CHIMERAS (Track Presius) (11 page)

CHAPTER 14

____________

Tuesday, October 14

“Ding, ding, ding! Signed warrants for Detective Presius!” Luke scuttled across the squad room waving the papers above his head. He flopped them on my desk and stood right there, a sheepish grin plastered on his face.

“What?” I growled.

He frowned. “Gee, Track. What an asshole. I don’t mean a thank you, but at least a sign of appreciation for my new aftershave!”

“Oh,” I said, snapping closed the murder book I’d just updated with the new photos and reports from Diane. “This one’s okay. It’s the bad ones I notice. Are the lines still hot?”

“Course they’re hot,” he griped. “Now that White’s name’s out, calls come in two groups. Those who claim the director’s a saint, and those who grieve the loss of the professor. In the meantime, journalists are harassing the press relation department.” He trotted out of the squad room shaking his head and muttering between his teeth, “I hate celebrities.”

I gestured to Satish to come over. “Call Electronics,” I told him as I reviewed the warrants Luke had just dropped off. “We need their gurus to come seize Tarantino’s computer.”

He nodded, reaching for his mobile. “The neighbors don’t recall any work done on the house in the past three months,” he informed me. “Did you get phone subpoenas as well?”

I got up, adjusted my belt and holster, and slid on my jacket. “Yup. I’ll leave them with Nelson. She can take care of that part.”

“I’ll meet you at Chromo, then,” Satish said, sauntering away while thumbing the Electronics extension.

I had Nelson sit at my desk and lectured her on how to get the Tarantinos’ phone logs and what to look for: any business number she found, she was to call them back and learn what kind of services they provided. We were after house updates—walls, exterior stucco, insulation—and car jobs. She listened carefully, then looked up at me with large fawn eyes and said, “I have a question, Track.”

“Shoot.”

“When I’m done with my gum, can I stick it under your desk?”

I threw a paperclip at her. On the way down to the first floor my cell phone rang and Diane’s number flashed on the display. “You’re going to Chromo without me?”

I stiffened, taken aback by her bluntness. “We figured we’d need Electronics—”

“What about Prints? Did you forget I’m the scientific lead on this investigation? Come pick me up at Cal State. I’ll gather my stuff and meet you at the parking lot.”

I hung up wondering whether to let a deliciously smelling lady boss me around like that.
Hell, yes
. I flipped the phone closed and grinned. Like an idiot, I grinned.

*  *  *

The campus of Chromo Inc. was located in Century City, a half-hour drive that was going to take us twice as long, courtesy of afternoon traffic. Sluggish, the radio defined the current status of the Ten. They say Eskimos have about fifty words to characterize snow and ice. Californians have just as many to describe congested traffic conditions.

Bathed in Diane’s ambrosial scent, I couldn’t care less. We spent the time going over Chromo’s specs and Tarantino’s job overview. Diane listed the company’s services like my grandmother would’ve gone through the beads of a rosary: gene expression profiling, gene therapy, genetic engineering, DNA and RNA sequencing. From Nelson’s searches I’d learned Robert Tarantino got his B.S. from Penn State in 1975, and his Ph.D. in chemistry from Tate University in 1980, the same institution that six years earlier had hired the rising genius of Michael Conrad. The connection didn’t end there: when Exgene Solutions hired Conrad in 1996, Tarantino was already a promising engineer with the company.

“You think the Tarantino murders and Conrad’s are linked?” Diane asked.

“Worth looking into.”

Past the sign announcing the Four-Oh-Five junction in three quarters of a mile, I hit the brakes and entered the bumper-to-bumper zone the radio had warned us about.

“Damn it. We should’ve gotten off on Overland.”

“I’ll never get used to this,” Diane said. “Where I grew up it’s either the train or cattle crossing the street ruining the commute.”

“What do they call bumper-to-bumper traffic there, round-to-chuck?”

“Aw, Track!”

We both laughed and put an end to the strictly work conversation. We spent the rest of the drive challenging one another on who remembered the most idioms Southern Californian radio stations use to describe traffic conditions. And when we exhausted all the ones we could recall, we invented new ones. 

*  *  *

Shaped like a sail, the façade of the Chromo building was made of sleek blue metal and tinted glass panels. Its contour embraced an open court paved in red bricks. Brass plates engraved with milestone in the history of genetics drew a path to the main entrance. Water jets splashed along the edges of a circular water fountain, while at its center, in a copper-colored mesh, stood the artistic rendition of two gigantic X chromosomes, one the mirroring image of the other. Stripped of all its sensuality, it was the bare essential of femininity.

As we climbed out of the car, a funky song from the ’80s chimed, muffled at first, until Diane, frantically fumbling in her bag, produced her loud mobile. In the frenzy to get the call, she lost the grip on the phone and sent it flying between my feet. I crouched, picked it up, and mentally noted the number on the display before handing it to her.

It’s called occupational hazard.

“It’s Jim,” she mumbled, pressing the phone to her ear. I heard her mellow “Hey, hon,” as I trudged toward the main entrance without bothering to check whether she followed inside or lagged behind to take the call privately. Pretending not to be bothered by the existence of Diane’s boyfriend, I entered the Chromo building.

The high vaulted lobby smelled of new construction, synthetic fibers from the overly vacuumed carpet, paint, wood cleaner, and a cornucopia of perfumes and aftershaves. The glass effigy of a DNA double helix loomed in the middle of the hall, a twisted ladder that crossed the space from floor to ceiling. Sunrays from tall windowpanes shimmered along the beads bridging the two coils, their shadows drawing rainbows on the opposite walls.

Chromo knew how to make an impression on its visitors.

“Second floor, room two-forty-nine,” the receptionist told me. “Your colleagues are there already.” Watery eyes enlarged by thick, convex lenses gazed at me with maternal love. “This is such a tragedy,” she added softly, shaking her head. Her white, static locks smelled of hairspray, the folds of her neck of talcum powder. Juliet
Hennessy, I read on the nameplate on the reception desk.

Two pens lined next to a sign-in clipboard, a bowl full of sugar-free candy, hand-sanitizer, a floor map: Juliet Hennessy thrived on details, the kind of person who plucks a hair off your shirt when she spots one and tells you when you are due for a new haircut; who notices every new hairdo and pair of shoes stepping through the main entrance to her reign, and doesn’t mind letting you know what she thinks of them.

I reached to my pocket and held out an enlargement of Jennifer Huxley’s driver’s license photo. “Do you remember ever seeing this woman here, Ms. Hennessy?” I asked. “Maybe looking for Dr. Tarantino?”

She adjusted the glasses on her nose and brought the picture so close to her face a film of condensation appeared on the glossy surface. “This woman? No.” She shook her head and handed back the photo.

“Are you absolutely sure?”

Her eyes sparkled. “With all the people coming and going, Detective? Of course I could be wrong. But if the lady ever was here, I can tell you the one person who will know for sure.”

Ms. Hennessy directed me to Human Resources, a maze of cubicles with nametags on the second floor.

“Nah, never seen her,” I was told at the public relation desk. A tattooed hand with black nails returned Huxley’s photo.

“Does the name Jennifer Huxley ring a bell? Did she ever call?”

“Huxley, you said?” a shrill voice asked.

“Yes. Do you recognize the name?” I prodded. A tiny woman with hair too black for her age approached the counter. Her purple frill top was as tacky as a joke on a candy wrap. She took the picture and studied it religiously, while her ringed fingers fiddled with a gaudy collection of beads around her sagging neckline. She nodded and tapped on Huxley’s forehead. “Yes, I’m sure it was her. She came a few weeks ago and asked to meet with Dr. Tarantino.”

Bingo
! “Did she say why she wanted to see him?”

“Uh-uh. Without a reason I couldn’t arrange a meeting. I tried
to convince her to talk to one of our managers first. Our executives are very busy people, you know?” The woman looked sadly at the picture. “She insisted she had to talk to Dr. Tarantino. That’s why I remember her.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I made her fill a written request and told her I’d get back in touch once I had the chance to speak with Dr. Tarantino.”

I beamed. “Tell me you still have the form.”

An offended frown curled her forehead. “Of course I do, Detective. I never throw away anything!”

I stared at her desk and saw what she meant. The anti-Huxley workplace, a monumental collection of recyclable garbage: knickknacks of all shapes and colors, from the happy man in a hula skirt, to the dancing snowman; dust-covered picture frames, fake flowers, piles of paper in all colors; unused folders, empty plastic bottles, even a row of diet coke cans neatly lined on top of the cabinets as if they were shiny golf trophies. The wall behind the desk sported a pin board with overlapping layers of memos and photos. A child had gone from newborn to riding his bike; bright yellow sticky notes had gradually faded in color, and the words printed on them had been smeared by the occasional spatter of coffee. Maria Ramirez was so attached to everything she refused to depart even from Huxley’s request form, although she was nice enough to make me a copy.

“Did you ever get back to her with an appointment?”

“Dr. Tarantino agreed to meet with her in four months, but Ms. Huxley told me it was too far away. I never heard back from her.”

CHAPTER 15

____________

Tuesday, October 14

Ms. Claire Lester crossed the room with an impatient gait, her red pumps tapping arrogantly on the floor. A thick trail of expensive perfume lingered behind her like the wake of an airplane. In her early fifties, Lester sugarcoated her vitriol with hypocorisms and hid her impending menopause behind a thick layer of makeup, fake eyelashes, and three concentric rows of pearls. A woman of little time, I gathered, a few exes, and a disowned child if she happened to have given birth at some point in her ovulating years. The kind of lady who could use more sex in her life but is too sour to find anybody to fill the position.
Literally
.

She dropped a leather briefcase on her client’s mahogany desk, plucked out a few papers, then transferred her conspicuous ass in one of the upholstered armchairs. Coloring her words with a Texan
inflection, she gave us her introductory speech on why she’d recommended Chromo CEO Richard Medford not to talk to us until she could preside over the meeting. As she spoke, her client smiled placidly, a cherubic face framed by silver waves of hair.

Medford’s hand felt disturbingly soft when I introduced myself. His breath smelled of cocoa butter, and, contrary to his lawyer, his voice was deep and placated, his mannerism conciliatory. “Robert has been a great asset to our company for the past seventeen years,” he said. Satish and I took a seat in his sizable office and listened. Beloved by all his coworkers and clients, Robert was devoted to his job, passionate about his field, and undertook every new task like a new endeavor. A faithful of this new-age religion called Stakhanovism, in other words.

“Whoever did this, hurt all of us at Chromo,” Medford concluded with a sigh.

I studied the man. He lavished on refined details: gold tack holding a lavender silk tie, expensive man cologne, a Rolex sliding down his wrist as he laced his hands around his crossed knees.

“Any idea why anybody would want to hurt you or your company, Mr. Medford?” Satish asked.

Medford waited for Lester’s approving glance before replying, “There’s a lot of insane people out there, Detective.”

The comment made me scratch my head. “What exactly do you mean, Mr. Medford?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Lester interjected. “My client is talking about religious and ideological fanaticism. Chromo has been doing genetic research for over a decade, always at the forefront of scientific progress: gene therapy, stem cell research, genotyping. And while these highly motivated scientists strive to find a cure for genetic diseases, there are nuts out there who accuse them of playing God or violating the sanctity of life.”

Anticipating my question, Satish asked, “Did anyone here at Chromo receive specific threats in the past?”

Lester inhaled, straightened her back, and sent a supercilious glance to her client. “Tell them, Richard,” she said, with pompous
affectation.

Medford slid a hand to his pocket and produced a stick of lip balm, which he profusely applied to his dark lips. “Robert mentioned being approached by a woman on his way out from work one day. She stopped him in the parking lot and confronted him over some gene therapy experiments he had supervised a few years earlier.”

“A woman? Did Dr. Tarantino know her?”

Medford shook his head. “I don’t think so. He would have told me. Look, it happened a while ago and Robert mentioned it only once, on our way to a meeting. At the time I shrugged it off as irrelevant, but now…” His voice broke. He brought a hand to his tie, adjusted an already perfect knot, and then cleared his throat. “I don’t know what to make of what happened to Rob and Tammy. It just doesn’t make sense.” Medford frowned, tuned his voice back down a notch, then pointed the lip balm stick at us. “Detectives, a company like ours is always on the forefront of new research, always in the spotlight. We need the praise of the media. At the same time, we attract the attention of a lot of lunatics out there. Their accusations are based on sick ideologies, like this absurdity of violating the sanctity of life Claire just mentioned. In fact, what we’re doing here is cherishing the beauty of life, making sure every child can thrive in a disease-free world.”

A young assistant in high heels knocked on the door and delivered a tray with four ceramic cups and a freshly brewed pot of coffee.

“How long have you been with Chromo, Mr. Medford?” I asked.

He flashed me a paternal smile. “Twenty-two years. It wasn’t named Chromo, back when I took over.”

“Was it your idea to hire Professor Conrad in 1996?”

The smile dissolved. “Conrad was a genius. He fully embraced Chromo’s philosophy and ideals.”

The lawyer dutifully checked her watched and tapped one shoe. We had exhausted all twenty minutes she’d generously granted us.

“Ideals or ideologies?” I wondered, once we left Medford’s office.

“Clever question, Track,” Satish said. “When it comes to things like genetics, is there a difference between the two?”

We took the elevator one floor down to Tarantino’s office, a luminous room with a view on Culver City Park. A tall ficus plant sat in a corner by the window, its leaves cast under a film of dust. The bookcases were bare of knickknacks, photo frames, or any other decoration. Heavy with volumes of scientific journals and reference books, they exuded a sense of austerity and hard working intellect. The only embellishment Tarantino had allowed in his office was an antique world map hanging behind the desk, and a small picture of his smiling wife and daughter, next to the computer screen.

Diane was already there, dusting Tarantino’s keyboard, while our Electronics guy ran his forensic hocus-pocus on the hard-drive. The fan at the back of the desktop was huffing like a plane about to take off.

“Jeez,” I said. “Is that thing about to explode?”

“It’s the FDC device,” the computer tech reassured me. “It’s creating a disk image of all volumes and data storage devices connected to this machine.”

I nodded, pretending to understand, and didn’t bother asking what the heck FDC stood for.

“How did the chat with Medford go?” Diane asked, sealing the last box of evidence.

“Cryptic,” I replied. “Why?”

“He seemed uh—interesting.”

I raised a brow. “You talked to him?”

“Briefly.
This was in the recycling bin.” She held an open envelope with Tarantino’s work address printed in a neat calligraphy. It was postmarked October 2.

“What did you
and Medford talk about?” I asked, donning a new pair of gloves.

“Oh, just this place in Palm Springs where he goes on vacation
with his wife. Jim and I go there too, from time to time.”

I slid a finger inside the envelope and pulled out the photo of a smiling child in ponytails. “Gaya Nicole White,” the print at the bottom of the picture read. “October 19, 1999—January 3, 2008.”

I stared at Diane. “Do you know who this was?”

She nodded. “Jerry White’s daughter. That’s why I’m showing it to you. Do you want me to ship it to Latent Prints?”

The envelope bore no sender. I brought it to my nose and inhaled. Perfume, feminine, by now very familiar. “Yes,” I said. “And I can tell you exactly where to find matching fingerprints.”

*  *  *

Dear Dr. Tarantino:

I have come across several of Chromo’s “Proteus” kids in our leukemia study at the Esperanza. Let’s talk.

Sincerely,

Jennifer Huxley,
Lab Tech II

Esperanza Medical Center

I mulled over the expression “Proteus kids.” I left the letter on the table, grabbed a Corona from the fridge, and shuffled outside in the backyard. Will followed me and crawled around my legs as soon I slumped on the chaise, nose on my lap and eyes set on adoring mode. A few seconds later the pet door clicked and The King joined us. He hopped on the table and gave us his usual disapproving glare.

“You’re just jealous,” I said.

His Majesty ignored me.

The air was cool, the stars were out, and Venus shimmered above the fringed treetops. The solitary trill of a cricket emerged over the monotonous hum of the Two. It was on nights like this that I cherished where I lived and forgot how much I loathed the traffic jams at the junction between the One-Ten and the Five. When my mother passed, I spent three months renovating the house. A realtor friend of mine told me its value had risen to seven figures,
and after years of renting crappy one-bedrooms I was eager to buy my own place. The “For Sale” sign my friend left me was still somewhere in the garage—I never put it out. I thought I’d never get used to all the ghosts of the past, yet we ended up getting along just fine, the ghosts and I.

Proteus kids
. I took a long swig of beer and pondered. Will licked my hand, I stroked him behind the ears. The leaves of the eucalyptus rustled in the breeze, their fragrance wavering in the air like fluttering moths. I put down the bottle of Corona, snapped open my cell phone, and dialed through Parker Center.

“Luke went home,” a never-heard-before Officer Knudsen told me with a strong New York accent. Right. It was already eight thirty p.m. “What d’you need, Detective?”

“Get to a terminal and search under the words ‘Proteus’ and ‘children’ and call me back if you find anything interesting.”

“What’s your definition of interesting?”

What do they teach these days at the Academy, philosophical reasoning? “How ’bout anything striking you as worth killing for?”

“Yes, sir.”

The New York accent hung up, and I dialed Diane’s number.

“Too late to ask me out, Track,” she mocked.

I drew in air and almost choked in it. “Who’s looking at Tarantino’s hard disk?” I said, pretending I hadn’t heard her. My voice didn’t pretend too well.

“We left everything at Piper Tech, with a guy named Banjaree.”

The Piper Technology building, on Ramirez Street, housed our Electronics Unit. I’d worked with Amit Banjaree on other cases before. I made a mental note to call him and tell him to search any document with the name Proteus in it. And the word children.

I drained the Corona staring at the black sky above me. Twinkling dots billions of light-years and lifetimes away. I should’ve thought about life, death, the universe, and what the hell my ephemeral existence was supposed to mean in this overwhelming vastness. But I was in no mood to get sentimental. All I could think of was the “Hey, hon” Diane had so casually
blurted on her phone when Mr. Boyfriend called her. And how it stung even though it shouldn’t have. So why did I not call her back and ask her out?

What are those, Ma?

The stars, honey.

No, I mean—what are the stars? What are they made of?

She rested a hand on my head and rubbed my scalp with the pads of her fingers.

They are the eyes of the dead, looking down on us. Protecting us.

I thought of Lily’s eyes.

I wo
ndered if they were up there, too.

I failed to protect Lily’s eyes.

And now they will be fourteen forever
.

I stirred out of the plastic chaise, tossed the empty bottle in the recycling bin, and trudged back inside.

Damn it
.
I did get sentimental after all
.