Dead Float (10 page)

Chapter Twenty

Neither Daina nor I felt sleepy, so we sat out on my porch, bundled in sweatshirts with a bottle of Rémy Martin to keep us warm. Archie and Dylan got on immediately and were both lying at Daina's feet, as if they knew it would be a comfort to her. The valley appeared as a black hole beneath a dim chunk of moon shaped like a lopsided football. Coyotes yipped now and then down in the quarry, causing Dylan to spring to his feet and bark into the darkness. Archie's only response was to lift his head off the cedar planks in mute irritation.

We didn't speak for a long time. Finally Daina said, “What happened tonight is connected to the murder of Hal Bruckner, isn't it?”

“That's my guess. Looks like someone wanted those NanoTech files and tried to cover it up by staging a garden-variety burglary. A clumsy attempt but good enough for the local cops. Do you really think the prowler was trying to hurt you or just trying to get out of there?”

She paused for a moment. “I really don't know.”

“Suppose the break-in
was
connected to the murder. Any idea what this guy might've been looking for?”

She sighed heavily and sat up a little straighter. “Well, like I said, the particular files he took don't seem valuable in any way I can see. But I'm constantly bringing confidential stuff back and forth from work—project reports, financial spreadsheets, personnel evaluations—you name it. Lots of sensitive stuff.”

“What's the
most
sensitive?”

“That's a no-brainer—anything relating to Diamond Wire.”

“What the hell's Diamond Wire all about, anyway? What can you tell me?”

Daina gave me a look, and I added, “I know, I know, you'll have to kill me once you do.”

She laughed. “Well, I'm sure you've heard of quantum computing, which is an area of exploding importance across the globe. Quantum computers will make our current computers look like adding machines.”

“Oh, great. Can't wait to see what the NSA does with that.”

She laughed. “Well, they're more theoretical than practical at the moment.”

“What makes them so fast?”

“They'll use
photons
instead of clunky old electrons to move the data around.”

“Like replacing a tortoise with a hare?”

“More like replacing a tortoise with a
rocket
. It's the quantum properties of the photons of light that make the difference. See, current computers work by manipulating bits that exist in either one of two states, zero or one, which limits them to one calculation at a time.”

“The binary system.”

“Right, but because of the weird quantum properties of photons, a quantum computer can use multiple zero and one states
simultaneously
. This gives it the potential to be millions of times more powerful than today's supercomputers.”

I wrinkled my forehead. “I don't—”

Daina laughed and raised a hand like a traffic cop. “It has something to do with the wave-particle duality of photons, but don't ask me to explain it. I'm no quantum physicist.”

“Okay, I concede. So, how does the Diamond Wire project fit into this?”

“Well, it turns out one of the biggest stumbling blocks to making a practical quantum computer is the lack of a reliable device to generate single photons and deliver them to a processor. Pitman claims his Diamond Wire invention solves that problem.”

“How does he do it?”

She smiled. “That's the confidential part. Actually, I couldn't explain that either, but I can tell you it involves forming nanotubes in a diamond substrate and then generating the photons with a laser. The nanotubes act like guides for the photons, sort of like what copper wires do for electrons. But these tubes are 50,000 times
smaller
than a human hair. Pitman told me comparing a nanotube to a human hair's like comparing that hair to the Eiffel Tower.”

“How do you know these nanotubes really work?”

“I have a good technical man on the inside. He's looked over the patent applications, the experimental setup, and the data. Rusty tells me Diamond Wire's the real deal.”

Who'd be interested in the project?”

“
Everyone
actively working in quantum computing—private companies, top universities, even national governments. A working quantum computer would be an awesome cyber weapon. It could smash every encryption algorithm ever invented. No state secrets would be safe.”

“Any thoughts on who might pose the biggest security threat to NanoTech?”

“Hal was worried about a French firm called TM-E, and a Chinese company, Guangzhou Micro Tech. They're both known to have no scruples and to be willing to pay handsomely for trade secrets. Nothing confidential about that.”

“Was he worried about Pitman going over to the dark side?”

She hesitated for a moment, as if considering what to say next. A satellite crossed the night sky like an errant star, and the frogs holding forth down in the quarry went mute as if to listen in. “Actually, he did have some concerns.”

“Isn't Pitman legally prevented from working for a direct competitor?”

She paused again, meeting my eyes for a moment. “We're getting close to the line here, Cal. I'm bound by confidentiality. You're a lawyer, you know the drill.”

I smiled. “Yeah, I understand. It's just that this seems pretty relevant to my, uh, I should say
our
situation.” I pointed to her face. “Judging from that bruise I'd say you've got some skin in this game, too.”

She laughed, and her hand went to her cheek. I guess I can tell you that Pitman's legally bound to NanoTech
only
if he signed a security agreement to that effect.”

“Did he?”

“Good question. Hal claimed he had, but the trouble is he apparently misplaced the agreement.” She chuckled and shook her head. “When I asked him about it, he said, ‘I'm an entrepreneur, not a goddamn file clerk.'”

“Does Pitman know the document's missing?”

“I'm not sure. I do know Hal had a lot of people in the company looking for it. Pitman could have easily heard about the search. One thing's for sure, if Pitman's planning to bolt, he needs to know if the document's still around.”

We fell silent again as I topped up our glasses. A breeze stirred, carrying the faint scent of the lilac bushes along the fence line. Daina swirled the brandy in her glass, breathed in the aroma, took a sip. “You know, Pitman loves his bottled water. He's never without one at work, in his office, at meetings. It's like an extension of his hand. Maybe that was his water you found out in the yard.”

I set my glass down. “Huh. Interesting thought. We're all creatures of habit, you know. The water was Crystal Geyser, I think. Ring a bell?”

Daina shrugged. “No, but I guess I could check out what kind of water he drinks.”

“Wouldn't hurt.” In the weak light, I could see that the bruise on the side of her face had darkened, but the bandage I'd put on her ear had stopped the bleeding. “How's your shoulder feel?”

She gingerly rotated her arm. “Better, thanks.”

“Your inside guy, what's his name again?

“Rusty. Rusty Musik.”

“Right. Sounds like he has a pretty free run of Pitman's operation. Has he seen anything suspicious?”

Daina got up abruptly and walked to the porch railing. Dylan followed. A couple of coyotes cut loose, raising a ridge of fur along Dylan's back. “I've already told you more than I should've about NanoTech, Cal.”

“I appreciate that. I just thought, you know, maybe Bruckner wanted Rusty to snoop a little…e-mail, correspondence, that sort of thing. See what Pitman was up to.”

“That's
not
the kind of consulting I do.”

She spoke with such finality I knew the subject was closed. I was also pretty damn sure she knew more than she was telling me.

Chapter Twenty-one

It must have been close to three when I showed Daina and Dylan to the guest bedroom at the end of the hall on the second floor. We had gotten around to discussing Claire, and wishing to avoid another emotional meltdown, I'd put a positive spin on her situation. I could tell Daina didn't buy it, but to her credit she didn't press it. She and her dog came down the next morning as I was making coffee. Suddenly her presence felt awkward. Maybe having a woman in my kitchen in the morning was too intimate or an invasion of my space. The Aerie was my refuge, and I wanted to keep it that way.

I offered Daina breakfast, but to my relief she turned me down. As she and Dylan pulled out in her Bug, I had the distinct feeling she understood where I was coming from, although not a word passed between us about it. The last thing she did was squeeze my hand and say, “I feel like Claire's safe, Cal.”

I checked in with Harrelson at eight o'clock. He wasn't so upbeat this time. Apparently, the Janjaweed militia was demanding weapons as well as safe passage out of the village. He also told me the story had been picked up by the wire services. They were describing it as a “tense standoff” between the militia and African Union forces. The only good news, at least as far as I was concerned, was that in addition to Claire's team, the rebel militia was holding several UN and Red Cross workers hostage. Surely this would put more pressure on them to release everyone.

I thought about flying to Khartoum and vowed I would if the situation threatened to drag out. I had to smile at one point, picturing myself on a camel like Lawrence of Arabia. I went online and found a Lufthansa flight with two stops for $1,644. I was sure my presence in Sudan would just thrill the State Department, but I felt better knowing I had a course of action, no matter how crazy it might be. I'd give Harrelson and Well Spring one more day, I decided, and dismissed the thought that Escalante and Dorn could veto my travel plans.

Dwelling on the past was something I fought against every day. But thoughts of Claire had a way of breaching my defenses. I found myself drifting back to my old life and the events that had nearly broken me.

It should never have happened. It was that simple and, of course, that complex. My wife, Nancy, had been an artist who also taught art history at Occidental College. She had a beautiful, spirited daughter and a husband who was rising fast in the city of Los Angeles' criminal justice system. By all accounts, ours was a happy family. Sure, she was taking anti-depressants, but so were a lot of other people.

On a rainy Tuesday morning after Claire and I had hurried off to school and work, Nan swallowed an entire bottle of prescription sleeping pills, crawled back into bed, and slowly and enigmatically slipped away from us.

A tragic result of a depressive personality, Claire and I were told. An act that could not be foreseen. We must not blame ourselves. Claire, of course, was as without blame as any loving daughter could be. But I wasn't. I should have seen the warning signs, the dark, unapproachable moods, the Cimmerian turn her paintings had taken, the medications she'd stopped taking. And I would have if I hadn't been so all-consumed with my job and so puffed up by my career. I missed the warning signs, and now she was gone. Like I said, it was that simple.

Back from the funeral service, Claire sat across from me at our kitchen table. The house, packed with friends and relatives earlier that day, had fallen silent except for the ticking of the old kitchen clock that had belonged to Nan's grandmother. I'd held up pretty well at the funeral, but now, sitting alone with Claire, guilt and despair settled on me like a wet fog that penetrated every pore of my body. Claire had cried most of the day, but now her eyes were dry. I remembered her eyes. They were Nan's—perfect replicas, cut jewels of the finest sapphire—and they shone with something I hadn't seen before, a strength that had been quietly growing within her, a strength that was now fully realized in our time of desperate need.

“Dad, she said, “Mom was sick. She didn't know what she was doing. She would never have done this otherwise. I
know
that, Dad, and I know that it wasn't your fault. It wasn't.”

The memory of my daughter's words that day felt like a lifeline. Not because they absolved me—they didn't—but because she had the courage to speak them when I was speechless and defeated. I could just hear her scolding me the same way now. I pushed away the negative thoughts and focused my mind on Claire. I could see her face like she was standing next to me, her lips curling at the corners with that smile, those sparkling eyes, her laugh, the sound of it so much like her mother's. I held my head in my hands, closed my eyes, and willed thoughts of strength and safety to her. It was as close to prayer as I was able to get.

Despite the lack of sleep, I wasn't tired so I drove to my law office in Dundee. I'd cleared my schedule to go fishing, but I'd also left a pile of delinquent paperwork. The office had once been the site of the town's only barber shop, and I had the original barber pole in a closet to prove it. It was a simple frame building with a large window in front and six parking spaces in back. Inside, I'd re-exposed a set of muscular Douglas fir beams by removing a drop ceiling and, by ripping up some butt-ugly linoleum, a handsomely worn oak floor. A wood stove provided adequate heat, and the walls were decorated with local art and pictures of the Oregon outdoors.

In L.A. my office had been on the twenty-second floor of the Parker Center, looking west across the city toward the Pacific. My office in Dundee sat at sea level looking out on the always busy 99W. That was fine with me.

When we arrived, Archie settled on his mat in the corner and began his ritual of snoozing with one eye and watching me out of the other for a sign we were going out to stretch our legs or go to lunch. I sat down, put my feet up on my desk, and opened the day's issue of
The
Oregonian
. There was no mention of the “tense standoff” in Darfur, but when I read the headline on the front page of the Metro section I could hardly believe it.

Dundee Lawyer Implicated
in Deschutes River Murder

By Tom Richardson

A source within the Jefferson County Sheriff's Department has disclosed to
The
Oregonian
that Calvin Claxton III, a lawyer in Dundee, has become a “person of interest” in the brutal slaying of Hal Bruckner, a prominent businessman from Wilsonville.

Bruckner, who was president and CEO of the technology firm NanoTech, was stabbed to death while on a fishing trip on the Deschutes River on June 1. The trip was being led by Northwest Experience, a popular guide service out of Madras, Oregon. Mr. Claxton was one of three guides and six guests on the trip. The guests consisted of three members of the management team at the high-tech firm along with a consultant, Bruckner, and his wife. The trip was planned as a team-building exercise for the company.

According to the source, Mr. Claxton's fishing knife was found in the river, adjacent to the murder scene. Forensic experts believe the knife is consistent with the weapon used to kill Bruckner. Other physical evidence as well as the accounts of members of the fishing party are being carefully examined to determine the next steps in the investigation, the source revealed.

Mr. Claxton could not be reached for comment.

“Oh, that's just great!” I said out loud. Archie, not catching the sarcasm, came over to my desk, tail wagging, an expectant look on his face. I should have anticipated something like this, but I was stung by it nevertheless.

“‘Could not be reached for comment'?” I continued in an even louder voice. “My phone number's in the book, Richardson. All you have to do is call. I'll give you a
comment
.” By this time, Arch had lowered his ears and stopped wagging his tail.

I finally calmed down enough to think the situation through. Aside from embarrassing me, I suppose Escalante and Dorn wanted to use the press to put the heat on, make me squirm. I wasn't sure Escalante would stoop to that, but I could easily see Dorn making the call to Richardson. I doubted they would've done this on the basis of the knife alone. I'm sure my disclosure of the affair with Alexis had been a swing factor.

I wondered about Alexis. Would she help them incriminate me? Of course, she could be the one behind the frame, I supposed. Even if she weren't, she wouldn't want to jeopardize a fat insurance-payoff by looking like a coconspirator in her husband's murder. Thinking about that made me angry all over again, and I shuddered to think what she might say about me under pressure of an indictment—insane jealousy, threatening comments, God knows what. Sure, it would be her word against mine, but there'd be a built-in bias to believe the suffering widow over the former lover.

Calm down, I told myself. How do I know what she told them? Maybe she has more integrity than I give her credit for. If I could talk to her face-to-face, I'd have a chance of reading her. Besides, I owed her an explanation as to why I revealed the affair to Escalante and Dorn—an act of courtesy, if nothing else. And that might ensure she'd back me up rather than try to hide the affair or, worse yet, give her own version.

I wondered if I should chance it.

I tossed the bulging file of paperwork I'd come to work on back in the drawer and slammed it shut. I called Philip Lone Deer and then Nando Mendoza but didn't reach either of them. I was particularly anxious to talk to Nando. I left him a voice message with my cell phone number.

I pulled the paperwork back out of my desk and forced myself to begin working. After all, life goes on, and I had a business to run. I struggled through to midafternoon without thinking of lunch and then left for the Aerie, but not before checking the street for TV trucks. I wouldn't have put it past one of the networks to send a reporter out there to confront me, but the coast was clear.

When I arrived home I changed into my running gear and took Archie for a four-mile jog. The sky was gray and oppressively low, and a light rain had raised the smell of wet earth. I felt winded going out and never found my second wind. At the end, I felt bone-tired, but I'd managed to make a decision about Alexis Bruckner. I would pay her a visit, and the sooner the better.

It wasn't a task I looked forward to.