was circling. Something large and hungry, with very sharp teeth.

  Shaw channel-surfed until he found a Mariners game, already in its fifth inning against Tampa Bay. The M’s were up by two. He left the picture on with the sound muted while he cleaned the apartment. His thoughts on Karla Haiden. And the crew that had attacked him in the park. Where were they now?

  The ball game ended, and a postgame show filled the next hour, telling viewers what they’d just seen and what they should think about it. Shaw didn’t need the sound turned up to follow the line of chatter.

  Something made his own Spidey-sense tingle. He turned and looked at the front door. Movement, in the hall outside. Not his neighbors from down the hall. Too quiet.

  Shaw walked to the bedroom and flipped up the screen on his laptop. An application window brightened to life. The app had a wireless connection to a camera roughly the size of a suit button, which Shaw had placed as a security measure on the side of the illuminated stairwell exit sign in the hallway. Every week he swapped the camera for another with a fresh battery. Its feed was high resolution and full color.

  A crystal-clear picture of the cops waiting just outside his door.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Bad: A pair of uniformed Seattle officers stood about twenty-five feet from the camera and only ten from Shaw’s apartment door.

  Worse: The cops hadn’t knocked yet. Which meant they were there to make sure he didn’t leave while they waited for someone of higher authority, probably a detective. Detectives usually made house calls when they had a search warrant or were sure of an arrest, or both.