Lab Notes: a novel (13 page)

She ran to her desk. The computer was still there, but her papers were in disarray as if someone had looked through them and tossed them aside.

The desk drawers stood open—even the ones she had carefully locked. She slammed the top drawer closed and stared down into the second drawer in disbelief.

μ CHAPTER TWENTY TWO μ

“Coast Guard Galveston. Chief Petty Officer Barker speaking.”

“Chief Barker, this is Diane Rose. I was supposed to bring in the video cam from
Woodwind
this morning.”

“Yes Ma’am?”

“We had a break-in last night. The camera was stolen.”

“Sorry to hear that, Ma’am.”

“But I viewed the video prior to the theft, and I’d like to discuss what I saw. Can we do that over the phone?”

“Certainly.”

Chief Barker’s voice was pubescent. But his professional demeanor helped Diane deliver a dispassionate account. She described the fast approach of the white yacht and the collision. “It was a hit and run; there’s no doubt about it,” she said. Then she told him about the letters on the stern: “The yacht’s name ended in AV—I’m certain of that. And its hailing port ended in either UDA OR UBA.”

“UBA could be Cuba,” Chief Barker responded. He didn’t sound encouraged. “And that AV ending sounds like a Russian name. There are some old Russian yachts in Cuba—left there from the Cold War era. They’ve been used to smuggle black market goods between Mexico and the sparsely-populated western end of Cuba.”

“What kinds of goods?”

“You name it: drugs, cigars, flesh trade. We’ve also had reports of piracy involving those Cuban boats. They board fishing trawlers and private yachts and rob them, sometimes tossing the crew overboard, sometimes not.”

Diane didn’t want to dwell on that. “Is there an international registry for boats?”

“Not for private yachts. It would be difficult to do a search anyway, not knowing the first letter of the name.”

“Yes… Of course.”

“I could check shipyards along the U.S. Gulf Coast for boats having hull repairs around that time. Even if it were a steel hull, it would have sustained some damage in a collision like that.”

She knew he was trying to give her hope. But why would a Cuban boat come to the U.S. for repairs?

“I don’t want to waste any more of your time,” she said. “But I’m curious about something: Vincent’s last reported coordinates placed him south of the Texas-Mexico border. How would
Woodwind
have gotten back up to Padre Island?”

“There’s a strong current flowing northward from the Caribbean into the Gulf of Mexico. It squeezes through the Yucatan strait between Mexico and Cuba. That current spawns large eddies. The boat could have ridden an eddy around to the northwest, then washed ashore.”

Chief Barker assured Diane he’d alert Coast Guard patrols in the Gulf to look out for the Cuban yacht.

Diane hung up the phone in despair. The reality was: even if the Coast Guard found the culprits, they couldn’t return Vincent to her.

She yearned for the halcyon days when shipwrecks and pirates only appeared in her storybooks.

It was her first visit to the cupola since Vincent sailed away. But judging by the pile of rawhide bones and toys near the telescope, Huck had been keeping a vigil there.

She could feel Vincent’s presence.

She pressed a button and the roof opened. It was a perfect night for viewing the heavens, even with the naked eye.

She picked out the brightest star. “Is that Venus?” she asked Vincent. “Or is it The North Star? I know, I know. You’d have told me their names if I hadn’t been too busy to stargaze with you.”

She removed the cap from the telescope eyepiece and ran her finger around rim where Vincent’s face had touched “I’m so sorry I let your video get away. But maybe they won’t watch it. I’d hate for anyone to see you in that state. You had such a wonderful mind. But even the greatest among us has a breaking point… I think I can play our song for you now.”

Diane closed the roof and headed downstairs to the piano with Huck at her heel.

She sat for a moment and stared at the keyboard. Perhaps the song would provide some sort of closure. She began playing. But almost immediately, several keys stuck. “That’s strange.” She jumped up, opened the top of the piano and gasped. There, strewn over the hammers and strings, were piles of Vincent’s notebooks and flash drives.

Diane flipped quickly through the notebooks, stacking them one by one on the sofa table. In addition to Vincent’s bench notes on
Peruvase
and
Chimeron,
there seemed to be volumes devoted to his suspicions regarding BRI, Harry Lee, and on and on.

The more she saw, the more depressed she became. To her, the writings chronicled the decline into paranoia of a once great mind. She closed the piano and trudged upstairs to her solitary bed. Tomorrow she’d plan her trip to Pittsburgh for Vincent’s wake.

Outside, a classic wooden runabout motored slowly along the lakefront. The lone occupant watched the light go out in the upstairs room, then tied the boat up to an old dock and jumped ashore.

μ CHAPTER TWENTY THREE μ

Diane ended her call, slipped her cell phone into her shirt pocket and stepped out onto the front deck. Through the trees, the lake shimmered in the late afternoon heat of the endless summer.

Three weeks earlier, she had been in Pittsburgh where evening temperatures dipped into the fifties, and the harbinger of fall, Queen Anne’s lace, decorated the roadsides.

The nostalgia of early autumn had sharpened the poignancy of Vincent’s memorial Mass. Cousins and friends were there for support, all the while pressuring her to return home. Her old colleagues persuaded her to look into positions at colleges and universities in the Northeast. Others—some of Vincent’s friends—were less than collegial; their pointed questions seemed to accuse her of carelessness in losing him in such an unsuitable way. Perplexed, she wondered if Vincent’s death would have been fine by them if only he had died in a lab explosion, or overexposure to radiation or acting as his own guinea pig.

Her friends had compiled a list of winter-term job openings, which now lay beside her computer in her home office. She’d begin the hunt soon.

Her cell phone rang. She knew who it was before she looked at the screen.

Maxine’s tone was somewhere between a plea and a demand. “But you have to come. You’re the guest of honor—that’s classified information by the way.”

Diane frowned. Obviously Maxine didn’t buy the “I have a headache” beg-off message she had left a few minutes earlier.

“To what do I owe the honor?”

“According to Raymond, you saved his life last month.”

Diane pictured Bellfort’s baseball bat and cringed. She should have let the chimps work him over a little longer. “But David’s the one who administered first aid.”

“You’re being modest. You need to come and accept your just rewards. Besides, it’s not good for you to sit home alone on a Saturday night. We’re concocting margaritas that’ll cure any headache.” Her voice softened. “And any heartache for that matter. So come on. You’ll enjoy it.”

Before they hung up, Maxine extracted a promise that Diane would show up at the
Enterprise
by 7 p.m.

Diane leaned on the deck railing and watched five mallards waddling along the bank below. With a start, she realized she envied the small family of ducks. It had been over four months since Vincent sailed off, several weeks since
Woodwind
washed ashore; she needed to get out among people.

She glanced at her watch. The party started in two hours, time enough to compose an email to Tung Chen. Apparently, after Vincent asked her about Tung Chen on the jogging trail that morning months ago, he had contacted Tung asking for information. This morning she had read his response.

Diane remembered Tung as a gentle soul who was fastidious about his work station in the lab, most unusual for that crop of grad students. In his email, he apologized to Vincent for taking so long to respond. He also offered regrets that his research had not been productive thus far.

Per Vincent’s request, Tung had some colleagues in Taiwan check pharmaceutical companies for any connection to
Peruvase
or BRI. So far, Tung’s spy network had come up empty handed, but they were not giving up their search.

Tung
had
been successful, however, in finding an archived Hong Kong newspaper article about the mugging death of a scientist named Harry Lee. He had emailed it sometime in July and asked if Vincent had received it.

Diane carefully worded her response to Tung. She knew he would be stunned by Vincent’s death. She gave him a brief account of Vincent’s disappearance at sea, avoiding the hit and run aspect.

She assured Tung that she was doing fine and thanked him for his efforts on Vincent’s behalf. She ended with: “I haven’t seen the newspaper article about Harry Lee. If it’s not too much trouble, could you please email me a copy?”

A three-man
mariachi
band strummed guitars and sang on the upper deck, creating a fiesta atmosphere.

In the main salon, a rainbow of frozen margaritas heightened the party spirit. Colorfully clad
senoritas
,
senoras
and
senores
feasted on a lavish buffet featuring chicken and beef
fajitas
.

The
mariachis
took a break, allowing conversations to resume. Diane and the Wentzels stood in the forward corner of the salon. Jerry and Connie Wentzel had been abroad on a month long vacation. They reined in the effects of the margaritas long enough to ask how Diane was getting on and to invite her to dinner the following weekend. Diane told them she was doing well and accepted their invitation.

A tray of fresh drinks came by, and Diane traded her empty pink glass for a full green one. The Wentzels followed suit.

The
mariachis
returned with more instruments and struck up the Mexican Hat Dance. Connie Wentzel implored Jerry to give it a try.

Looking apologetic, Jerry turned to follow his wife to the dance floor. Then a thought crossed Diane’s tequila-addled mind. She tugged at Jerry’s sleeve and leaned toward his ear. “Did Harry Lee ever mention that he was hard of hearing?”

Jerry looked puzzled. “As a kid he had a medication-induced deafness, but it was corrected later on. Why do you ask?”

Diane shrugged and laughed. “I don’t know.”

Jerry’s wife dragged him toward the music.

After dessert was served, the band switched to ballads. Maxine stepped behind the bar and called everyone to attention with a hand bell. “Time for the ‘Chimp Awards,’” she announced.

Amid cheers and laughter, Maxine presented awards recognizing the contributions of those who helped round up the chimpanzees the night of the break-in.

Raymond received the “Fearless Leader Badge” for single-handedly taking on two aggressive male chimpanzees.

Wilbur and Officer Conway good-naturedly bowed to hoots and jeers while accepting their “Bent Dart” awards. Officer Sabbatini received a “Purple Butt” ribbon.

King, Kong, See, Speak and Hear got special mention and a meal of ribs and fries delivered to the primate house.

Diane accepted David’s “Shirt Off His Back” award for him; he had phoned and said he’d be arriving at the party late. He received a gift certificate to replace the shirt he shredded to provide swabs and a tourniquet for Raymond’s bleeding wounds.

Diane took the grand prize: an air pistol engraved with her name and a wall rack to display it along with a gold-plated (painted) tranquilizer dart.

Raymond approached Diane as she took her bows. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes glazed. “Let me help you with those things.” He reached for the gun rack. “We’ll stow them in my office for now.”

He turned and swayed up the stairs toward his on-board office. Diane followed, carrying the gun and dart.

Raymond spoke over his shoulder. “I’ll have someone from maintenance hang it on your office wall. Or would you like it in the lab?”

She didn’t want it displayed anywhere. “I… surprise me.”

Raymond set the rack on the corner of his desk, and Diane placed the gun and dart beside it.

“Sit down. Sit down,” Raymond said, motioning toward the tufted leather sofa across from his desk. “We haven’t chatted in a while.”

Diane settled onto the couch. Raymond sank into his desk chair and reached forward and patted the air pistol. “I don’t know of any way to adequately express my appreciation.”

Diane waved off his thank you for the fifth time that evening.

Raymond persisted: “If there’s ever anything you need—would you like a drink?”

“No thank you. I think I’ve had—”

“How about champagne?” Raymond heaved himself to his feet and stepped to the bar.

Diane shrugged helplessly.

Raymond popped the cork, poured and handed Diane a tall flute. “To the chimps. Bless their fuzzy hearts,” he said.

Diane tipped her glass and wet her tongue.

Raymond took a gulp, then returned to his desk chair. “Now where were we?” He finished off his champagne, then faced his computer screen.

“I’ve been thinking, Diane. You should take some time off to relax and so forth.” He turned back to her, his face wreathed in an eager-to-please smile.

Diane studied his face, scars now a dull pink. He seemed genuinely concerned about her—even paternal.

“Work keeps my mind occupied,” she said.

“I see. Ahh… a plant-collecting trip could accomplish both business and pleasure. Maybe Gabriel can arrange something. How are you two getting on by the way? Is the South America project going well?” Raymond interlaced his fingers and leaned forward.

“I haven’t been able to plan a trip since Quito.” She shot him a significant look.

“Yes, yes, of course. But now I think it would be good for you to get away for awhile.”

His tone was oh so mellow. Diane suddenly sobered up. Across the desk sat a man full of tequila, champagne and appreciation—a truth potion if ever there was one. She shifted direction. “Do you have someone in mind to develop
Chimeron
?”

“Well, that’s another point of discussion isn’t it? When you’re comfortable with it and so forth, you can start interviewing biochemists. No pressure understand.”

“And later, will you sell
Chimeron
and keep the buyer a secret?”

A shadow passed over his eyes. He took a deep breath. “In the past, when all transactions were transparent here at BRI, I lost some damn good scientists who chose to follow their projects to the new owners. So… ahh… I tried to prevent that with contracts.

“Then, when contracts didn’t serve as a deterrent, the question became: ‘How much time and money did I want to spend taking them to court?’ So, I changed my policy. Confidentiality became the watchword.”

“Do you think Vincent would have chased
Peruvase
to Asia if he knew the drug’s new owner?”

“Ahh,
Peruvase
. That’s a different can of worms isn’t it?” He loosened his collar, cleared his throat and spoke again in the direction of his monitor. “Sometimes, particularly in Asian countries, there’s a ‘face-saving’ factor, I’m told.

“When companies invest in intellectual properties, they want them to be seen as their baby, conceived in-house and so forth. I use brokers to serve as middlemen in such deals.” Rubbing his chin pensively he muttered under his breath, “Need closer scrutiny there.”

He spoke up again. “Payments are arranged through numbered accounts. I don’t even know who’s doing the buying sometimes.” He glanced at Diane for validation.

She looked at Bellfort in awe; even drunk he was quick on his feet. What’s more, he seemed to believe his embroidery of the truth. She nodded as if fully accepting his explanation.

Raymond’s phone rang. Diane stood up and signaled that she’d see him down below.

Stepping over to the stairs, Raymond checked to make sure Diane had closed the door behind her, then returned to his desk and inserted his ear buds. “What’s up?”

“Vincent Rose may be gone, but someone is still lookin’ for
Peruvase
and some of the other technologies. My people are getting upset, making threats. She’s got to be the one initiating these searches. Who else could it be? She must know somethin.’ Is she still at the party?”

Raymond glanced down at the top of Diane’s head moving along the port deck. “Yeah.”

“Since I’m here in the neighborhood, I’m going to go check the house. I have a key. Keep her there for at least an hour.”

“I really don’t think that’s necessary—”

“You had your chance. Now it’s my turn. I’ll identify the source and deal with it—one way or another. Maybe I’ll hang around ‘til she gets home. The widow should be pretty horny by now.”

Bellfort propped his elbows on his desk, closed his eyes and massaged his temples. How did things get to this point? Originally, out of necessity, he had become the puppet of a tyrant, then later, the pawn of a madman—two masters working at cross purposes. And for years he had managed to maintain a blind zone between them. But lately…

He dropped his head in acquiescence. “Be careful; she has a large dog that has the run of the house.”

“You’re forgetting that I’m the original dog whisperer.”

Diane stepped along the side deck to avoid the thundering revelry in the main salon. The night air was surprisingly cool, but dripping with humidity.

Walking toward the bow, she saw Maxine and Colton on the opposite side of the boat. Colton was talking on his cell phone.

“It’s a good night for it,” he said. He tucked his phone into his pocket and turned to Maxine: “It’s done.” Then they spotted Diane.

After a surprised greeting (as if it was the first time they were seeing her that evening) and some overlong conversation about damp night air, Maxine and Colton retreated toward the stern of the yacht.

Diane leaned on the bow rail and pondered her meeting with Bellfort. She realized that she’d been itching for a confrontation with him all evening—ever since she read Tung Chen’s email. Now she wished she had pressed the issue about
Peruvase
and watched Bellfort repeat the lie about it being sold in Taiwan.