Transparency: Bio-Tech Cavern Secrets Untold (7 page)

Due to budget constraints, there had been no vehicles available in the motor pool. Halliday reset the trip odometer on his old Saab 9-3 Aero to record the mileage. Genevive Labs was located fifteen miles east of Santa Reina.

Halliday sped down the county highway. Pine trees skidded past, their trunks like a brown picket fence until a large open meadow signified the exit to Lake Santa Reina reservoir. Leo kept a bass boat at the marina. Halliday had joined the veteran detective on several occasions. They drank more beer than caught fish. Leo told great war stories.

The final five miles, Genevive Parkway, led straight to the labs, where miracles were commonplace. The road ran through thick forest, like nature’s attempt to hide any evidence of the big deal up ahead.

Private cars weren’t allowed in the Genevive complex. Halliday parked in the visitor lot. He locked up and hoofed to the front gate. Three identical white Ford pickup trucks were lined up outside all loaded with chain link fencing.

“Got a hole in your fence?” Halliday asked. The driver wore dark sunglasses. He stared at him, expressionless. It reminded Halliday of coming face to face with a fly. All of the security men wore similar outfits: blue jeans, light-blue cotton long-sleeved shirts and a black and orange SECURITY vest. They all wore the pitch black sunglasses, too.

When an answer wasn’t forthcoming, he let it go. After all, security people weren’t paid to be friendly.

Halliday had never been inside Genevive Labs. At the front gate he flashed his badge. After verifying his appointment, the guard issued him a visitor’s badge. He instructed him to take trolley number five up to the admin building.

Genevive had a slew of open air trolleys with canopied roofs that warded off the rain, along with falling pinecones. They were all driven at slow speeds by retirees who reminded him of Wal-Mart greeter’s gone mobile.

He jumped on number five, half expecting to hear Disney’s, “It’s a Small World,” through the speakers. A folksy voice announced, “Admin building is the next stop on the left.”

The complex reminded him of a hybrid between Knott’s Berry Farm and Fort Belvoir, where he had taken antiterrorist training while with Diplomatic Security. The campus occupied fifty acres. It employed over two thousand personnel. A small portion of them were scientists. The employees worked in woodsy two-story structures, most connected by wood bridges. Squirrels, exceeded in number only by security cameras, wandered over manicured lawns and up shade trees.

“Watch your step neighbor,” Halliday heard as he got off the trolley.

During the two minute walk to the admin building signs everywhere instructed him where not to go. The subtle message was: “Do not stray.” One sign warned against entering building B24 without proper clearance. Beyond the admin building, the Genevive security office, a small fortress of glass and steel, jutted against a manmade hill. The hill rose above the two buildings. It supported a microwave cell tower overlooking a huge water tank.

A woodsy exterior camouflaged the admin building’s busy lobby of green tinted glass and polished steel. Halliday entered through a metal detector. He had left his gun in the hidden compartment in the Saab.

The ditzy receptionist confessed that she was “into cops” as she motioned to the visitor lounge as if it were their rendezvous point in a hotel lobby.

A security camera in the corner ceiling patrolled the room. It froze on him when he reached inside his jacket. He held up a Reisen chocolate caramel.

Ten minutes later a suave gentleman exuded confidence as he strolled through the lobby doors. He made his way to where Halliday sat amid a group of visitors.

The executive made eye contact and said, “Hello Detective Halliday, Brad Palmier.”

He accepted the man’s soft hand that, besides shakes, probably had been reserved for computer keyboards and women’s bodies.

Palmier led the way down the busy hallway into an unused office. He shut the door behind Halliday.

“Have a seat. Would you like coffee, anything to drink, John?”

“No, I’m fine.” Halliday sat down. He watched the busy executive appraise his stained tie and wrinkled sport jacket purchased from the Men’s Wearhouse three years ago.

Brad Palmier owned the savoir faire look of a young George Clooney or Pierce Brosnan. Halliday understood why Laurel McKittrick had been charmed by him. Halliday’s hair, the same shade of jet black as Palmier’s silky mane, lacked shape. The man’s gold-flecked hazel eyes left Halliday’s brown eyes commonplace. Palmier’s face had been chiseled by a fine craftsman while Halliday’s face looked lived in. At least that’s the way he saw it.

Palmier hung his jacket on a hanger so as not to get it wrinkled. He sat at the small table, across from Halliday and said, “What’s on your mind John?”

Halliday pulled out the flash drive and explained the message from Laurel.

Palmier’s face lost some of its color. With a little less confidence, the man took a sizable gulp of air and said, “My ex-wife is deceased, Detective Halliday.”

He didn’t respond.

“It’s a joke, right?”

He handed the busy executive the flash drive. Palmier laid it on the pad in front of him.

“You need to listen to the recording on that flash drive.” Halliday nodded at the laptop on the table.

The young exec shot him a steely-eyed glance honed during hundreds of business meetings. He reminded Halliday of an insurance adjustor who would sit down with a terminally ill patient to clear up “loose ends.” Was he too judgmental? Experience had told him that first impressions were tantamount to sizing up people.

The man’s eyes were riveted on the flash drive. “Plug it into the USB drive on the side of the laptop there.”

Palmier’s eyes retreated to a mere flutter. “I’m pretty familiar with computers.”

Halliday nodded. Palmier plugged the flash drive into the MacBook Air. He pushed dangling earphones into his ears.

The man’s eyes were like butterflies floating on the air, never landing. Midway through the message, probably at the point where Laurel described Palmier screwing his secretary, they landed on Halliday’s face for a brief moment. When Palmier recovered, he offered an expression that stated, “I’m above all of this.” His soft hands caressed the laptop keys. His well-defined posture remained perfect.

He hadn’t seen Brad Palmier work up a sweat yet. Had the lab rats at Genevive conjured up a “no sweat” pill, too? Palmier’s fashioned professionalism gave Halliday thoughts of… well, he wouldn’t do that.

Palmier let the earphones fall to the table top. “It’s not my ex-wife.”

The finality in the executive’s voice warded off any response. To question him, questioned his integrity. Halliday said, “Whose voice is it then?”

“It’s a clever duplication of Laurel’s voice using state of the art voice recognition and computer dubbing. Look, my ex-wife disappeared inside a cave in New Mexico. We financed a comprehensive search and rescue effort. The searchers found her three companions after several hours. They exhausted the search for her days later. The survivors say that Laurel didn’t observe the rules. I think she wandered off on purpose. Laurel McKittrick committed suicide inside that cave… she nearly took three innocent lives with her.”

“Getting back to the voicemail,” Halliday said, “someone is going to a lot of trouble to bring your deceased ex-wife back to life.”

“I don’t have a clue. Laurel had no close friends that I knew of. No close relatives. Her parents passed away in San Luis before our marriage.”

“What did her parents do?”

“Her father taught history at Cal Poly San Luis Obispo. Her mother was part Miwok, a local artist.”

“Miwok Indian?”

Palmier stared at him as if he’d just asked if white was white. “Yes, Miwok.”

“What did Laurel do before your marriage?”

Palmier’s eyes narrowed. He rotated his neck to work out kinks. “She was an assistant manager out at Santa Reina Hot Springs.”

Halliday waited for him to comment further. Palmier said nothing.

“Describe her mental state at the time of your divorce.”

“Laurel’s jealousy surfaced from day one. It escalated thereafter. Detective Halliday, Laurel had bouts of paranoia. I tried to get her help before our divorce.”

This guy was slick. “How so?”

“I couldn’t find a qualified doctor in Santa Reina,” he said, his hands emphasizing the point. “I located a psychiatrist in San Francisco, a fellow who had had several years of experience with paranoia and delusional disorders. I arranged for us to have lunch with Doctor Epstein at a downtown restaurant in San Fran. When Laurel found out that he was a head doctor, well, she dumped her lunch in the man’s lap and stormed off.”

“How did you find this Doctor Epstein?”

“I don’t know. It might have been my boss, Robert Gartner.” Palmier paused. “Yes, I think Bob recommended him. Why do you ask?”

“It’s my job to ask questions.” Halliday scribbled “p/u milk & bread” in his small notepad. “Do you mind if I ask your secretary some questions?”

Palmier tilted his head to the side. “I’ve watched detectives in old black and white crime flicks use those little scratch pads.”

“It’s just for keywords. You’d be amazed how the words ‘paranoia and delusional’ jog my memory back at the office.”

“Delusional, yes, that sums up Laurel.”

“I’ll ask again. Do you mind if I ask your secretary some questions?”

Palmier tapped on the keyboard. He swiveled the computer screen around. “Ellen Helmstead is my administrative assistant. Ellen’s worked here at Genevive since we opened up three years ago.”

Palmier brought up the older woman’s photograph on the Genevive website bio page.

“I said I wanted to talk to her.”

Palmier’s rapid eye movements underscored the point that he wasn’t under investigation. “Ellen’s in Minneapolis on a two week business trip. I’ll give you her phone number if you think it’s necessary.”

Halliday nodded. While Palmier scribbled numbers on a business card he said, “It’s often helpful to hear the opinions from witnesses on the periphery of a case to obtain a clearer picture.”

Either Palmier was a skillful liar or a man who had had the misfortune to hook up with a mentally ill woman. Halliday had to admit that the image of Laurel McKittrick as the innocent woman used and abused by a power hungry executive had lost some of its luster.

Palmier slid the card toward him. “Oh, I forgot, you’ll want to write the number down in your notepad.”

Halliday let the barb go. He scooped up the card. “No problem. Do you know where I can find a photo of your ex-wife?”

“I discarded all her leftover belongings,” Palmier said, massaging his hands. “I understand she had a photo on her nature blog. You can Google her.”

Palmier didn’t offer to bring up her website on the Mac so Halliday wrote down, “Google LM-spelunker” in the notepad. He said, “You’ve seen her blog photo?”

“No, I haven’t. A colleague mentioned it.”

Palmier stared off into space. “With that jet black hair and green eyes, she was quite stunning.”

He said it as if Laurel’s looks were her only redeemable value.

“How tall was she?”

“Five feet seven inches. If you saw her you’d never forget her face.”

“I see.”

“Detective Halliday, can I be frank?”

What happened to
John
? What happened to the killer smile? “Go ahead.”

“I’d prefer you let us handle this imposter issue. I have a crack team of Genevive security professionals at my disposal. If necessary I’ll assign bodyguards to accompany me over the next week or so.”

Halliday needed to get a rise out of Palmier, to see how the man would react. “Genevive Labs is a big outfit. Why have you assembled a patchwork security force that pales in comparison to pro security firms employed by other biotech giants?”

Palmier’s eyes lit. “Detective Halliday, I’ve worked around a variety of so-called professional biotech security services. Rather than endure their flaws Bob Gartner, my CEO, and I searched the industry for the best available professionals. We built our security system from the ground up.”

The executive raised a steadfast jaw. He offered one side of his face, a technique maybe borrowed from Bill Clinton’s playbook. “I’d put our security team up against any biotech company in the world, anytime.”

Halliday wouldn’t be surprised if Palmier wagged a finger at him. He said, “I can’t let you start up a vigilante committee to hunt this woman down. No one is above the law, Mr. Palmier, not even Genevive Labs.”

Palmier caught his jab. “Your investigation won’t help Genevieve’s reputation. Before the divorce Laurel clouded the air with accusations to my coworkers. I’ve spent the last six months mending fences. Another thing, the management team at Genevive has allocated a tremendous amount of time and resources to keeping this facility off the map. Our CEO, Bob Gartner, would be happy to talk to Chief Brayden regarding that concern.”

“I thought biotech companies craved publicity.”

“Only if they are short of funds and seek sponsors. Genevive Labs is fortunate not to be in that position.”