Authors: Warren C Easley
Alexis Bruckner lived in an upscale development set on a wooded hillside at the southern edge of the Stafford area. The developer called it Valley View Estates. The longtime residents of the rural area had another name for itâMcMansion Hill. The individual houses sat on five-acre plots with trendy names like Pheasant Run and Fox Watch Manor, but of course the pheasants and foxes that once roamed there had been forced out by the intensive development. Cut into the hillside and outlined by a few interior lights, Alexis' house reminded me of a docked ocean liner. I wasn't about to park right in front, so I looped around to the street above her place.
I sat in my car overlooking the rear of the mansion, reviewing the wisdom of my decision. The area was dead silent, and nothing moved except the ragged, fast-moving clouds screening the lopsided moon. The back windows of Alexis' house were dark except for two lights at either end of the first floor and a single light on the second. Maybe she's not home, I told myself, feeling a sense of relief. After all, talking to her had plenty of potential downside. But I was still shaken by that damn article, so I got out of the car and headed down the side street toward the house.
A grove of mature cedars and Doug firs that had miraculously escaped the developer's chainsaw stood behind the house. The trees loomed out of the deep shadows like ramparts and stopped at a fence that bordered the back of her property. The moon broke free for a moment, and I saw something move up near the fence line. I was sure of it. I stopped and stood there staring into the shadows below me. The shape took formâthe silhouette of a man standing at the fence looking into the back of Alexis' house. Or was he looking at me?
The moonlight dimmed, and the shape dissolved back into the darkness. My pulse ramped up. Could that be the man who broke into Daina's place and roughed her up? I slipped my cell phone out of my shirt pocket but stopped short of punching in 9-1-1. Calling from my phone would put me at the scene and raise a lot of questions. Did I really want that?
That argument was cut short when the moon reappeared. The person at the fence line got a clear look at me and took off running. They say never run from a cougar, because you'll trigger its chase response. Well, apparently, you shouldn't run from me either, because without a second thought I began to chase the guy. He disappeared into the cedar grove, but when I got to the edge, I put the brakes on. I wasn't armed, but the man I was pursuing sure as hell could be. I stood there trying to hear which way he might've gone, either back toward my car or around Alexis' house and down the hill. A thick carpet of fir needles in the grove apparently dampened his footfalls, because I didn't hear a thing until a car started up down below and tore out of the development.
My first impression was that I'd caught the intruder while he was casing the back of Alexis' house, but I quickly realized he could have just as well been coming out rather than preparing to go in. I decided I'd better check to see if Alexis was okay.
I moved along the fence line and let myself into the backyard through a side gate. The yard was dark except for a light beneath the surface of a large swimming pool, giving the water an eerie, radioactive glow. I took the steps up to the massive deck that ran the width of the house and moved across to the back door. I tried the knob. It was locked. A good sign.
At the other end of the house, more light shone from a large window and an adjacent sliding glass door that opened out onto the pool. The blinds on both were drawn. The slider was closed, but it gave when I nudged the handle. I eased it open, stuck my head in, and called out. “Alexis? Are you in there, Alexis? It's Cal Claxton.” Nothing. I called again and got no response.
One wall of the room was lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the other with an assortment of framed photographs. At the far end of the room, a laptop with its screen up sat on a back bar behind a humongous teak desk. At my end, a low glass and chrome coffee table sat in front of a black leather couch and between two matching chairs. This had to be Bruckner's study. The door leading into the room was shut. I walked across the room, opened the door, and stood listening. Not a sound. I called out again and got no response.
I had no appetite to check the rest of place, a dozen rooms, at least, but what if Alexis was hurt or dead somewhere in the house? Against my better judgment, I made a quick sweep of the house and found nothing. As I was leaving through Bruckner's study, I noticed a packing box on the edge of the teak desk; not the box so much, but what was written on the side of it with a Sharpie markerâ
Hal's NanoTech Files.
I thought I recognized Alexis' handwriting. My guess was she had bundled up Bruckner's files, the material he brought home to work on. The management team at NanoTech had probably requested the files. After all, they still had a business to run.
I hesitated, but not for long. Using a ballpoint pen, I quickly leafed through the box, a series of folders that were upright like contents of a filing cabinet. Most of the files had typed headings that didn't interest me, but three had handwritten headings that did. One was labeled
Security,
a second,
Diamond Wire
, and a third,
Streeter.
All were thin files, labeled in a strong, slanted cursive I took to be Bruckner's handwriting.
Before my lawyerly conscience could come up with a good counterargument, I removed the files, stuck them under my arm, and replaced the lid on the box. For my eyes only, I told myself to salve my conscience. And I promised myself I'd find a way to give them back. I closed the sliding door and headed for my car, stashed the files under the passenger seat, and got the hell out of there. The whole episode had an air of unreality. Someone had planned to break into Alexis' house, and I'd stumbled right into the middle of it. I tried hard to picture the details of the intruder as he sprinted away, but all I could pull up was a shadowy figure who'd run like a bat out of hell.
Was it worth taking those files? Would the intruder have taken the same ones? What the hell was he looking for, anyway?
I was anxious to get back to the Aerie to have a look at Bruckner's files. At the same time, I was wired and needed someone to talk to. I knew just the person. When I got back to Dundee, I swung by the Pritchard Animal Care Center, knowing my chances of catching Hiram there were pretty good. An avowed workaholic, my friend spent more time with his animals than at home. Sure enough, his Saab was parked behind the building, and the light in his office was on. Hiram must have seen my headlights because he was waiting for me at the back door of the building. When I stepped into the light, he looked at me over his granny glasses and smiled. “Cal, come in.”
I shrugged. “I was in the neighborhood. Felt like talking.”
I followed him down the hall to his office. A white lab coat draped loosely on his lanky frame, and his battered boat-sized sneakers slapped the tile floor. I thought of a scarecrow, but make no mistake, this scarecrow had found his brains. He took a Mirror Pond pale ale from a mini-fridge behind his desk, opened it, and handed it to me. Then he opened a cabinet on the wall and extracted a bottle of Macallan 12 single-malt Scotch and a glass. After blowing dust from the glass, he poured himself three fingers. When I clinked the neck of my bottle on the rim of his glass, he looked at me, his gray eyes tinged with concern. “So, what is it that needs discussing at this late hour? Does it have to do with that murder on the Deschutes? I read that disgusting article in
The Oregonian.
I called you about it, but you didn't return my call.”
I opened my hands in mock surrender. “I know. I know. Things have been hectic, Hiram.” I took a long pull on my beer and settled back in my chair. “You know, when I was a prosecutor down in L.A., I had this crystal-clear picture of the law. Sure, life could be murky, but the lawâthat was different. You were either on one side or the other. Good guys. Bad guys. Nothing in between.” I expelled a breath and shook my head.
Hiram nodded. “It's never black and white. And sometimes laws need breaking.”
“I'm not talking about what you did with those rhesus monkeys at Johns Hopkins. That was civil disobedience. Your hero is Gandhi, and I get that. I'm talking about laws and ethical codes that should be obeyed. You know, the righteous path. Trouble is, when you come under pressure, see your future on the line, things get a little less clear-cut. Maybe Machiavelli was right about the ends justifying the means.”
Hiram chuckled. “Machiavelli didn't actually say that, but your point's taken. Absolutes are hard to come by in this world.” He drank some Scotch and eyed me carefully. “What happened tonight?”
“I, uh, got in a situation and crossed a line. Not a bright one, but a line, nonetheless. That's new territory for me. It got me thinking about all those folks I prosecuted down in L.A. I can only imagine the kind of circumstances some of them were up against.”
“You had a job to do down there.”
“Yeah, I know that. I know how the law works. I guess it was my
attitude
back then. I was quick to judge, didn't give a damn what choices people were up against. That never even entered my mind.”
My friend smiled. “I trust that you had good reasons for whatever you did tonight.”
I had to laugh. “Oh, yeah. Which brings me to the Bruckner murder. I'm worried they're going to charge me with it, Hiram. You know what that would mean? I could be held without bail, awaiting a trail that could take eighteen months just to get started. I couldn't be there for my daughter, and defending myself would break me financially. Even if I'm acquitted, it's a freaking disaster. Yeah, I had good reasons.”
Hiram drank some more Scotch, nodded slowly, and pursed his lips. “So, where does the case stand?”
I took my friend through what I knew at this point, and when I'd answered all his questions he said, “I'll grant you that fellow Pitman's acting rather suspiciously. Perhaps his desire to leave the company was strong enough to drive him to murder the CEO. Maybe it was just pure rage at being disrespected by the CEO and his colleagues.” Hiram leaned forward and propped his elbows on the desk. “But I'm more inclined to suspect the wife and her boy toy. For my money, they hired somebody to do it, and they're trying to blame it on you.”
I nodded. “Yeah, it's a pretty sweet deal for both of them. She gets rid of an alcoholic husband, collects insurance, and probably inherits a company worth millions. He gets her and a shot at taking the company public. Pretty compelling motives.”
But there was a loose end I was reluctant to share with my friend, because I didn't want to disclose where I'd been earlier that night. If Alexis was in on the murder, then why was someone watching her house? And if she wasn't involved, then her life could be in danger, and I still needed to warn her.
The whole thing was a shotgun blast of dots, and I didn't have the first clue how to connect them.
On his final glass of Scotch, I brought my friend up to date on Claire's situation. Hiram listened with intense interest, because he was very fond of my daughter. When I finished, he removed his glasses, massaged his eyes, and when he looked at me again, a couple of vertical wrinkles had formed above the bridge of his nose. “This is insanity. Well Spring had no business exposing their volunteers if they couldn't ensure their safety.”
“I knew the risks. I mean, Darfur? Are you kidding me? But I was trying to be supportive. You know, not get in the way with all the baggage I'm hauling around.” I puffed out a breath and shook my head. “I should have dug myâ”
“No, Calvin, don't blame yourself. Claire's a grown woman and knowing her as I do, I doubt very much that you could have persuaded her to stay.”
I forced a smile. “You got that right. But if anything happens to her I'llâ”
Hiram waved his hand dismissively. “That's not going to happen. Claire's a remarkably resourceful young woman. She's going to be fine, Cal.”
A voice screamed in me.
She's being held by the Janjaweed, a
bunch of blood-thirsty rapists.
But I held my tongue. The spoken words would only reinforce my fear and sense of helplessness. And besides, that's no way to respond to a friend who's trying to be supportive.
I nodded as if Hiram had reminded me of some truth I'd lost sight of. “You're right,” I said, “Claire's going to be fine.”
I wanted to believe that with every fiber in my being.
I got back to the Aerie around midnight. When my headlights illuminated Archie he began barking and raced away. He did this to show he'd been patrolling the acreage, not spending the night waiting at the gate. Working dogs have their pride, you know. After I opened the gate he raced back, squealing and whimpering with delight when I knelt down to hug him. As if to join in, a barred owl from up in one of the Doug firs began hooting its eight-note refrain,
who-cooks-for-you, who-cooks-for-youuu?
I was home.
I let us both in, wiped the mud from his paws with a towel I kept by the front door, and went to the kitchen, where I downed a glass of cold well water. The house had a musty fish smell from last night's dinner, so I opened the side door to a blast of fresh air. I settled into my old roller chair in the study and spread the folders I'd taken from the Bruckner house on the desk in front of me. I opened the thinnest folder first. It was marked
Security
and contained mostly handwritten notes. I quickly realized they were almost certainly Bruckner's notes from the security meetings Daina had told me about. The bulk of the file dealt with more-or-less routine items relating to improvements at NanoTech, such as beefed-up computer firewalls, employee lock-up procedures, and the installation of a security camera system. I was getting tired and had to concentrate hard to keep the words from squirming off the page. However, when I came to the last page, I snapped to attention. It was dated May 29, just one day before the Deschutes trip. In a strong, firm hand Bruckner had written:
Rusty Musik findings ---
Upcoming tech conference, San FranciscoâDuane has meetings Aug. 18 with TM-E rep Clivas & Aug. 19 with Y.P. Chang from Guangzhou Micro Tech
What the fuck??
“
I knew it
,” I said out loud. Rusty Musik
had
done some snooping. TM-E and Guangzhou Micro Tech were the two competitors Daina had told me about the other night, the ones Bruckner was worried about. He had learned about these meetings right before the Deschutes trip, and judging from the fact that the last line he wrote was nearly punched through the page, he'd become furious. Had he confronted Pitman?
I opened the Diamond Wire file next. It was crammed with handwritten notes, memos, tables of data, and press releases, all relating to the technical breakthrough that Duane Pitman had made. The file made for interesting reading. In an e-mail message to Bruckner dated thirteen months ago, Pitman wrote:
Hal,
Hope you and your lovely wife are enjoying your cruise in Alaska.
I have the best of news for you. The U.S. patent office has just advised us that our Diamond Wire application has been allowed! All claims were accepted with the exception of the alternate plasma conditions. (We didn't expect to get those anyway.) I think we can be commercial on a small scale in 36 months. We did it!
Regards, Duane
But following the euphoria of the breakthrough and the allowed patent, tensions developed in a hurry between the two. Pitman laid out his complaints about lack of recognition and having his budget squeezed in a series of e-mails, the first of which was dated about nine months ago. It was essentially the litany I'd heard that night on the Deschutes during the speaking-truth session.
I opened the file marked
Andrew Streeter
next. On top was a six-month-old, formal letter to Streeter from Bruckner stating in no uncertain terms that Streeter's performance was unacceptable and demanding that he improve it “over the next period.” Mitch Hannon was blind-copied on the letter. On the bottom margin of the memo Bruckner had penned a handwritten note to Hannon dated May 26:
Mitch,
This is fyi. It's just not working out with Andrew. He's had more than enough time to straighten himself out since I put him on probation last March. I think it's best to go ahead and terminate him when we get back from the fishing trip. Since I don't have all my ducks in a row, I decided to let him attend the fishing trip. Otherwise, it gets too awkward.
Hal
Mitch had scrawled the following at the bottom of the note and sent it back to Bruckner:
Hal â I don't agree! Let's talk after the trip, before you do anything irreversible!
M.H.
Whoa, enter another suspect. Getting fired right before the big payday would cost Streeter a bundle, but with Bruckner out of the way and Hannon at the reins of the company, problem solved.
It was one-fifteen when I finally dragged myself upstairs, collapsed on my bed, and fell into a deep sleep. I awoke a little after six. In the midst of shaving, I became aware of my reflection in the mirror. I slowly lowered the razor and looked at my face as if for the first time. The image startled me. My eyes stared wearily back at me, the pupils like bugs caught in red spider webs, the fine creases at their corners like cracks in a windshield. I could swear my hair seemed flecked with more gray than before this whole mess started, and my mustache, although holding its own against the gray, traced a ragged, untrimmed line across my upper lip. I turned sideways and put my hand on my gut and stretched out my six-two frame. A thickening around my waist threatened to become a paunch if left unattended. I pinched the flesh on my hip between my thumb and forefinger. “Shit. Where did this come from?” I said out loud.
Archie, who'd been dozing on his mat in the corner, got up and followed me down the back staircase. I gathered up Bruckner's files in the study and took them out to the garage, emptied out the thick plastic envelope that held the owner's manual to my John Deere tractor and put the files in it. Then I taped the flap shut with duct tape and stashed the envelope in an underground irrigation box at the top of my property. The files weren't earth-shattering, but I sure as hell didn't want to get caught with them. I was expecting Dorn and Escalante to show up with a search warrant any time now.
When we got back to the kitchen, the phone rang. I held my breath as I picked up the receiver.
“Dad? It's Claire, Dad. I'm okay, Dad. I'm okay.”
“Claire!” I shouted into the phone, “Claire! Where are you?”
We're on our way to Khartoum in a convoy. We were released forty minutes ago.”
“Thank God. Are you sure you're all right, sweetheart?”
“Yes, except for my leg, Dad.”
“Your leg? What's the matter with your leg?”
“I, uh, sort of broke it. But no worries,” she added hastily. “There's a doctor with us, and he has it all splinted. It's not a bad break. Doesn't even hurt that much.”
“What happened? How did it happen?” I replied, struggling to stay calm.
“We wrecked our jeep trying to get away from those jerks. I was the only one seriously hurt. But there's no need to fuss. They're telling me I need to go back to the States. I want to come to the Aerie, Dad.”
“Sure. Right. Of course. Come to Oregon.”
“Listen, Dad. I have to get off now. I'll be flying into L.A. Uh, I know you're busy, but do you think you could meet me there?”
I wanted to tell her I'd be there no matter what, but I knew there'd be no going to L.A. with Bruckner's murder hanging over me. “I'll check with Well Spring and let you know, sweetheart. Call me when you get to Khartoum, okay?” I said good-bye, knowing I'd sounded more like a damn lawyer than a parent, but it was the best I could do. I had, what, maybe a week to clear up the Bruckner matter? Fat chance.
After I'd hung up, I thought for a moment, about how both Daina and Hiram had predicted this outcome. “Archie, you hear that!” I shouted. “She's okay. Claire's okay!”
Archie's ears came forward, his backside began to wag, and he yelped a high-pitched note that told me he knew exactly what I was talking about. Claire was coming home.