The Death Row Complex (20 page)

“Yeah. In the 1800s, this area was notorious for gambling, prostitution, drinking… ”—she pointed across the street—“That building over there was owned by Wyatt Earp. I think it used to be a brothel.”

McMullan looked again at the traffic light holding them immobile. “I guess it’s still the red light district,” he said.

The girl was trapped.

The Horton Plaza security guard watched, smiling, as she stepped behind her companion to hide from the woman down the street who was evidently her mother.

The girl turned back around to face the guard, who now stood behind her, less than ten feet away. Then the traffic lights changed, and the woman and her companion began crossing the street. Still hiding behind the boy, the girl smiled sweetly at the guard and mounted the escalator.

“Who is that with your mom?” the guard heard the young man ask.

“I don’t know. I didn’t think my mom had a boyfriend.”

“Then find out,” the boy instructed as they stepped off the escalator toward the street.

The January air was chilly, and now a breeze had come up. Katrina shivered and pulled her thin sweater more tightly around her body. McMullan, still wearing a sweatshirt over his gray T-shirt, took notice. “You’re cold. I can offer you my sweatshirt, but it’s pretty grungy from the gym. Your call.” He smiled sheepishly.

Katrina laughed. “Thanks, but I don’t know what my daughter would think if I came home smelling like a sweaty guy. I’m having a hard enough time trying to stop her from acting like a fifteen-year-old as it is.” After a pause, she said, “But I will let you block the wind a little.” She stepped closer to him and McMullan placed a hand on the small of her back.

As they headed south along Fifth Avenue, a raucous Irish folk tune began drifting toward them. As they drew closer to the music, it was accompanied by a mouthwatering scent. McMullan’s stomach growled. “Hungry?” he started to ask, but Katrina was already winking at him as she stepped toward the door of the pub.

7:14 P.M.
PST

Jason Fischer slid out of the seat of his Honda Civic, locked the door from the inside, and then slammed it shut. Habitually, he took a cautionary glance around to ascertain his surroundings as he hopped up onto the curb.

Twenty-five minutes inland from downtown San Diego and ten minutes from the lab at SDSU, Jason’s one-bedroom apartment was in the mind-bogglingly cheaper community of Santee. Flipping through his keychain for the correct key, Jason trotted nimbly up the stairs before coming to an abrupt halt at the top.

The door to his apartment was already wide open.

A surge of adrenaline rushed through Jason as he walked into the apartment and flipped on the living room light. The room was illuminated, and Jason dropped the keychain along with the worn-out backpack he was holding. “You’ve
got
to be
kidding
me!” he yelled.

Jason’s garage-sale entertainment center had been flipped forward, and the TV and stereo were smashed beneath it. Compact discs and orphaned cases were strewn about the living room in a random array of squares and circles. Some of the items were crushed. His Salvation Army couch and loveseat had both been sliced open and large wads of stuffing were now strewn about the room, enveloping the inverted coffee table with billowing white clouds of furniture innards.

“Son of a
bitch!”
Jason ranted as he pushed his way through the debris and into the kitchen. The kitchen cabinets had been emptied and the mismatched dishes—inherited from an aunt who was planning to throw them away—were now lying in broken piles on the floor. The refrigerator was open, but most of what little food Jason had was still inside. An eighteen-pack of Coors Light had been shoved out and lay on its side in front of the fridge; some of the cans had exploded and now the kitchen reeked from the small foamy rivers running across the linoleum.

Jason gave only a passing glance to the destruction in the kitchen. His kitchenware was shit. His furniture was shit. Everything Jason owned of value, every cent he could spare was concentrated in one area of the apartment. His bedroom.

Guitars. Amps. Cables. Cabinets. Cases of strings. His microphone. His floorboard. His stands. His tuners. Thousands of dollars that Jason could not afford, invested in his second true passion. The first was science.

With his heart in his throat, Jason opened the bedroom door. The guitars had been pulled out of their cases and roughly thrown to the floor. One had a cracked headstock that would require expensive repair. Both guitars had at least one broken string dangling from them.

The amps, normally lining the wall opposite the bed, had been shoved face-forward. Designed for rough transport between the stage and the home, they were none the worse for wear. Other items were scattered about, but remarkably undamaged.

It did not appear that anything had been stolen. In wonder, Jason now realized that the TV and stereo, while now useless, were also still lying in the living room. Whoever had broken in was not a thief.

Jason sat down on his bed and cast his eyes around the room for a few moments. Then he reached into his pocket for his cell phone and his wallet. He rifled through an assortment of business cards until he found the two he was looking for. He dialed the number on the first card. There was no answer. He hung up and dialed the number on the other card.

“Hello, this is Roger Gilman.”

“This is Jason Fischer. My apartment has been broken into,” Jason picked up a guitar and lovingly placed it back onto its stand.

“What was stolen?” Gilman asked.

“That’s what’s weird. I don’t see anything missing, not even stuff like my guitars that would have been easy to take and that are worth a lot of money. It’s like the asshole just wanted to fuck my place up for no reason.”

“Or they were looking for something in particular,” Gilman conjectured. “I’ll be right there.”

The comment echoed in Jason’s mind as he continued to examine his musical equipment.
They were looking for something in particular
. Like Jason’s inhibitor data, rapidly produced since the beginning of the Death Row project. And supposedly under lock and key by the federal government.

Or his activator data, which very few people should have known about in the first place. Was he just being paranoid? Someone would have had to track down his address, and—

Jason’s thoughts were interrupted by a loud knock at the door. It had been less than two minutes since he had called Gilman on his cellular phone.
No way he could have gotten here already,
Jason thought
.
And
no way he was already in Santee
. As he hurried from the bedroom into the living room, he realized that the knock was a formality only; the door was still wide open and furthermore, Jason’s keys were on the floor next to it.

Jason was incredulous to see that Gilman had, in fact, already arrived. But even more shocking was the person accompanying Gilman, standing slightly behind him in the doorway. Her eyes darted to the floor when Jason saw her. Angela Fischer. Jason’s estranged wife.

“What the fuck is she doing here?” Jason demanded, looking questioningly at Gilman.

“You’re going to be mad,” Angela began, but Gilman intervened.

“Your wife called us,” he said. “She saw who broke in to your apartment.”

“I don’t understand,” Jason said. “How… ” As soon as the words were out, he realized the answer. “Have you been following me, you psycho stalking wench?”

“Look, I just wanted to keep track of what you were doing with your money. I don’t have anything to live on, and I don’t want my ass handed to me in the divorce because you’ve spent it all before I can win any alimony in court… and it’s not my fault that you’re lagging on the proceedings. Now don’t give me shit, Jason. I didn’t have to come forward with this, but I did. Face it—you’re lucky I’m here. Anyway, I was parked across the street and I saw the person who broke in. It was a woman.”

Gilman and Jason both looked shocked. Gilman pulled his notepad out of his pocket and began flipping through to find a blank page.

Jason flipped his mutilated loveseat back into position. “Care to sit down?” he asked sarcastically. “Sorry I can’t offer you a cup of tea, but I’m remodeling the kitchen at the moment.”

Angela sat down on the loveseat and a puff of stuffing drifted to the floor. Jason and Gilman both grabbed an end of the larger sofa and tilted it upright, then sat down.

“So what did this woman look like?” Gilman asked Angela.

“She had long hair and was wearing a long skirt.”

“What color hair?”

“I couldn’t tell exactly. This area is not well lit enough to make out shit in the dark… which is one of the reasons I’d been nagging Jason for the last two years to move out of Santee”—she threw a haughty glance at her husband—“but I digress. Anyway, the woman’s hair was long, thick and some dark color… that’s about all I can tell you.”

“What about build?” Gilman asked. “Thin? Overweight? Tall? Short?”

“Hard to say with the distance I was at and no reference. She wasn’t fat.”

Gilman turned to Jason and let out an exasperated sigh. “Well, there are two people who immediately come to mind, my friend. The first is your research advisor.”