Knockout Mouse (17 page)

“She was never coming to begin with. You really are a creep, aren’t you?”

Marion stood and put her arm into a long cable-knit sweater. I couldn’t resist a little smile. “We’ve got to stop meeting this way.”

The corners of her mouth folded down, which I took to be an effort not to smile back. She took a couple of steps, then turned. “Does Wes really have some kind of—should I see a doctor?”

I wondered if she had strong feelings for him. I hoped not. I wasn’t sure he could handle her.

“Nah,” I said. “He just wanted to see you.”

“So what did she say about me?”

Wes handed me a beer. We were at a party in a loft in the South of Market area of San Francisco. Much of the neighborhood was landfill, an area of mixed industry that slowly became more of a skid row after the 1906 quake. In the eighties artists started moving in and it became known as SOMA, then in the nineties, with the rise of digital media, Multimedia Gulch. Magazines like
Wired
and
The Industry Standard
had started here. Many had ended here, too.

People in flared hip huggers and platform shoes clustered near outposts of bean bags and neobrutalist sofas. This was more the city Web crowd, what remained of it, than the Silicon Valley chip crowd. The latter tended to be true geeks, or else suburbanites in polo shirts who felt cool because they worked in high tech. The dot-commers were the ones with the sideburns and soul patches, nose posts and Buddy Holly glasses, the weekends on E and techno.

This party hosted the hip middle between the original idealists—the ones who were deep online before the run-up and had remained so after it evaporated—and the legions of
well-scrubbed graduates who’d roved the city in packs in the late nineties, sucking up real estate and bar stools.

Wes reclined in a hammock hung between two pillars of iron. A sculpted car crash, painted remains of mangled metal, was affixed to the concrete wall above. I kept out from under it.

“Marion didn’t really mention you,” I replied. “Except she did want to make sure you didn’t have any diseases.”

Wes shook his head slowly. “The bonds of friendship run deep here, Damen. You owe me.”

“And here I am, drinking beer with you, as promised.” I gave him a toast. “Thanks again. I’ll definitely cast you in the next script.”

“Just as long as you rewrite my scene with Marion.”

“Is it over between you two?”

Wes had himself a long gulp of beer, then scanned the room. “I don’t know. Her arms were too long. I felt like I was being grabbed by a tree.” He was a connoisseur of faults, particularly if he sensed a woman was losing interest. “You find out what you needed?”

“I’m starting to think that whatever killed Sheila came out of LifeScience Molecules.”

“Like maybe Sheila brewed up something that came back to bite her?”

“I don’t know. Whatever it is, Marion says it will make Sheila look very bad.”

“Maybe you should just drop this thing, Bill.”

“You and Marion agree on that. But I can’t, not as long as Dugan and the Harroses are still all over Jenny. And me.” I put my beer down. “I need to call her. Can I use your phone?”

Wes handed me his cell. I got only Jenny’s machine. Either she’d gone out or she was refusing to pick up.

I sipped my beer, and suddenly realized it was the last thing I wanted right now. “Wes,” I said, “I’m sorry, but I got to go.”

“No way. A belly dancer is coming out.”

“Sorry, no bangles for me tonight. I got tapes I gotta view.” I clapped Wes on the shoulder. “Thanks again. You’re an excellent guy.”

Wes shook his head. “I can’t believe it. Leaving just when the fun is about to start. You’re obsessed, Billy.”

I stumbled into the dark warehouse streets. As I had been doing since Sunday, I approached the Scout warily. The only activity came from a couple of street people down the block, having a smoke beside a shopping cart. Maybe Dugan thought he was in control enough now not to bother with me. Either that or the PIs were still following me and I was too tired to realize it.

» » » » »

At home, I went straight to the answering machine. Gregory had called, of course, to remind me about our meeting tomorrow. Rita had checked in to ask how I was doing. A couple of other people I was supposed to see this week had called to ask where the hell I was. But no message from Jenny.

I found a couple pieces of stale pizza from last weekend in my refrigerator, popped them in the microwave, and took the soggy results down the hall to my video player. I put in the tape I had retrieved today, rewound it, and settled back.

There was Gregory in the parking lot, mugging for the camera and talking about buying an island in the Caribbean. What made him say something like that when his company was so desperate? The same bravado, I suppose, that got BioVerge funded in the first place. The bravado that had fueled the Internet binge, driven by youngsters like Gregory who hadn’t
been around long enough to know their conjurings were only vapor, and by investors who’d been around long enough to know better than to be bewitched by the vapor. The two got together to produce dreams of a new alchemy, one that transmuted money into silicon and back into exponentially multiplied money via arcane coding rites known only to the young magicians of bits.

I hit myself on the side of the head, trying to knock my own personal bitters and about five ounces of Manhattan out of my ear. As the camera shifted away from the grid of Gregory’s teeth, I tracked the image in slow motion. The block geometry of the BioVerge building loomed in the distance. The foreground was a blur of parked cars—black tires, reflective windshields, chunks of color. Then sudden, reflexive focus on a small figure emerging from behind a black Range Rover. Sheila was eerily resurrected.

The pause button gave me a still of the dark ringletted hair, the startled brown eyes, mouth caught in an O of worry. She was up to something. You could see the tension in her body, the tightening of muscles, one hand rising to ward off the camera’s intruding eye. Her right shoulder was weighed down by the large brown leather bag, something like what a mail carrier might use.

I tracked ahead in slow motion. As her left hand rose, the other arm pulled the bag protectively close. The eyes narrowed. She was trying to gauge us. Her gaze shifted right of the camera to where Gregory and Ron stood. I hit
PAUSE
, then scrolled ahead frame by frame. She must have seen Gregory’s grin and realized he didn’t recognize her. Her mouth relaxed into a frown, one of displeasure more than fear. Her eyes stayed on him for a moment, as if to be sure, and then scanned back to the left. Then came a moment when they changed again. I hadn’t noticed it in real time. Sheila’s gaze caught on something. Her lips drew back in alarm. She turned and disappeared quickly behind the Range Rover.

On the soundtrack, Gregory chortled and made his comment about her. Then the tape went blue.

I rewound past Sheila to Gregory’s teeth, stopped, and scrolled forward again. Nothing in the background—the BioVerge building—was noteworthy. Nor did I see anything special in the parking lot middle ground—until after Sheila had moved away and I’d swung the camera to my right.

I peered closely at the blur of metal, rubber, and glass. There it was. That maroon. The same color I’d seen at the office shop where Jenny I had copied the diary. The car was not in a parking space, but moving down a row. That’s what had startled Sheila, not Gregory. Dugan had hired Pratt after all, and had hired him before anything happened to Sheila.

I rewound and squinted. I couldn’t make out who was inside, nor any other details. Just the blur of maroon.

Then Sheila, and the leather bag. I thought hard about it, replaying the moment when Sheila had arrived at Jenny’s. Her smooth and certain denial of having been in the parking lot. The way she’d unwrapped the scarf with both hands. The small bag on her shoulder. The linen jacket I’d hung in the closet. The tomatoes. But no large brown leather pouch. I was sure of that. Sheila showed no signs of having endured a struggle, so she must have succeeded in delivering it wherever she’d been going.

A string of possibilities filed through my mind. Maybe Sheila had stolen LifeScience intellectual property, as Dugan claimed, and I’d caught her in the process. If that was the case, the PIs were tracking her for legitimate reasons.

Or Sheila had taken something from the lab, and her success in delivering it had enraged Dugan and Pratt. Possibly so much so that they came after her following the dinner party. Or before, but whatever toxin they’d given her hadn’t yet taken effect by the time she arrived. Maybe they’d even gotten their hands on
the bag, and Sheila was seeking refuge at the party. But she’d looked calm enough when she arrived that I had to dismiss the latter two possibilities.

It was equally possible that the bag was Sheila’s own property. That would mean there was still a tangle to unwind, a knot of people and factors I hadn’t yet found.

Such as Karen. She was the missing piece. More and more counted on meeting her tomorrow. If only I felt better about what I had to do to get that meeting.

I got to work transferring the DAT tapes I’d pilfered from Rita earlier in the day. I had to run several samples before I got the levels right.

While the tapes were transferring, I tried Jenny once more, and once more got her machine. A sudden pit of panic gaped in my stomach. She should have been back by now.

I dialed her cell number. As it rang and rang, the pit deepened. Then suddenly there was Jenny’s voice. I asked if she was all right. Yes, she was out with some friends. Restaurant din clattered in the background.

“I got worried about you.”

“That’s sweet.” Her voice was back to its perky self. “But I’m fine. I’ll talk to you later.”

“I have to stay here and—” I started to say. But the connection was lost. “Transfer some tapes.”

I put down the phone and stared at the floor. A congealed piece of pizza sat on my plate. It tasted a lot like I felt.

It was ten minutes after twelve
on Friday when I careened into the BioVerge parking lot. Knowing Gregory, he’d chewed his cell phone to bits trying to find me: our meeting was set for noon. He’d have to chew a little longer. I dashed into the Kumar building to return, surreptitiously, the DAT originals to Rita’s sound bag, praying no one had noticed their absence. Fortunately Rita was busy and only had time to give me a quick nod.

I ran across the lot to BioVerge. Sure enough, there was Gregory, pacing in the lobby. I caught a flash of relief on his face before he set it sternly.

“Dude, I thought you were going to leave me hanging.”

“Would I do that to you, Gregory?” His eyes fixed on the same plastic bag I’d been carrying yesterday. I kept a tight grip and scanned the lobby. “Where’s Karen?”

He held out his hand. “At her station. Rikki will take you.” The receptionist, a girl with three pigtails, looked up.

“I think you should introduce me to Karen,” I insisted.

Gregory pointed toward a conference room. “I’ve got two execs and a lawyer waiting for me. The lawyer is on the clock.”

This was plausible. I handed over the bag. Inside were two DAT cassettes and a videotape. Gregory bared those big dental rows again and clenched a fist. “Justice will prevail, buddy.”

He was gone before I could answer. Rikki regarded me, removed her headset, and motioned for me to follow. She wore a pleated skirt, tights, and boots. She took the stairs two at a time, turned left on the second floor, and entered a large space divided into a maze of cubicles. Rounding the corner, she stopped abruptly at one.

“Oh! Karen’s not here?”

I went in and scanned the papers on the desk. An interoffice envelope had Karen’s name on the bottom. This seemed to be her station. Rikki peeked in the next cubicle over. “Lian’s gone, too?” In fact, the whole space was strangely quiet.

“I’ll wait here for Karen,” I said. When Rikki hesitated, I added, “Gregory will be upset if no one’s at the front desk.”

“I’ll go and, like, page Karen?”

I plopped down in Karen’s chair. Maybe she’d just gone to the bathroom or something. But I got a sick feeling in my stomach when I saw that her computer was off. I conducted a quick search of her stuff. A hairbrush in her drawer yielded dark strands about eight inches long. Judging from the height of her desk chair, she was half a foot shorter than me. A picture of two parent-age figures tacked to a small bulletin board showed a woman with sharp brown eyes and a thin, intelligent mouth. A completed crossword puzzle had been tossed on top of a row of binders.

The phone buzzed. I stared at the blinking light, then picked up the receiver and waited. “Hello?” an uncertain voice asked.

“It’s Bill, Rikki. Go ahead.”

“Oh! Well, someone said Karen was in a conference?”

Before I could ask where, a harsh voice near Rikki demanded who she was talking to. “Uh, you better come down?” she said.

The voice sounded like Gregory’s. I slammed down the phone. He’d double-crossed me. I went into the main corridor. Two employees gave me a curious look. Gregory was not going to leave me to my own devices up here, I was sure of that. I turned right, away from the central stairway, and went in search of an exit. As I reached the end of the corridor, a voice yelled at me, “Hey! Stop!”

I tried an unmarked door. To my relief, it gave onto a concrete stairway. I plunged down the stairs. They ended in a stale vestibule on the first floor. To my right was a door that would take me back inside. In front of me was a door labelled,
EMERGENCY EXIT. ALARM WILL SOUND.

This counted as an emergency. As I reached for the door, I had the bizarre precognition of hearing the fire alarm go off before I touched it. But the head-splitting bell was real enough. It propelled me out the door.

In front of me was a small walk, landscaped with grass and low bushes, and beyond them a strip of parking spaces. The main lot was around the corner of the building. I sprinted down the walk.