Fangs Out (13 page)

“Crissy’s a television producer,” I said to Savannah.

“Aspiring
producer,” Crissy said. “I haven’t actually gotten any projects on air yet, though I do have one that looks promising. Animal Planet seems very interested. Fingers crossed.”

I told Savannah about
The Cat Communicator.
Savannah laughed and clapped her hands.

“What a great idea for a show,” she said. “I’d definitely watch.”

“With that kind of enthusiasm, you can come with me to my next pitch meeting.”

“Maybe I just will.”

Hub asked me if I’d had any more news on Janet Bollinger. I said I didn’t.

“I couldn’t sleep a wink, thinking about her,” Walker said. “Finally had to take something to knock me out.”

“We prayed all night,” Crissy said.

Savannah over looked at me.

“Janet?”

“I’ll explain later.”

I told Walker that I was meeting Greg Castle for brunch.

“Excellent. You’ll like Greg. Outstanding young man. Can’t say the same for Ray Sheen, his No. 2, though. Smart fella. Something about that guy I don’t trust.” Hub shot Crissy a quick glance. She seemed not to notice as she poured milk into a batter bowl.

“Too bad you can’t stay for breakfast,” Crissy said. “I’m making Belgian waffles. With
real
whipped cream.”

“I love waffles,” Savannah said. “I just wish they didn’t go straight to my hips.”

Hub smiled. “Gotta die of something, darlin’.”

I said I’d be back in a couple of hours. Savannah urged me to have fun, then kissed me goodbye. It was an awkward kiss, like new lovers, unfamiliar with each other. After so many years apart, I suppose you could say we were.

W
ALKER STEPPED
outside with me to his driveway.

“Some looker, that ex-wife of yours. What’s she doin’ with the likes of you?”

“You have no idea how often I ask myself that same question.”

The azure of Walker’s ocean view melted into the cloudless heavens above, a cobalt that seemed to stretch all the way to Asia. The wind was out of the east. A desert wind. The promise of a warm day.

“I wanted to apologize for my behavior last night,” Walker said. “I don’t know what came over me. I just got a little tossed off my horse when you told me about what happened to Janet. I got no problems, you talking to the police about anything. I just want you to understand that.”

Across the street, a squat, barrel-chested man in his mid-sixties wearing khaki walking shorts and a cinnamon-colored hairpiece you could spot from the International Space Station was watering pots of red and purple impatiens on his front porch and glaring.

“Cut down those trees, Walker!”

Hub waved like a good neighbor, then turned his back.

“My neighbor, Major Kilgore. Says my palms ruined his view. Keeps threatening to take me to court. Problem is, his house never had a view to begin with.”

“Cut ’em down, Walker, or I swear to God, you’re gonna regret it!”

“He’s been harping at me like that ever since he moved in last year. Never took a shine to me ’cuz I was Air Force and he’s Marine Corps. He’s basically harmless, though.”

Major Kilgore looked anything but harmless. He was scowling vengefully, fists clenched, shaking with rage.

Walker ignored him and squinted up at the sun. “High pressure’s building in. I might drive out to Montgomery and do a touch-and-go or two. Crissy said something about wanting to take Savannah shopping.”

I climbed into the Escalade. “You mind me asking you a question, Hub?”

He smiled. “It’s not about the medal, is it? I thought we covered that ground yesterday.”

“It’s about Janet Bollinger.”

Walker’s smile faded. “What about her?”

“You wouldn’t happen to know anything you’re not telling me, would you?”

He ran a hand over his face, struggling to control his anger.

“All I know is what you told me.”

I watched him stride up the driveway and back into his house, the door slamming behind him. I’ve spent a lifetime lobbing blunt-spoken questions, offending innumerable friends, relatives, bedmates, DMV workers, airline reservationists, one ex-wife, and, from what I was later told, the entire faculty of my high school. Hub Walker to my recollection was the first Medal of Honor recipient I’d ever pissed off.

F
ORTY-SOMETHING
Gary Castle was everything Walker said he was. Clean cut. Athletic. Articulate. The All-American straight shooter. In his cuffed khakis and yellow golf shirt, with a hint of gray at the perfectly coiffed temples, he could’ve just as easily passed for a Republican seeking the White House.

“This is why I work so hard,” Castle said, proudly handing me a framed photo of his exceedingly blonde wife and four towheaded boys, one of more than a dozen family pictures crowding his desktop.

“Good-looking brood,” I said.

Less handsome was the view from Castle’s second-floor office, located in a large, highly secure, two-story building with mirrored windows that overlooked a heavy equipment storage yard just off Pioneer Way. The “El Cajon Zone,” as the locals call it, may be a mere half-hour drive inland from San Diego’s La Jolla, but it is decidedly more industrial, a haven of machine shops, warehouses, fast-food outlets and guys driving jacked-up pickup trucks with oversized tires.

“Unfortunately, I realized after we spoke this morning that I have a meeting at noon,” Castle said, “so I took the liberty of ordering in. I hope you don’t mind.”

A nearby credenza bore heaping platters of fresh pastries and bagels. There was a crystal pitcher of orange juice on ice and a silver coffee decanter. I picked out a chocolate doughnut with chocolate frosting, garnished with crumbled peanuts.

“These things,” I said with my mouth full-to-overflowing, “should be outlawed.”

“I’m sure you have many questions,” Castle said. “I thought it might be helpful if you first got a brief overview of what it is we do here at Castle Robotics.”

As if on signal, a slim man about Castle’s age, with a slicked-back, receding hairline, sockless Weejuns, stylishly faded jeans, and an untucked black dress shirt rapped on Castle’s open door.

“Come on in, Ray. I’ve asked my chief operating officer, Ray Sheen, to join us. Nothing gets done around here without him. Ray, this is Cordell Logan, the gentleman I mentioned. Hub Walker seems to think he might be able to help us out of this pickle.”

Sheen had long, flared sideburns, like some nineteenth-century riverboat gambler, and a pronounced scar on his left cheekbone that reminded me of the Nike swoosh. In his hand was a Louisville Slugger, which he gripped as if it were a walking stick. An affectation if there ever was one.

“You must be a ballplayer,” I said, shaking his hand.

“Second base. Started all four years at Arizona State.”

“Ray and I roomed together in college,” Castle said. “He got his pilot’s license way back when, but it’s been a few years since he flew.”

“I have better things to do,” Sheen said, “like helping this country defend itself.”

Ray Sheen exuded an obnoxious, self-important air.

“Gentlemen, please.” Castle gestured toward four wine-colored lounge chairs on the far side of his office surrounding a round coffee table upon which rested what looked like a mechanical hummingbird.

I resisted the urge to get myself another doughnut and sat.

“So,” I said, “what exactly does Castle Robotics do?”

“Nano technology,” Sheen said. “This company, Mr. Logan, stands on the brink of delivering technology to America’s war fighters that will viably reduce unmanned aerial vehicles—more commonly known as ‘drones’—to the size of this.” He held up the hummingbird and showed it to me.

I remembered sitting in on a classified briefing in which we learned all about plans by the Pentagon’s Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency to create such drones. The incentive was to reduce collateral damage from bomb strikes. High-orbiting Predator UAVs aren’t always discriminate when lobbing Hellfire missiles. Target a terrorist who stops in for a quick bite to eat at the House of Hummus, and innocent people often get blown to smithereens with him. On the other hand, a battery-powered, remote-controlled drone packing miniaturized optics and a small warhead could buzz in through an open window at the House of Hummus, land unobtrusively, wait until the bad guy visited the men’s room,
then
blow him to smithereens. That was the concept, anyway. Nano technology was little more than theoretical when I worked for the government. How times had changed in only a few short years.

Castle Robotics’ relationship with the Pentagon, Sheen said, had taken a substantial hit following news reports of Dorian Munz’s unfounded, eleventh hour assertion that Ruth Walker had been murdered in part because she supposedly had knowledge of malfeasance on Castle’s part. The company had also taken a financial hit. In the weeks following Munz’s execution, the value of the company’s stock had tanked on the NASDAQ.

“The board is meeting next month in New York to hold a vote of confidence,” Castle said. “If I lose that vote, I’ll have no choice but to step down.”

“That won’t happen, Greg,” Sheen said. “Not as long as I have any say in it.”

Castle got up, patted Sheen on the shoulder and paced the room. “If Munz were still alive, I’d sue him for libel. To imply that I killed the daughter of the one man I most admire in this world, because I was somehow trying to protect this company, or that she and I had an affair and I impregnated her, is outrageous on the face of it.”

“Can you prove Munz lied?”

“Absolutely. I took a paternity test.”

“Voluntarily,” Sheen added, “and passed.”

“You took a
paternity
test?”

Castle rubbed his forehead. “I can’t believe I just admitted that. I’ve never told anybody, except Ray. And Munz, of course.”

I tried not to appear as surprised as I was.

“You told Dorian Munz you took a paternity test?”

“I don’t recall the specific date,” Castle said, “but it had to have been a few weeks before Ruth was killed. She told me Munz was running around town saying I was the father, so I offered to take a test, to prove him wrong.”

“Where did Munz come up with the idea you were the father?”

“You’d have to ask him.”

“Munz is dead. I’m asking you.”

Castle poured himself some orange juice. “I don’t exactly appreciate your tone, Mr. Logan.”

I reminded him that I was there to help, and asked him again where Munz had gotten the notion that he’d sired Ruth Walker’s child.

“Honestly? I have no idea. I’d always assumed that Munz was the father and simply didn’t want to accept responsibility. All I know is, I went to a clinic ten years ago, they swabbed the inside of my mouth, and the results showed it wasn’t me. I assumed that was the end of it. It never came up in Munz’s trial. Then, ten minutes before he’s put to death, he pops off with all these insane accusations, and the news media reports them like it’s fact.” Castle gulped his juice. “You have no idea, Mr. Logan, the strain this has put on my marriage. My wife’s a practicing Roman Catholic. She can’t understand how anyone could lie like Munz did, knowing they’re about to face their maker.”

“If you shared the results of that test with the news media,” I said, “you’d be golden.”

“Share the results? With those bloodsuckers? So they can boost their ratings or sell a few more papers? It’s none of their damn business.”

“It is if Munz’s accusations ruin your company and take you down with them.”

Castle looked over at Sheen as if for guidance.

“The press would probably just ignore it anyway at this point, Greg,” Sheen said. “You know how that tune goes—never let the facts stand in the way of a good story.”

“You mind if I have a look at the report?” I asked.

“I really don’t see how this is any of your business, either,” Castle said.

“Hub Walker hired me to help find a way to get you out of a jam, Mr. Castle. This could be that way.”

Castle thought about it for a couple of seconds, sighed, then crossed the room to a four-drawer oak filing cabinet.

“Greg keeps
every
thing,” Sheen said admiringly. “He’s very well organized.”