Knockout Mouse (9 page)

He looked over his shoulder, as if I was talking to someone else. I answered my own question. “Pay him for the pizza.”

Gregory managed to crack a smile. Then he made a show of removing his sunglasses and looking me directly in the eye. “Bill, I hope you got my message.”

“What’s this bullshit about legal risk?”

He took a deep breath and started to make chopping gestures with his glasses. “Kumar’s jumping our technology. We’ve got a way to model—well, never mind, the point is, Kumar’s filched the key step in the process. We’ve filed suit, but by the time we get a decision we’ll be broke.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. What does it have to do with us?”

“Let me see the footage you got at Kumar’s. I’ll show you what I mean.”

“Footage isn’t here, Gregory. How long have you been in the neighborhood? Since, maybe, nine this morning?”

“Bill, the life of my company is at stake. Literally. You’d do whatever you had to do to protect your business, wouldn’t you?”

“I wouldn’t break into other people’s houses.”

Gregory skipped right over this. “You’ve got to help me. What’s he’s doing is totally bogus.”

“Someone just climbed a ladder and broke in through my back window. They took my girlfriend’s purse and my videotapes. That’s what I call bogus.”

This stopped him, but only for a moment. “Buddy, that’s a drag. But you don’t think
I’d
—no way, Bill. Not me. Maybe it was Kumar. Seriously, he is scum.”

“I’ve dealt with the guy. Nothing came off on my hands. Besides, he has no reason to break in. The footage is his.”

Gregory answered with a slow head shake. “See, you just don’t know how smooth he is. He’s pulled some fast ones. Slimy, slippery fast ones.”

I stared at Gregory. Kumar had not pulled any fast ones on us. Nor, for that matter, had Gregory shown any guilt when I mentioned the break-in. But what he was saying about Kumar could as easily be true of himself. I’d seen young CEOs operate. How they could be exhausted, discouraged, sullen—then turn on a dime for an interview, rev up the charm, roll out the company myth, and pronounce with utter sincerity the precise opposite of what they’d just said in private.

“Gregory, you are going about this in such the wrong way.”

“All right, so I get a little…
enthusiastic
sometimes. But BioVerge, it’s my passion, it’s my life. What would you do?”

He looked a bit ridiculous, standing there with his shoulders cocked, wearing a yellow-print Hawaiian shirt and, incredibly, a yellow scarf round his neck. His hair was a peculiar—and it now occurred to me artificial—shade of yellow. With the little nub of blond turf on his chin and the pleading look in his eyes, he was starting to resemble a golden retriever.

“What was that bullshit about having us shoot a film for you?” I said.

“Absolutely real, buddy. We want you to do one up. If Kumar doesn’t ruin us, I’ll pay you like I said.”

“I’ll dashboard it, Gregory,” I said, mimicking his expression. “But don’t call us. We’ll call you.”

“I don’t have that kind of time. A contract is coming up. Huge. We’re bidding against Kumar. Whoever gets the LifeScience deal—”

Gregory caught the change in my face right away. His confidence came galloping back. “So you know LifeScience. Players, dude. About to bust out with a product that will turn the monoclonal world upside down. A big pharma is already courting them. We’re bidding to partner up on their next project. We’ll be riding their comet trail. You should get in on this action, Bill. Help me stop Kumar.”

“What
exactly
is it that you want from me, Gregory?”

“Let me see the footage. It might have the evidence I need to derail his bid.”

My phone rang upstairs. “Okay, I
will
discuss this with Rita, and I
will
call you as soon as possible.”

“Thanks, buddy. Look, can I take you to lunch? To a ball game—the company’s got—”

I shut the door and took the stairs two at a time. It was Jenny, on her cell phone. She’d wandered down to the waterfront and was ready to be picked up. I said I’d be there in a minute. Then I started thinking about what exactly I’d have to give up to get more information out of Gregory about LifeScience Molecules.

“No!” Jenny shrieked
into the phone the next morning. “How can you say that? You bastard!”

She slammed the phone down. We were in my kitchen, the Sunday paper spread before us. “Who was
that?”
I asked.

Her face had turned the color of bleached wood. “My machine. Mr. Harros—Sheila’s father—said I stole Sheila’s diary and he wants it back right now. He didn’t even say hello first—or thank us—or anything.”

“How did he found out we have the diary?”

Jenny’s eyes grew hard and determined. She punched some numbers into the phone. “Fay,” she demanded,
“what
did you tell Mr. Harros?”

I watched Jenny’s expression change from angry to outraged then back to ashen.

“The autopsy’s being done Monday—tomorrow,” Jenny told me after she hung up. Her eyes were blank. “Sheila’s family holds me responsible for Sheila’s death, unless the autopsy report—”

The rest came out between choked sobs. “They’re going to have the police scour my apartment. If they find any matching—whatever—they’ll file charges.”

I cradled her head. “Don’t worry. That’s not going to happen.”

“It was Fay who told them about the diary!
‘You’re
the one who took it,’ I said. ‘Sure,’ she goes, ‘to give it to her parents. I didn’t want someone else to get it. Why did
you
take it?’ She’s blaming the whole thing on
me!”

“How did she know the parents were here?”

“She must have talked to Perkins at the hospital. There was a message on my machine from him saying the family would arrive Saturday night. Then a couple messages later, there’s Mr. Harros, accusing me of things. It’s Fay they should accuse—she was the one having the fit about Simon. And now that I think about it, she wanted to have shrimp for dinner that night! I had to remind her Sheila couldn’t eat it.”

“Fay has her reasons for not liking Sheila, but I don’t think she’d go that far.”

“I don’t know what to think anymore.” Jenny stood with sudden resolution. “I’ve got to go down there. I’ve got to find out where the Harroses are staying and talk to them. I’ll give them the diary.”

“Not until after I’ve photocopied it. Let them cool down a bit. And let the autopsy happen. Until they get the report, they’ll be filling in the blanks with their own assumptions.”

“Fay’s poisoned them against me. I can’t believe her!”

“Let’s go back to Sheila’s apartment. See what else we can find, if the parents haven’t already taken possession. If—”

“If Fay hasn’t beaten us to it! Oh my God, I’d like to catch her there. Do you think she’d plant some kind of evidence on me?”

“I don’t think she’d do a very good job of planting evidence even if she tried. But she might try to cover her tracks.”

The image of Fay in the apartment got us moving quickly. Jenny drove her Miata down the Peninsula and I followed in the Scout. We dropped my jeep at her apartment and sped over to Sheila’s complex. The keys under the flowerpot were gone.

“Time to talk to the manager,” I said.

I brought the diary with me. I didn’t intend to let it out of my sight. The manager, Jennifer Poloni, was watching a football game in her apartment. She talked to us in the doorway, wearing a 49ers cap and a red and gold jersey. She wasn’t pleased about the interruption.

“Nobody else is going into that apartment,” she growled. “You people treat it like a motel room, tromping in and out. Enough. Show the girl some respect.”

“Who all’s been in there since you last saw us?” I asked.

She waved her arms in the air. “The whole caboodle! That fellow Dugan from her office. I don’t like him. Claimed her work product was the property of his company. I didn’t let him in; told him he could just wait until the estate was settled. Then I caught another one right inside. Don’t know how she got in, but she was having a good sniff around. Tall, sorta blonde—from the lab, too, she said when I stopped her. At least she was nicer.”

“Marion,” Jenny murmured. “Did you see anyone else?”

“That Chinese girl was here. Your friend. I didn’t let her in.”

“She didn’t have the key?”

“She said you took it. You better give it back now.”

Jenny looked at me, then at Poloni’s outstretched hand. “We don’t have it. Honest. We thought Fay did.”

A roar came from the TV. Poloni ran to catch the replay. “Goddammit!” she yelled.

We turned and headed back down the walk. “Hey!” she called from the doorway. “I’m watching Sheila’s place, you can bet on that!”

“Marion found the key,” I said as we walked back to the car. “And Dugan must be the Alpha Male from LifeScience.”

“What was Marion doing in Sheila’s apartment?”

“I don’t know. The same thing as Dugan, maybe. Then again—they can’t be working together, or she’d have let him in.”

“Dugan scares me.”

“I’ve run into guys like him before. Business is war to them. They fight dirty, but they try to stay just this side of legal. I’d like to know what Sheila had that he wants so badly.”

Jenny gave a little shiver as she pulled out of the parking space. “Let’s stay away from him, all right?”

“I’m afraid the feeling won’t be mutual. Not as long as we have the diary. Let’s get to a copy shop. We’ll make two copies. I’ll lock away one as a backup.”

An unexpected smile crossed Jenny’s lips. “Mister Thorough.”

I started to say something about my camera operator training, until I realized she meant it appreciatively. I smiled back. She stopped before pulling out of the alley and leaned into me. “Thank you, Bill, for being here for me through all this. I didn’t know if you would.”

Her golden razor-cut hair swung in front of her face in a way that I found utterly engaging. I could have jumped on top of her right there.

» » » » »

We’d just pulled into a mall anchored by a large office store when I noticed the maroon car behind us. It had taken a left with us into the lot. The car was a generic American sedan, but the color stayed in my mind. It had come into the frame near Sheila’s apartment complex. Nothing was special about it—a lackluster maroon wearing a patina of dust—except its recurrence. I watched through my side window as the car tracked us.

Jenny wheeled into a parking space. I put my hand on her arm. “Let’s just sit here for a minute.”

She cut me a look and moved over for a kiss. I obliged, keeping an eye out the back window. “Check out this maroon car,” I said as we separated.

With a gentle swat to my head, Jenny sank back into her seat. “What about it?”

The sedan took a slot a few spaces down from us. The Miata was low, though, and once the other car pulled in, I couldn’t see it. I gave Jenny the diary, got out, and took a couple of steps to the front of our car. As I stretched my arms, I turned and got a look at the maroon sedan. Two men were inside. I waited. They didn’t get out.

“Let’s go,” I said to Jenny. “Walk to the store with me. Fast.”

She wanted to know what was going on, of course. I said I was just being safe.

The copy machines had their own little carpeted area in the front of the office store. The clerk assigned us a machine. I asked Jenny to photocopy the diary. There were about eighty pages, but we could fit two to a legal-sized sheet. The machine collated our pair of copies for us. I kept an eye out for the guys from the parking lot.

About ninety seconds later a guy as nondescript as the maroon car came in. He had bland light hair, poorly cut, and was wearing shorts and a polo shirt. A couple of inches of belly flopped over his belt. He could have been an engineer out for a Sunday visit to the mall. Nice cover.

He gave the floor a quick scan. He didn’t linger, but his eye caught us. I knew, because it was the same fleeting glance an actor gives the camera if they’re not sure where it is. First rule of acting: Never stare at the camera.

“Bill,” Jenny said, “some of the pages have been torn out.”

I put my finger to my lips and nodded toward the guy. He was perusing the cell phones, which were across the center aisle from us. “Just try to remember where they are.”

When Jenny was done, I took the copies and the diary to the cashier. I kept them close to my body, hidden from the guy at the cell phones. I was wondering how to make our exit when the clerk slid our copies into a plastic bag.

“Can I also get fifty sheets of blank paper, legal-size?” I asked.

The clerk measured out a stack from below the counter. I asked for another bag, continuing to position myself between our watcher and our purchase. I taped shut the bag with the diary and copies, and did the same with the bag containing the blank paper.

“I’ll carry them,” I murmured to Jenny.

“Is he—?”

I gave her a small nod. I could be wrong about the guy. But I had to assume I wasn’t. With my back to the door, I tucked the bag with the diary under my shirt, the bottom half of it cinched under the waist of my jeans. It took me back to my teenage years, when I occasionally borrowed expensive film magazines from stores.

As we headed for the door, the guy moved so very casually and yet briskly to meet us, reminding me of the time I’d been caught. But instead of the hand on the shoulder, he followed us out the door. That sealed off any chance of getting help from inside the store.

I picked up my pace. Jenny was right beside me. “Get out your car keys,” I said.

She dug into her pocket. Her hands were shaking when she brought out the keys. “What’s happening, Bill?”

“Don’t worry. You’re doing great.”

The guy pulled even with us when we were still an aisle away from the car. “You’ve got something that’s not yours. Why don’t you give it to me.”

His voice was smooth and calm. Like there was no question he’d get what he wanted. “Who are you?” I said. I didn’t stop.

“We represent the rightful owners. Please. Make this easy.”