Knockout Mouse (27 page)

I slammed the palm of my hand against the steering wheel. I’d be having a long talk with the Scout when this was all over.

Dugan and Pratt flanked the car. I jammed down the door locks. Pratt took up a position at my window. Dugan was at the passenger door, banging on the glass.

The first few sprinkles of rain splashed on the windshield. Of course the Scout wouldn’t start. It had listened to the weather report and I hadn’t. Dugan continued to pound as my view became pocked with drops. I considered just sitting here until the men went away—if they did go away. The third one had arrived and had positioned himself in front of the jeep. He looked watery from behind the windshield. I thought about blowing the horn just to make him jump.

Dugan pounded harder on the window. “Listen to what I have to say,” he shouted.

How many people had gone to their doom by accepting such seemingly reasonable requests? But realistically, Dugan was going to get in one way or another. I might as well not have broken glass all over my interior. I reached over and lifted the lock.

Dugan opened the door and slid in. His lips drew back in that canine way he had.

“Now what?” I said.

A chuckling snort escaped through his nose. He placed the briefcase in his lap. The report of the locks opening sounded like shots in the small space.

He opened the lid, and I braced myself. Instead of a weapon, Dugan pulled out a sheet of white paper. He handed it to me. It was a memo.

To: DE

From: FM

Re: MC124

I know you are telling the truth about MC124. I’ve triple checked the results. What I am telling you is we must keep this completely confidential, at least until after Phase I. And yes, effective the start of the month, you shall have your new program and the rest. Let’s hear no more about it until then.

The time and date stamp indicated the memo was written two and a half weeks ago and sent by email.

“Frederick is a scientist, a good one, but he’s not a technologist,” Dugan said as I read. “He didn’t know that just because you delete an email, it’s not gone. We’ve recovered this and a few more. I have to thank you for pointing us in the right direction.”

I was still absorbing the memo. “Englehart identified the problems with MC124 first. McKinnon is acknowledging them and telling him to keep it quiet. There’s some sort of quid pro quo.”

“The program has a fatal flaw, as I have suspected for some time,” he announced.

“You left one thing out. You’re the instigator of the cover-up.”

“Incorrect.” Dugan pressed his thin lips together. He plucked the memo away with one hand and with the other dropped a small sheaf of papers in my lap. “Go ahead, read them. I suspected
the defect, but didn’t have access to the data that would prove it. That was why I pursued Sheila, then you.”

“Come on, you don’t expect me to believe that.” My words were losing their fire, though. The papers, more transcripts of email between McKinnon and Englehart, bore him out.

“I’ll be frank with you,” Dugan said, reaching for the sheaf. He snapped the memos shut inside the briefcase. “Originally, I suspected none of this. My initial hunch was that Sheila was stealing company IP. I tracked her document flow and hired Pratt to track her movements. I had reason to think she was selling information to BioVerge. An insider deal, perhaps. When I discovered the real subject of her activities, my suspicions took a new direction.”

“You ought to pay more attention to your company’s science.”

Dugan just smiled. He was proud of his detective work and wasn’t going to let me spoil it. “That’s not my job. This is my job,” he said, tapping his briefcase. “When you outlined her conclusions for me, I had cause to look into McKinnon’s files.”

“You could have faked the memos.”

“I could have. But you know I didn’t. You’ve observed enough yourself to know they’re authentic. When the investigation is complete, it will show that McKinnon induced Doug Englehart to suppress data adverse to MC124. McKinnon is the mastermind. Englehart did the dirty work of falsifying results.”

“I wonder…” I stopped. What I wondered was why Doug would do McKinnon any favors, given what I’d witnessed between them. “What was in it for Doug?”

“Mr. Englehart is about to be promoted. Frederick recommended he be put in charge of his own program. We approved the request. Doug had earned it. If he cooperates with us, he’ll get to keep it.”

“He’s also gotten McKinnon to agree to giving him top billing when they publish their paper on MC124,” I said.

Dugan’s teeth shifted as if he was chewing on some bit of food. A look passed between us. I was willing to bet we had the same thought: Doug had virtually blackmailed McKinnon into giving him his new position. Apparently this did not disqualify him.

“Dr. McKinnon murdered your friend, Bill. He had the motive, the scientific knowledge, the opportunity.”

“You really want to get him, don’t you?”

Dugan’s pinpoint eyes took on a certain shine. “I want to do my job. Think what’s at stake for the company. For our reputation. For our investors. Not to mention punishing the guilty.”

I slumped into my seat. All the air had gone out of me. Rain streaked the windshield, blurring the world outside. Everything fit and nothing made sense. McKinnon had killed Sheila. A man I’d taken to be a good man was as self-serving as the rest, and in the end more ruthless.

A knock came at the passenger window. It was Pratt, soaked, hugging himself. He pointed to the offending sky.

Dugan held up a finger. “One more thing, Bill. Thanks to you, we can’t locate Carl Steiner. Please share with me what he said, if you don’t mind.”

I did mind, but shared anyway.

“Carl sent the tomatoes to Sheila spontaneously?” Dugan asked.

I let out a deep sigh. “No. Dr. McKinnon asked him to. He said she’d like them.”

“Thank you. That seals it, wouldn’t you say?” He yanked the door handle. The door popped open.

“You can’t leave yet,” I said. “I’ve got a dead car here.”

Dugan instructed Pratt to bring his car around to give me a jump. I’d have to do the whole hair dryer routine before that, but there was plenty of time.

Dugan stretched his hand across the passenger seat. “I’m glad we had this chance to talk.”

I stared at the hand. “Dugan, this doesn’t mean were friends.”

He showed me the canines one more time, withdrew the hand, and prepared to slam the door. “I didn’t intend it to.”

“What happened to you?”
Karen asked.

I was at the front door of her temporary home in Redwood City, dripping like a soggy mutt wanting in from the rain. She grabbed my hand and pulled me inside. When she touched the gash on my face, her fingers came away red.

“No big deal,” I said. I’d completely forgotten about it.

Karen ran to get some hydrogen peroxide. “Take off your shoes. And your jacket,” she ordered.

I sat in a chair and let her clean the wound. The sting penetrated deep into my head. It felt good. I wished it would wipe away the taste of Dugan’s triumph.

“Now your hands.”

The creases in my fingers were sticky with blood. When Karen was done, I trooped off to the shower. The hot water helped, at least with how my body felt. I threw on someone’s terrycloth robe and sank into the couch in the living room. Karen sat next to me. I recounted what had happened at LifeScience. We drew closer and closer until my head was on her shoulder.

Karen’s voice was somber. “This is not how I thought it would turn out. Frederick McKinnon. Of all people.”

I straightened. “The worst part was having to admit to Dugan that was he right. And that he wasn’t the murderer himself. But
McKinnon knows the molecule, and he was in a position to know about the tomato. He couldn’t bear to fail again. If MC124 flopped, McKinnon was finished.”

“He had a lot to lose. And I can see how he’d want to reclaim control of the company from Dugan. But I still can’t believe he would hurt Sheila.”

“I keep trying to imagine a scenario in which it could be someone else. Doug. Marion. Carl. Or Dugan, in league with McKinnon. Dugan was not the man whose side I wanted to end up on. He and Pratt were not the ones at all.”

“Sheila thought she was in heaven when she went to work for Frederick,” Karen mused. “Yes, he was single-minded, but he really did inspire people. He cared about the work. He was a true scientist.”

“I have to admit, I admired him, too,” I said. “I hate the idea of seeing him brought down, leaving Dugan in charge.”

“It’s the old story all over. A good idea ruined by money.”

We were silent. The rain tapped on the roof.

“So where was Marion during all this?”

“Good question.” I went to the phone. Marion’s voicemail answered. I left a message saying that I was all right, thank you very much, and I hoped she was, too. I called Wes and got his voicemail as well. I wondered if he and Marion were unavailable for the same reason.

“So what do we do now?” Karen wondered.

“It’s probably safe for you to go back to your apartment.”

She gave a sly smile. “I kind of like our secret hideout.”

I returned to the couch. Karen pretended to sway unsteadily, then toppled over into my lap. I stroked her eyebrows. Karen let them grow, which I found sexy after Jenny’s plucked commas. I tried to put the comparison out of my mind.

“Case closed,” she murmured.

I looked down at her for a sign as to which case she meant. Her eyes remained serenely shut. I decided to take her words literally. “It’s closed unless we come up with an improved set of facts before tomorrow. That’s when Dugan will take his evidence to the police.”

Karen’s eyes opened. “Results can be tweaked, but don’t make the mistake of trying to force them to the conclusion you want. Accept what the results tell you.”

“I’d like to have one more look at Sheila’s apartment,” I said. “Maybe I can talk Abe Harros into it this afternoon.”

“Good idea.” Karen sat up slowly, stretched her arms, and yawned. Her hand came to rest on my knee. She searched my eyes. Her mouth resolved into a bittersweet smile. “Accept the results,” she repeated, more to herself than to me.

I went into the kitchen and picked up the phone. Having the receiver in my hand reminded me I hadn’t called Jenny today. She’d want to know what happened, to know I was safe. My finger hesitated over the keypad. I punched in Abe’s number. He, of course, wanted to hear the whole story on the phone. I made a deal: he could hear it inside Sheila’s apartment. He told me to be there in half an hour.

In the living room, Karen was holding the large brown leather bag I’d seen Sheila carrying in the parking lot. Karen hefted it with one hand, mutely asking what to do with it.

“Hold on to it a little longer. The police can have it, if they want it. I don’t want to give it to Dugan. Right now I’m going to meet Abe.”

“I’d come, but I think it’s better if I stay here and clean up this place.”

“I’ll be back soon. I’ll help you move back to your apartment.”

I opened the door. The rain was coming down steadily now. The Scout started right up—it usually did, once it overcame its initial obstinacy about dampness.

Abe was waiting for me by the back gate to the complex. The lounges around the pool looked wet and forlorn. Raindrops pattered in the blue water.

He said nothing as he led the way to the apartment. We sat at Sheila’s dining table. It was still stacked with books and journals.

Abe demanded to know all. I told him, leaving out no details. The further into it I went, the more his features tightened into objection. He didn’t believe McKinnon was the one. I said I didn’t want to believe it either, but everything pointed toward him.

“I’m a doctor, Bill,” Abe declared. “I’ve worked in Africa and the Balkans. I’ve seen killers and I’ve seen healers. Dr. McKinnon is ambitious, like most of us, but he’s not a killer.”

He was a couple of years younger than me, but his somber eyes had soaked up plenty of illness and death. They were the same almond shape and rich brown color of Sheila’s eyes, but showed less openness, more authority. The kind of authority a doctor expected to command. I stared into them for a long moment before saying, “You thought I was.”

“I thought you were covering up for your girlfriend. I thought you were sneaky. I thought you were in the way.”

“Your father saw what he wanted to see, and you followed suit. You wanted someone to blame—fast. But you never put your theories to the test.”

“We tested what Pratt got out of your kitchen. It was clean.”

“You could have let me know. We could have worked together on this. Face it, you were late on the scene, Abe. You resented that there were people who knew more about your sister’s life here than you did.”

“Proximity is not knowledge.”

I paused. He wasn’t going to budge. “Did you ever wonder why Sheila moved so far away?”

Abe froze, then drew up as if he was going to hit me. I held my ground. His eyes fixed on the gash on my cheek. Then his shoulders collapsed and his hands covered his face for several seconds. I felt like a cad. But when he spoke, his voice had softened.

“I thought we had plenty of time.”

I nodded. “I’m sorry, Abe. I shouldn’t have said that.”

He shook his head, then looked away. “No. I can handle it. I’ve read the diary. What you said about my father was also true. We were unfair to you.”

I let that sit for a minute. “To be honest, I’m hoping this thing isn’t settled yet, either. That’s why I wanted to meet you here. I want to look for the pages Sheila tore out of her diary. With your permission.”

He regarded me, perhaps recalling his accusation that I had taken them. Or maybe he was considering how it would feel to search his sister’s apartment. I assumed he’d already gone through her effects and found the obvious things. We’d be searching the nooks and crannies.

He stood. “Let’s look.”

We started with her shelves, reasoning that she might have folded the pages and inserted them into a book. Abe kept expressing delight at the volumes he found. Novels, poetry, history of science. He was getting to know his sister anew.