Island of Thieves

by Glen Erik Hamilton

  FIFTY-ONE

  Shaw woke in the backseat of his truck. He knew it was midafternoon from the angle of the sun and that he’d slept for half the day, a consequence of his bone-deep weariness after driving nearly twenty hours straight with the frenzy in Youngstown smack in the middle of the trip.

  He pushed the door open with his boot and climbed out. His side ached. Sometime during the chase, he’d torn the bandage and the healing scab beneath, only realizing the extent when he was a hundred miles down the state road and the gauze sagged heavy with blood. The next time he stopped to empty his bladder, he’d taped a fresh pad over his ribs, which had finally stopped seeping. Two steps forward, one step back.

  The air outside smelled good. Soil and the wet heat of summer, with the hint of more, maybe rain from the clouds he saw in the northern sky. He’d parked the truck behind a silo near a soybean field on the outskirts of Hannibal, Missouri. Shaw knew next to nothing about farming, but the foot-high rows of leafy green plants hadn’t looked tall enough or thick enough to harvest. Any workers would likely have started by nine in the morning if they were going to show at all. It was a reasonable guess that the field would remain untended through the day. Safe enough. He’d fallen asleep within minutes of curling up in the backseat.

  Now, with the day starting its unhurried end, the crop fairly glowed in the sun. Orderly and peaceful. The path not taken. Shaw relieved himself, drank a full bottle of water and ate half a bag of trail mix, and did his best to stretch without disturbing his side more than it was.

  Once he felt human, he dug his last burner phone from the truck’s hidden compartment and called Karla Haiden.

  “Hello?” she said.

  “Can you talk?”

  “Hold on.”

  Shaw waited. Five seconds. Ten. Maybe she was signaling someone to trace the signal, if that was within Paragon’s capabilities.

  “I’m alone,” Karla said. “Are you okay?”

  “Surviving. Where are you?”

  “Still in Seattle. I think I’ve learned the names and family histories of every staff person at the Plaza by now.”

  “So your company is counting on the deal with Droma and Chen Li.”

  She hesitated. “Yes.”

  “But the chemical hasn’t turned up.”

  “No. It hasn’t.”

  “What if I were able to make that happen?”

  “How?” Karla said. “How could you do that? Do you have it?”

  “What if?”

  “Van. I need you . . .” She paused again. “I have to know. Did you have anything to do with Nelson Bao’s death? Or Linda Edgemont?”

  “I’m not a murderer. I’ve killed men before. In war or in self-defense and in defense of others. But never for profit. Never for hatred.”

  Karla exhaled. “Okay. I trust you.”

  That’s the con, the cold voice said, offering trust to get it in return.

  “Thanks,” said Shaw. “That means a lot.”

  “If you somehow recover the sample,” Karla continued, “I’m sure Sebastien Rohner would put all his efforts toward clearing you. The best lawyers. Somehow they can prove you weren’t involved.”

  “And your company?” Bridgetrust. Paragon. Shaw left it unnamed.

  “Of course. Everything we can. I’ll force them to help if I have to.”

  “Can you meet me?”

  “I . . . Yes. I will. Where are you?”

  “Fly to Denver. Tonight, or the earliest flight tomorrow. Be in the terminal at DIA by nine in the morning.”

  “What happens at nine in the morning?”

  “I’ll be there. And I won’t wait long.”

  “I understand. Will you have the sample with you?”

  “See you there.” Shaw hung up. He removed the battery and SIM card from the cheap flip phone and placed all three in the center console of the truck. The phone could stay invisible until Denver.

  Karla would show. He was certain of that much.

  He’d have to wait to find out who came with her.

  Hargreaves met Karla in the sitting lounge at the Mayflower Park, a carpeted flight of steps above the main lobby. When she’d called up to his room, he’d been showering after an hour on the treadmill in the hotel gym. The gravity in her tone was enough to make him move swiftly. He had told her where to wait, dried, then grabbed the clothes off the first hanger in his closet, slacks and a golf shirt. His stiff hair was damp, and his body temperature hadn’t fully recovered after the run. Fresh beads of sweat rose on his arms, cold in the air-conditioned lobby.

  “What is it?” he said, taking the seat to her left at the low, glass-topped table. An ingrained habit for Hargreaves. Karla was right-handed. Sitting on a person’s weak side put them a tiny bit on the defensive.

  “Van Shaw called me,” said Karla. “Half an hour ago.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He wouldn’t say. He wants to make a deal for the chemical sample.”

  Hargreaves frowned. “After five days of silence, now he claims he has it. What’s his asking price?”

  “Freedom. He wants Sebastien Rohner to provide legal cover. Says he didn’t have anything to do with Linda Edgemont’s homicide, or Nelson Bao’s death, murder or manslaughter or whatever charge the DA settles on.”

  When she was under stress, Karla talked like the cop she’d once been, Hargreaves had noted before. What was causing her anxiety now?

  “Do you believe him?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “That makes one of us. Why did Shaw come to you? Why not Rohner directly?” Hargreaves said. He looked her up and down pointedly. “Or is that an obvious question?”

  She stiffened. “He trusts me enough to start the ball rolling. Without giving him up to the authorities.”

  Hargreaves glanced around the lounge. One of his favorite places in the hotel. Luxurious. The floral patterns of the couch pillows and curved shape of the chairs both Asian-inspired but too subtle to make the place look like a restaurant. A colonial feel. He imagined this was how the Brits had lived when they had their grip on Hong Kong.

  “I think Chen never lost the sample in the first place,” he said. “If Shaw had the chemical, he’d have offered to sell it long before today.” He stopped as though a new thought had occurred to him. “Unless, of course, Shaw had a buyer and it fell through.”

  “Then either way we win. Shaw will barter for the sample, or Chen still has it,” said Karla, her expression flat. “Still leaves us without a suspect for Bao and Edgemont.”

  “Are you interrogating me, Officer Haiden?” Hargreaves smiled. “I was with Sebastien Rohner and Olen Anders the afternoon Linda Edgemont was shot. We had an early dinner at his club. And you know that I was meeting with them and Morton when Bao died.”

  “I didn’t mean you personally, James.”

  “So someone else from Paragon killed them? What do you think we are, Karla? I realize pushing the envelope is our niche. We take care of what our clients can’t handle themselves. Or what services they can’t find elsewhere. But it’s a long walk from that to homicide.”

  Hargreaves dabbed at his damp sideburn with a cocktail napkin. “Shaw’s the one who had something to gain. He got the chemical by killing Bao, or he tried to and fucked it up, and then he went to Linda Edgemont’s house. I don’t know if he was looking to sell her the sample or whether he was just hoping to find something else worth stealing. He’s a damn thief, Karla. Has been since he was a kid. You know his history.”

  She nodded. Skeptical, Hargreaves was sure, but willing to listen.

  “Maybe Shaw imagines he can steal the chemical from Chen,” he said. “And perhaps he can. He seems loaded with unpleasant surprises.” He pointed a finger at her. “Did he say how to contact him?”

  “No. Only that I should start the ball rolling and he’d be in touch.”

  “I’ll contact Rohner. When Shaw calls, you let me know immediately.”

  “I will.”

&
nbsp; “Watch yourself, Karla. If I’m right and you’re wrong, that means Shaw’s killed two people so far. One of them a woman he might have been trying to negotiate a deal through. Just like you.”

  “I’ll be careful.” She rose and walked down the steps and away.

  Hargreaves sat for a few moments at the table, looking at the green brocade curtain that could be drawn in front of the steps to hide the lounge from view. Like the stage of a theater.

  Karla had been telling him the truth about Shaw’s call. He’d checked the automated feed he’d placed on her phone records while he’d hurriedly dressed. A three-minute chat with someone calling from a Central California area code, though he knew full well Shaw was nowhere near Cali. A burner phone, or routed through VOIP, had to be.

  Didn’t mean she’d told him the whole truth, any more than he’d been fully honest with her.

  She had been on her game, in a knee-length dress and a fitted suede blazer. Delicious legs. He fully understood why Shaw had contacted her.

  Shaw would want to see her in person, of course. And maybe she wanted to see him. Karla had that look. Distracted.

  He took out his phone to call Riley.

  FIFTY-TWO

  Addy called on the computer as Shaw was rolling past the endless fields and gullies of Interstate 70 toward Lawrence, Kansas. He had the visor lowered and his sunglasses on to stave off the glare of the setting sun. The laptop sat open on the passenger seat. He tapped the touchpad to accept the call.

  “Van?” Addy’s voice. Shaw was moving into the slow lane and couldn’t glance her way. “All I have is your elbow on the screen.”

  “My elbow can hear you fine,” he said.

  “Where are you? Or can you tell me that?”

  “I’m in Kansas. Heading west.”

  “Cyndra’s here, too.”

  He’d asked Wren to set up a talk with the kid while he was on the road. He hadn’t expected the timing would be so literal. He set the cruise control and let the Ford coast at a couple of miles over the posted limit of seventy-five.

  “Cyn, how are you?”

  No answer. Shaw hoped he’d at least gotten a nod of acknowledgment.

  “What’s it like there?” said Addy. “Can you show us?”

  “Give me a sec.” He set the open laptop on the dashboard, pointed outward. “Okay?”

  “It’s just the road,” Addy said.

  “Now you know how I feel,” Shaw said. “You can see a long way ’cause there’s nothing to see.”

  “You’re spoiled, living around mountains and water,” said Addy. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’re with Professor Mills.”

  Surprised, Shaw turned the laptop around to keep the screen in his peripheral. Addy’s and Cyn’s faces, side by side on the screen. Cyndra’s eyes looking elsewhere. They weren’t in Addy’s tidy little living room. Behind them he saw a bookcase packed with binders and academic tomes thick enough to work as tire chocks. Cyn squeezed closer to Addy as Jemma Mills came in from the left to peer at the screen.

  “Van,” she said. “I have news if you have the time.”

  “Only eight more hours until I get where I’m going,” said Shaw.

  “Eight minutes should do.” Mills glanced at Cyndra.

  “I’m staying,” the teenager said.

  Shaw nodded assent. “She’s come this far.”

  “I made a few calls to colleagues who have contacts at Avizda. And to some industry journalists who keep track of what innovations are brewing. The short version is that Avizda has been investing heavily in sustainable recycling. Something of a holy grail for polymer research.”

  “Recycling? Like bottles and cans?”

  “Like ninety percent of all plastics. Avizda is working on a bridging molecule between polyethylene and polypropylene. I don’t know if they’ve actually succeeded, but if so, the potential applications are tremendous. It creates stabilization where there was little before.”

  “You lost me,” said Shaw.

  Mills chuckled. “I thought I might have. Soap is a good analogy. Dirt and grease are hydrophobic. They repel water. You can’t clean a greasy pan just by rinsing it. You need a hydrophilic—water-loving—molecule to dissolve and grab on to the water. Soap is the bridge molecule that binds those two types together into a solid. Add water and one molecule holds on to water while the other holds on to dirt and carries it away. Do you understand?”

  “Squeaky clean,” said Cyndra from off camera. Not sounding sarcastic, Shaw noted.

  “What Avizda is working on,” Mills said, “is a soap molecule for plastics. Polypropylene and polyethylene are different types of plastics. When they’re melted together and formed into a solid product, they tend to phase-separate, like oil and water. The resulting plastic is weaker as a result and can only be used in certain applications.”

  “So . . . this miracle polymer can create a stronger plastic?” said Shaw.

  “Yes, but much more than that. The real benefit is when you go to recycle that new plastic. Every time a polymer is recycled, it loses integrity. More fresh plastic must be added to make it structurally reliable. There’s no such thing as one-hundred-percent recycled material. After two or maybe three times, that’s it. The polymers become unusable, forever. Permanent landfill.”

  “Unless . . .” Addy prompted.

  “Unless there’s a molecule that stabilizes the polypro and polyeth so that they can be separated cleanly. Recycled potentially dozens or even hundreds of times, each time as strong as before. I wouldn’t use the term ‘infinite recycling,’ but in practical terms it might as well be.”

  “In practical terms,” said Shaw. “What about financial?”

  “Billions. Tens of billions annually,” said Mills. “For one, cheaper production costs if you don’t require as much new plastic every time. Far fewer units to produce overall if you can just melt them down and pour the result into a new mold. The industry won’t change overnight, and a lot of companies will push back hard to keep the status quo. But an innovation this significant will win out eventually.”

  Especially if the government could make the rules for production, thought Shaw. Like in China. Chen would be giving his nation a massive head start.

  “How sure are you that it works?” Shaw said.

  “Are you asking for a probability? Like eighty percent? I can’t say.” Mills held up a cautionary finger. “I can make an educated guess that Avizda believes strongly in the chance that it will work. They think their research is onto something.”

  “They gave it a vote of confidence.”

  “Many millions of votes, in their corporate budget. This kind of trial-and-error experimentation requires a lot of dollars. No one knows that better than an underfunded research scientist like me.”

  “Impoverished but brilliant,” said Addy.

  “Agreed,” said Shaw, taking the next off-ramp. “You told me that the GPC testing couldn’t reveal what was in the polymer, right? Only help chemists make an educated guess?”

  “Yes,” said Mills.

  “So if somebody had a small sample of the chemical and not much else, they might need more information to fill in the blanks.”

  “I’d say so. Especially with a newly engineered molecule. Think of it like looking at an X-ray. You’ll recognize bone and tendon if you’ve seen those before. But if someone’s cartilage was made of balsa wood, you might be in the dark.”

  Shaw nodded. “Until you opened them up.”

  Or had someone hack their corporate computers. Maybe an IT Engineer Level 3. Shaw had an inkling now of how Droma was involved and why Kelvin Welch had been placed at Avizda.

  “Thanks, Professor,” he said. “This is what I needed to know.”

  “Consider me reimbursed. I’m going out tomorrow and buying a few shares of stock in Avizda Industries. If they think it’s worth the gamble, so do I.”

  Shaw pulled over and stopped the truck. The sun was below
the horizon now, leaving a sky painted in mile-high stripes of orange and gold. Its final rays had been caught by the top edge of a low, thick shelf of cumulus. White light shone from every peak of the cloud, like a lightning bolt steaking horizontally across the prairie. He set the laptop in front of him on the dash.

  “Hey, Cyn,” he said. “You got a minute?”

  Cyndra’s pink hair and her eyes popped into view on the right of the screen.

  “Kick the adults out,” he said. “With the professor’s permission.”

  “I’m closing up for the day anyway,” Mills said. “Addy is taking me to dinner.”

  “You’re paying,” Addy said to Shaw. “Cyndra, let yourself out and meet us downstairs. Make sure to shut the door tight.”

  The two women stood, and after a moment Shaw heard the office door close. Cyndra sat in front of the camera, eyes wide.

  “How you doing?” Shaw said.

  “Fine.”

  “I’m sorry I’m not there.”

  Cyn didn’t say anything.

  “And I’m sorry if my being in trouble makes you worried.”

  “I’m not freaked.”

  “’Cause if it were me, and I thought you might have to go away for a long time, I don’t know how I’d handle it. Probably not very well.”

  They sat for a moment. Cyndra looking somewhere below the screen.

  “You remember when you first came to live with Addy?” Shaw said. “For a while there, we weren’t sure we could talk social services in California into letting you stay. You were kinda stressed about that. You remember what Addy said?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Could you tell me? I’m old and my memory isn’t what it used to be.”

  Cyndra pulled a face. “You guys said we’d make it happen. No matter what.”

  “That’s right. No matter what. That worked out, I guess.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Tell me something about summer vacation. Did you decide if you’re doing that skate camp?” Cyndra, like a lot of kids, shifted her obsessions about as often as Shaw changed T-shirts. While she still declared her undying allegiance to roller derby, she had rediscovered her skateboard before school let out.