The Black Silent (5 page)

The lights were off in the organics lab too. She turned them on. What she saw was appalling, as if someone had gone on a rampage. Had something happened to Ben?

"Hello?"

She jumped, badly startled by a sound. It was Frick, behind her, leaning against the doorway.

Garth Frick looked the part of an unpleasant cop. He smoked small cigars and told jokes, but his cadaverously wiry body expressed menace that outweighed any efforts at geniality. Frick's hair was black, drawn back and tied in a small ponytail. His sallow skin matched the gaunt look of his frame and his crooked teeth—a man who looked fit, lethal, and unwell all at once.

"Where's Ben?" she asked.

"Come with me." He walked up to her and put his hand in the small of her back, as if she were a girlfriend. She removed his hand, but he only chuckled. He led her to the storage room.

She followed a short distance behind. "Where are we going?"

"Relax," Frick said. "I want to show you something."

"No." She stopped at the door.

He turned around, grabbed her arm, and yanked her into the storage room, putting his face into hers.

"You're under arrest. Now quit moving and give me your purse."

"No." She tried to get out.

He punched her in the stomach, doubling her over in extreme pain. He slipped the purse strap off her shoulder and touched his mouth to her ear.

"I'm very busy at the moment, so I can't attend to you right now."

He took her hands and handcuffed them behind her back. Then he sat her on a box of glassware and stuffed a small towel in her mouth, using duct tape to keep it there.

It took Haley several minutes to recover from the punch. When she felt able, she rose, turned, and tried to open the door. Because there were radioactive isotopes in this storage room, the door had an extra bolt lock on the outside. Frick evidently had locked it. She returned and sat on the box and considered screaming, even with the towel. It didn't take her long to conclude that, yes, she should definitely scream. But the volume she generated was not impressive.

Then the lights went out.

While she sat in the storage room, Haley's anger and fear grew as she wondered what Frick might be doing to her adoptive father, Ben. The crime scene tape . . . she couldn't complete the thought.

F
rick paced while Rolf, the hacker, hunched over his computer keyboard and worked to break into the escrow at Boston International Escrow Services.

"This was supposed to be done two days ago," Frick said. "It was supposed to be solved. Now we have nothing. Nothing."

"Leave me alone and let me think" was all Rolf would say.

Frick knew he had little time. He couldn't leave Haley in the closet for more than twenty minutes without major complications, be it the arrival of her mysterious friend, Sam, or some sort of mutiny among the county deputies.

They were in an office off the IT department especially set up for data transfers by visiting scientists. Rolf had converted it for his purposes over the weekend. It had been a simple task to make his PC look like Ben's from a data transfer standpoint, imitating the range of IP numbers used by Ben's office and his personal computer's Mac address. He had Ben's password and so had a much easier time breaking into the escrow than would a cold-calling hacker. Frick had just learned that the man also liked to work in semidarkness.

Ben Anderson and the Sanker Foundation had signed a contract that provided for an escrow service of national repute to hold electronic copies of all Ben Anderson's scientific research papers. Rolf had managed to break through the firewalls and get inside the escrow to examine those documents. Even though Ben could deposit files in the escrow account, he could not remove documents that had been on file more than sixty days without special authority. Nor could Sanker; hence the need for the hacker.

Rolf was a heavy fellow with puffy cheeks, a wispy beard, heavy glasses, and food-spotted clothes. Since he made plenty of money, obviously he had simply given up on his appearance as a lost cause. Frick detested the unkempt nature of the man and his body odor. Killing him would be an act of purity. Frick fantasized extensively about hanging him by one foot and slitting his throat. Rolf was a pig and Frick had experience in killing pigs.

On the first pass through the first set of files, they had found nothing that explained how to build five genetically engineered bacteria that would produce certain critical proteins and peptide hormones. They had one set of files left to go. Unless it contained the vital information, the old man had snookered them.

Then there was the mystery gene—something else they didn't understand, something not used in the organics lab to make products from transgenic bacteria. "How long now?" he asked.

"A while," Rolf answered. "Longer if you stand around looking over my shoulder."

"I gotta have something short typed out and printed fast."

"Will you leave me alone if I do it?"

"Just do it."

Rolf apparently decided not to defend his dignity and typed for Frick:
I
,
Haley Walther, hereby admit that on this date I was trespassing at Sanker, having
entered

the premises unescorted by Ben Anderson and in violation of my agreement with
Sanker; and

that I was hiding in the radioisotope storeroom to avoid detection when someone locked
the

exterior bolt, inadvertently locking me inside. I was thereafter discovered by Deputy
Frick. I

am freely and voluntarily agreeing to answer questions posed by officers in their
investigation, have been read my rights, and hereby waive my rights, including my right
to

remain silent. I have requested that I be allowed to remain on the premises during a
portion

of the investigation. I agree to answer all questions and to remain with a police officer
at all

times while on the premises, and I agree to surrender myself for arrest and booking for
trespass upon request by any officer of the San Juan Island Sheriff's Department and I
understand that a formal citation will be issued.

Acknowledged by Haley Walther

Rolf printed the document. "Now if I'm through with my secretarial duties, perhaps you can go entertain the lady while I work."

Smart-ass.
Frick hurried back to the Oaks Building and to Ben's office, where he had the safecracker working on Ben's wall safe. The moment he saw the pissed-off expression on the man's face, he knew he had a problem.

"How long?" Frick asked.

"I gotta do invasive stuff. I just can't do this in a few minutes with a stethoscope, like in old movies."

"You can have ten more minutes," Frick said. "If you can't get it open in ten, I'll have to bring you back. I've got deputies out there—this is a crime scene—and there's no way I can hold people off much longer. It's already looking strange."

Old man Henry Gardner Sanker sat in the bar off the grand-gathering room, which in smaller homes would be akin to the formal living room.

His bar was nice, even by billionaire standards: gleaming hardwood and brass, with gorgeous mirrors to reflect the tawny colors of the various libations. He'd reserved the gold leaf for other areas. Sanker liked the warmth of all the fine wood—it spoke of comfort and class—and this was the place he chose to sit and hold court.

He kept a small desk in the corner with a phone, for business was never far from his mind, and tonight he wore an old tweed sport coat and sipped a glass of 1927 Fonseca port.

Sanker had a full head of silver gray hair and a long face that he thought looked like shattered safety glass, for all the wrinkles. His eyes, though, remained bright as new pennies, and his mind, in contrast to his body, was robust.

Stu Rossitter, the president of Sanker, had come in the other entry, let in by the help.

"I am concerned," Sanker said when Stu Rossitter approached the bar.

"I share your concern. Shocked, actually. I was sure we'd find the goods in the escrow.

We're lucky to have our Judas."

The old man's eyes moved over Rossitter, noting that the shoes had just been shined. He wore a speckled gray cardigan and gray wool slacks—a little formal for Rossitter this time of night. Sometimes Rossitter didn't keep his shoes perfectly shined, but the old man had noticed that when Rossitter was worried, a new shine could be expected, sometimes even a new pair.

Garth Frick, by contrast, let scuff marks accumulate on the toes of his shoes. It was no wonder he was a murderer.

"Your Judas wanted a lot more than thirty pieces of silver, and even then I worry he'll stay bought," the old man said.

"I'm counting on it," said Rossitter.

"You're damn right you are. It's our families, the
world,
we're talking about."

Rossitter wisely kept his counsel.

"We all have a lot to lose." Sanker pressed the point. "Does Frick know the papers weren't left in the escrow yet?"

"Maybe. If he doesn't, should we figure a way to tell him so he won't waste time?"

"We don't dare," the old man said. "You don't tell a pigeon he's a pigeon. Let him think he's our eagle. What went wrong?"

"I don't know. The way Frick evidently had it planned the old man should have drowned, and we should have had the stuff out of escrow. It obviously was never there for any of us to find."

"I knew Anderson was double-crossing us. I had to swallow my bile just to make the deal, and I've never begged a man in my life. But he wouldn't breathe a word about his discovery, and it's half mine! Arrogant bastard goes behind my back, cheats his way out of the escrow. . ."

"He'll be dealt with," Rossitter said.

"We have to find him before anybody else does. And quick. Any hint that we have anything to do with his disappearance, never mind his death, and we'll be swinging in Wall Street's wind."

"Frick will catch him," Rossitter said. "But we may have to help. We could pass tips from Judas. . ."

"You think I want to hear any of this?"

"I'm sorry. I—"

"You know I would never stoop to this if I didn't have to," Sanker growled. "Never."

"Of course," Rossitter said.

"See that it's solved, my friend. Just see to it. It's more than what we own. It's the very balls of our existence. Our pride. I never should have gone down this path, never even thought about the merger with American Bayou. But that prick forced me and I will see his soul in hell."

Rossitter waited the few moments it took to make sure the old man wasn't changing his mind. Sanker nodded at last, the signal that Rossitter could leave.

The ferry coming in reminded Sam of the time. Haley had been gone twenty minutes.

He called her cell number but got no answer. That was a little strange because normally one could get reception over on that side of the harbor. Of course, she could be in the bowels of the lab, but she had promised to call, and Haley didn't forget things like a promised phone call. Perhaps he would take a ride over there and see what was happening. He had taken a break from the history of the islands and was reading about the whales. He couldn't concentrate on the narrative or the pictures, though. He put the book back in his leather pouch.

Sam could walk with no discernible limp, usually trying to keep his full weight off the bad knee. He eased his bulk into the Ford Taurus and turned his mind to Frick. When Haley had begun pouring out her soul about Sanker, Frick had figured prominently in her theories about who had stolen data from her computer and framed her.

Sam had done a little checking, getting most of his information from Ernie, his longtime FBI contact. Ernie called Frick "very bad news," but he wouldn't give Sam any details beyond the basics: Frick was a former homicide detective. He had been suspected, but never accused, of murdering a police commissioner. The sudden disappearance and presumptive death of the commissioner and two investigating officers had abruptly ended an investigation into the activities of a large corporate client of Frick's.

Sam had first met Frick at a local charity fund-raiser, and from the way Frick watched him, he had supposed that Frick was running a check on him as well.

It took only a couple of minutes to get to the wooded road into Sanker. Inside the front gate were parked three San Juan County police cars and one plain vehicle with a portable police light.

Already a yellow tape marked a crime scene. Sam went slowly, taking the measure of the place and the people as he got out of the car. He knew a lot about crime scenes and rule number one was that they didn't allow visitors.

A very intimidating fence, a more artful version of something that would enclose a high-security industrial complex, surrounded the place. Near the entrance, long steel staves rose about ten feet and then turned at a forty-five toward a potential intruder, and each was tipped with a leaf-shaped razor-sharp end piece. Away from the entry it gave way to a wall with razor wire on top.

A single uniformed deputy stood just inside the gate, although that hardly seemed necessary, given that it was electronic and didn't open without a card. As he watched, a sturdy-looking plainclothes officer, with a mustache and thinning hair, approached the gate and began talking with the uniformed officer.

Sam walked over to the men. "Hello, gentlemen. What's going on?"

"It's a crime scene," the uniformed officer said.

"I'm Detective Ranken," the plainclothes man said.

"Is the undersheriff or the Orcas sergeant available?" Sam asked. No response from Ranken. "Maybe the San Juan sergeant?"

Sam had socialized a bit with the sheriff, and had taken mental notes regarding the chain of command. He also knew the sheriff was in Europe. On this little island a lot of people knew about the trip. Fewer knew that the Orcas sergeant took command after the undersheriff. This was Sam's subtle method of pointing it out. Even in an emergency, to get down to Frick in the chain of command, the sheriff, the undersheriff, and both the Orcas sergeant and the San Juan sergeant would have to be unavailable. But he wasn't sure if that held true for crimes only involving Sanker, where Frick had special jurisdiction. A potential murder or kidnap, though, would clearly be viewed as involving much more than just Sanker.