Gina Cresse - Devonie Lace 04 - A Deadly Change of Power (10 page)

“Here.  I’ll show you.”  I executed a query to compare vendor names from all the companies.  Whenever it found the same name in more than one table, it would return a row to the screen.

Craig and Jake moved around to get a better look.

Craig read the names as they displayed on the screen.  “A T and T, Airborne, Fed Ex, Federal Express, United Airlines, United Parcel Service, UPS.  Why are some listed more than once?”

“Because these companies spell the names out, and those companies use acronyms or abbreviations.  Any variations will produce separate results,” I explained.

Ronnie studied the list.  “Those weren’t UPS delivery men the other night at your house.”

“I know,” I said.  “You would expect to see these vendors being used for most American companies.  There’s nothing surprising here.”

“So that’s it?  You’re done?” Jake asked.

“Not hardly.  We still have to compare contact names, phone numbers, vendor addresses, remit to addresses, deliver from addresses, and tax ID numbers,” I said.

“How long will that take?” Ronnie asked.

“Not long, providing I enter my query correctly.”

There were no surprises when I queried the contact names.  I also specifically looked for
Charlie Johnston, Jack Pearle, Pianalto, and Hollers.  No matches were found.

I didn’t get any hits comparing the vendor addresses, the deliver from addresses or the tax IDs.  I saved the remit to addresses for last, because that’s where I felt we had the best chance of finding something.  That’s where the money goes.  I started first by including two addresses, city, state, and zip code in my comparison.  There were no results returned.  Then, I dropped one of the addresses.  Still no results.  When I excluded both addresses, as I suspected, hundreds of rows were returned.  Every vendor in every major city in the country came up in the list.  I sorted the results by city and began the tedious task of looking for a common thread.

Atlanta
—
nothing.  Austin
—
nothing.  Baltimore
—
nothing.  Boston
—
nothing.  Chicago
—
nothing.  Dallas
—
nothing.  Denver
—
nothing.  Then, we all read the next city name aloud.  “Graeagle?”

“Where’s Graeagle?” Jake asked.

“California.  Up north,” I said.  “It’s a little retirement community in the Sierras.  Golf courses, country clubs, lots of rich old geezers.”

“And rich young yuppies,” Craig added.

“I’ve never heard of it,” Ronnie said.

“I only know about it because my Uncle Doug owns a house up there.  He rents it out most of the year.  He lets me use it whenever I feel like I want to escape the congestion of the big city.  It’s a beautiful place.”

Craig studied the list closer.  “Seems a little strange that all these big oil companies would have business with different entities in such a secluded little place.”

“I agree,” I said.  I reprocessed the query, limiting the results to include only Graeagle, and then printed the list.  All the company addresses were post-office boxes.  No physical addresses were recorded.

“All four oil companies had relationships with four different businesses in Graeagle.  Let’s see what kind of money we’re talking about,” I said as I formulated another query to search the accounts payable history table for total dollar amounts paid to each of the four businesses in the tiny town.  I pressed the “GO” button and waited for the results.

“Holy cow,” I said as the amounts scrolled up the screen.  “Look at this.  In the last fiscal year, each of these outfits received over five million dollars from their respective oil company.  What in the world do they do for that kind of money?”

Craig read down the list.  “CCI?  IMI?  Elite Incorporated?  Power Makers Corporation?  I can’t tell from the company names what sort of businesses they are.”

I typed in another query.  “I think I can take care of that.  We’ll look at individual checks.  Hopefully, they put some sort of notations on the ledger distribution.  The accountants hate it when they don’t document things.”

I submitted the query and hundreds of rows scrolled up the screen.  I found the column I’d named “Comments” and began reading down the list.  “Television shoots?  Magazine interviews?  Ads?  Commercials?  These are all public relations companies, I think.”

Jake pounded his fist down on the arm of the chair.  “That’s it!  That’s where I’ve seen Hollers before,” he exclaimed.  “They’d been filming.”

“Who was filming?” Ronnie asked.

“Extan Oil.  After that big oil spill fiasco.  They had to do something to improve their image
—
remember?” Jake continued, excited.

“I remember.  Who could forget?  All those poor animals killed because of the oil slick,” Craig said.

“I had a meeting with the Extan CEO.  Gosh, it’s been about seven years ago,” Jake said.

“What sort of meeting?” I asked.

“Who can remember?  They’re always the same.  They buy me an expensive lunch, give me a bunch of expensive gifts, thank me for keeping their interests
at the forefront of my decision
making.  You know, the same old bull.”

Craig scratched his head.  “Where does Hollers come into the picture?”

“He delayed my meeting.  I cooled my heels in some assistant’s office while he had an impromptu session with the CEO.  Hollers never saw me, but I saw him.  He had to deliver a video his company had just completed.  They wanted to get it on the air right away, but the CEO had to approve it first.  After Hollers left, I got to see the video for myself.”

“It was Hollers?” I asked.

“I’m sure of it. That lightning-bolt scar on the side of his neck stuck in my mind,” Jake said.

“What was on the video?” Ronnie asked.

Jake shook his head and gave a half-hearted chuckle.  “You know that commercial that shows a dumping ground at the bottom of the ocean where Extan had discarded a bunch of used pipe and equipment they could no longer use?”

I nodded.  “The one where an eco-system had developed and a whole little
community of fish and other sea
life
had set up house in the junk?”

“That’s the one,” Jake said,
pointing at me.  “As if the eco
system developed
because
of the garbage they dumped rather than
in spite
of it.”

I nodded.  “I remember that commercial.  I thought it was kind of weird that they’d admit to dumping the stuff in the first place.”

“I think they got caught and someone was going to go public with it.  They put every resource they had into damage control.  They scrambled to get that commercial on the air before the whistle-blowers could,” Jake said.

I scrolled across the screen to the company name listed for Extan’s check.  “CII.  So Hollers works for this company?”

“He did then.  As I recall, CII is an acronym for Corporate Images, Incorporated,” Jake said.

I powered down the laptop and started packing it back in its case.  “I wonder how Mr. Hollers’ job description reads.  Job skill requirements: deliveries, impersonations, bombs, arson, kidnapping
—
murder?”

T
he next morning, Craig and I climbed onto the Sea Ray and headed for another day on the mainland.  We pulled up to Mr. Cartwright’s slip and cut the engine.  I spotted Craig’s colleague waiting for him in the marina parking lot.

“What’s on your agenda today?” he asked as he tied the line to a ring on the dock.

“I thought I’d go by the house and check the mail and our phone messages.  I want to visit the puppy
—
give Aunt Arlene a break.  He hasn’t been a perfect angel.”

Craig frowned.  “He’s just a puppy.  He’ll grow up to be a good dog.  We really have to come up with a name for him.”

“I know.  I’m working on it.”
“I want you to be careful if you’re going by the house.  No telling who might be watching the place,” Craig warned.

“I’ll be fine,” I assured him.

“I mean it, Dev.  Why don’t you just wait?  We can check the answering machine remotely.  The mail can wait a couple days.”

“When did you become such a worrywart?” I asked as I climbed over the edge of the boat onto the wet dock.  My foot slipped and I started to fall.

“Whoa there,” Craig said as he grabbed me to save me from plunging into the water.  “I became a worrywart the day I met you.  I discovered your obvious knack for finding trouble and decided someone had to keep an eye on you.”

His arms were still wrapped around me, even though I’d regained my balance and was no longer in danger of falling.  I smiled at him.  “Don’t worry about me too much.  I wouldn’t want your hair to turn prematurely gray.  People might think you’re a cradle robber.”

I gave him a kiss and sent him on his way. 

My friend Jason agreed to give me a ride to our house before he opened up his shop.  I waited in the marina office for twenty minutes before his pickup rattled into the parking lot.  I pointed to my watch as his truck rolled to a stop next to the sidewalk.

“You’re late,” I complained.

“Nag, nag, nag.  You don’t know how glad I am that Craig’s the one who got stuck with you.”

“Good morning to you too,” I replied.

He picked up a brown bag, soaked with spots of grease, and held it out to me.  “I brought breakfast.”

I crinkled my nose at the oily sack.  “I ate.  Thanks.”

“You sure?  It’s really good,” he coaxed.

“What is it?” I asked.

“’What is it?’  Beggars can’t be choosers.  I had to stop at three places to get the right food groups.  I’d hoped you be a little appreciative.”

“I’m not a beggar.  I told you I already ate.  I’m just curious what you’re subjecting your poor arteries to this fine morning.”

“It’s spicy deep-fried potato wedges, bacon-wrapped cocktail weenies and apple turnovers.  That’s fruit, you know.”

I grimaced.  “Fruit?  Right.  And grease and sugar and preservatives and nitrates and artificial colors and artificial flavors and
—
”

“Hey.  You know what I always say.  Eat well.  Stay fit.  Die anyway.”

I shook my head.  Time to change the subject.  I’ve grown tired of harping at Jason about his eating habits.  It’s his body, I’ve decided.  I’m not his keeper.  “How’s business?” I asked.

“Booming.  I might have to hire a third repairman.  People are opting to fix their washers and dryers these days instead of throwing them out to buy new ones.  Good for me, but I’m working too many hours.”

I spent the next twenty minutes telling Jason about Ronnie’s predicament.  When I described her inventions to him, he nearly called me a liar.

“Impossible.  Take if from me.  I know motors.  What you’re describing is impossible.  It defies all the laws of physics,” he proclaimed.

“I’ve seen it.  I’m telling you, she’s done it,” I argued.

“She’s tricked you.  Believe me.  It can’t be done.”

I crossed my arms over my chest.  “Right.  And how many years was the earth flat?  And remember when the universe revolved around the earth?  And it was impossible for man to fly.  That was a gift only given to birds.  Heaven forbid anyone ever set foot on the moon.”

“That’s different,” he defended.

“How so?” I demanded.

Jason was silent.

“What’s the matter?  Cat got your tongue?”

“I’m thinking.  I’m thinking,” he insisted.

“No, you’re not.  That’s the problem.”

The argument continued until we pulled to a stop in front of Uncle Doug’s house.  As soon as Jason set his parking brake, the dispute ended.  He gave me the same concerned look he always does when he learns of my latest escapade. 

“You got a ride back to the marina?” Jason asked.

“I’ll get one.  Thanks,” I said, letting myself out of his truck. 

I can’t describe the feeling I had when Aunt Arlene opened the door for me and let me into her house.  The pupp
y stopped playing with the chew
toy for a moment to see who the new person in the house was.  When he saw me, he dropped everything and bounded across the living room at breakneck speed to greet me.  My heart leaped in my chest.  He actually recognized me and seemed to be elated.  Then, he nearly knocked me down when he jumped on me.

I told Aunt Arlene I’d take him for a walk and keep him with me until I had to return to the marina.  She didn’t say so, but I think she was relieved for the break.  She had some shopping to do and was happy she didn’t have to lock him in his crate while she was out.

I did my best to wear the puppy out on our walk.  I took him down to the water to see if he’d take any interest in swimming.  I tossed a stick into the water a few feet, but he wouldn’t go in after it.  I didn’t push it. 

I tossed the stack of mail and my house keys on the kitchen table.  After giving the puppy a couple of doggie cookies, I strolled into the den.  It felt so good to have room to move around.  I never noticed feeling overly confined when I lived on my boat, but now that I live in a house, I don’t think I could go back to living in that small space again.  I checked the answering machine.  We had two messages.  I pressed the playback button and listened.

The first message was from Bo Rawlings, the patent holder I tried to contact days before.  His attorney must have gotten my message to him.  He left a number where he could be reached.  I replayed the message and wrote the number down.  He’d called last night, around eight. 

The next message was from Rick Caper.  “Hi.  This is Rick from Caper and Lawless.  Anyone there?  I think we got something here, but I need to talk to you.  I’ll try one of the other numbers you gave us.  Bye.”  He’d called this morning, not long before I’d arrived home.  I checked my watch.  If I’d spent less time trying to convince the puppy that the water was perfectly safe, I probably wouldn’t have missed the call.

I punched Bo Rawlings’ number and waited for an answer.

“Hello?  Mr. Rawlings?” I asked.

“Yes,” he answered.

“Hi.  My name is Devonie Lace.  Mathews.  Lace-Mathews.  Your attorney gave you a message to call me.”

“Right.  I called last night.  What can I do for you?” he asked.

I sat down at the desk and removed a pad of paper and a pen from the drawer.  “I’m interested in the patent you filed back in nineteen eighty-nine.  For the engine?”

“Oh, that.  I’m sorry.  I sold that patent a long time ago.  You’re about ten years too late,” he said.

I noted down the ten-year reference.  “I wasn’t really interested in buying the patent.  I’m more interested in who bought it from you.”

There was a brief silence.  “Can I ask why you want to know?” he said.

I bit my lip and searched my imagination to find the perfect excuse for wanting to know.  Would it hurt to tell him the truth?  That I suspect the rich and powerful oil companies are killing inventors who threaten their business?  “I have a friend with a patent for an engine.  She’s a little strapped for money and is interested in selling it.  I found out you sold yours, and wondered if you had any suggestions who she might contact.”

“Really?  What sort of engine?” he asked, his interest piqued.

“I believe she calls it a heat-exchange engine.  Entropy?” I said.

He laughed.  “Heat exchange?  She won’t find anyone interested in buying that.  You couldn’t power a trolling boat motor with the horsepower you’d get out of it.”

I tapped the end of the pen on the tablet of paper, wondering how I should proceed.  “Hmm.  That’s not what she told me.  Are you sure about this?”

H
e chuckled again.  “Sure as
the sun rises in the east.  Tell you what.  Movell Oil bought my patent.  I doubt they’d be interested in your friend’s idea, but there are others who might.  A few people had contacted me back before I sold the patent.  One guy was pretty persistent.  Really interested in any new technology.  I have his number here, somewhere,” he said.  I could hear him fumbling with papers.  “Here it is.  Jack Pearle.  You got a pen?”

My ears perked up.  “Jack Pearle, you said?”

“That’s right.  You know him?”

“No.  But you have his number?” I asked.

“Yeah.  Address too.  It’s ten years old.  Don’t know if he’s still in business, but you can give it a try.”

I wrote down the number and address.  He chatted for a while longer, filling me in on the details of the sale of his own patent.  Movell Oil paid him a small fortune for his patent
—
enough to set up a nice little cattle ranch on one of the Hawaiian Islands.  He and his family were living a fantasy island dream
—
perpetual green pastures, beautiful horses, fat cows, and no worries. 

I asked him if the oil company had ever done anything with his engine idea.  “Now, why would they?” he said, laughing, as if it were a stupid question.

“Right.  Well, thanks again,” I said.

There was no answer at the number Rawlings gave me for Jack Pearle.  At least there was no recording that it had been disconnected.  I thought I’d give it another try in thirty minutes. 

I took the puppy out back to play.  By the time we finished five rounds of tug-of-war and another eight games of fetch, he was ready for a nap.

When I tried Jack Pearle’s number again, there still was no answer.  I powered up my PC and entered the address Bo Rawlings gave me into a mapping program.  I printed out the directions, powered everything down, collected the puppy and headed for the door.  I set the alarm.

I started for Uncle Doug’s house when I remembered that Aunt Arlene had left to go shopping.  She hadn’t returned yet. 

“Wanna go for a ride?” I said to the puppy, trying to raise some excitement.  He hadn’t learned what that sentence meant yet.  I unlocked my Explorer and loaded him into the back seat.  He plopped down on the seat and promptly closed his eyes.

The address for Jack Pearle’s business was in a small industrial park in Los Angeles.  I made a slow drive-by past the place to check it out.  It looked legit, though there were no signs indicating that Pearle Manufacturing had anything to do with the place.  In fact, there were no signs at all, just the unit number stenciled on the door. 

I parked in an open spot in front of another unit across from Pearle’s.  “You stay here.  I’ll be right back,” I said over my shoulder to the puppy, who was still resting comfortably in the back seat.  He lifted his head and slapped his tail twice on the cushion, then laid it back down and closed his eyes.

I tried the door, but it was locked.  I knocked, but couldn’t raise anyone.  I peered through the window next to the door to see inside.  It was dark, but I could make out plenty of machinery.  It looked like a genuine machine shop.  I didn’t see any sign of life inside.  I checked my watch.  All the other businesses in the complex were busy attending to their enterprises.  Where was Jack Pearle?  I thought I’d try asking one of his neighbors when a hand on my shoulder startled me almost out of my skin.

“Something I can do for you?” the gruff voice said as I spun around.

“Jeez.  You scared me,” I gasped, clutching my hand to my chest.

“Snooping women scare me.  Guess we’re even,” he replied.

I took a step back.  “I wasn’t snooping.  I’m looking for Jack Pearle.  You know him?” I asked.

“Who wants to know?”

“My name’s Devonie.  You know him?” I repeated.

“I’m Jack.  What is it you want?”

Jack Pearle stood about six feet tall.  His thick white hair was combed back from his face and cut short.  His hair looked even whiter against his dark tanned face.  He looked as though he spent most of his time outdoors.  His bushy eyebrows shaded his pale blue eyes from the bright morning sun.  His features were striking.  I estimated his age to be somewhere in his sixties.  Even at his age, he was a handsome man, and I was sure that in his younger days, he attracted a fair number of women.

“I understand you buy engine patents?” I said.

He studied me.  “Maybe.  You have one to sell?”