Lost By The River Read online

  Lost By The River

  David Moynihan

  * * *

  Lost By The River

  David Moynihan

  This page formatted 2007 Blackmask Online.

  http://www.blackmask.com

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  ELEVEN

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  NINETEEN

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  The Missing Scientist Knew Secrets Worth Millions

  Would Drake Look Up From His Bottle Long Enough To Find Him?

  Drake, a DC clean-up artist, gets an odd request: locate and retrieve, quietly, a lost biochemist, assumed to be roaming the city's underworld. It's outside Drake's usual ouevre of covering up the dead girls and live boys cast aside by Washington's power elite, but the money's good, and the legs on his client even better.

  Notice: This book is under copyright and released to the public via Creative Commons, Attribution Non-Commercial. A reprint can be found at http://www.dispub.com/catalog/product_info.php?products_id=1192 or somewhere in the Amazon Matrix.

  ONE

  The gal in my office had a body like LA, skirt from NY, and a face that was all about New England. Damn hybrids. She'd come without an appointment, slid papers 'cross my desk, and identified herself confidently as vice president of communications for Agate Pharmaceuticals. I'd stared back blankly.

  “So of course, Mr. Drake,” she said, “you've received our prior communications with your firm... via the answering service?” She gave a number.

  “What? Them. Oh. Yeah. They set up meetings for you. But you gotta pay them regular to find out your schedule. Besides, my horoscope said avoid unfamiliar situations this year, so I'm only taking up with folks I know.”

  “I... well. Then. I'll reintroduce myself to you. I am an executive with a leading biotechnology research firm headquartered in the Washington, DC metropolitan area along the technology corridor. Our company develops novel therapeutics for some of the most deadly and debilitating medical conditions known to man. The matter is one of the utmost importance, requiring a timely response from the most skilled of practitioners. You of course came recommended.”

  “Skip the power words. Who is it? What's he done? Who knows about it? Where'd it happen, and who'd care? Come on, VP of communications,” I slid the card back toward her, “there's j-school in your past. You know the five Ws, and anyway a Green Hornet reruns' gonna be on the Action Channel soon.” I turned away from her, reaching for the remote leaning back and firing up the digital cable. I always paid that bill.

  She stayed in the room. Silently. I checked the previews from the screen. It was a Hornet I'd already seen, and as usual Bruce Lee played a limited role. For a minute, behind the upturned nose and furrowed brow, eyes showed a girl too young for her suit, and out of her depth. But I'm long past pity.

  “Still here?”

  “Please, Mr. Drake. One of our lead scientists has gone missing. There are some important meetings happening soon and...”

  “Lady, look. My business is simple, somebody gets down in a bar, I wander by, pay off the girl or guy, get a favor from the club owner, make sure a cabbie talks about my client leaving prior to the alleged, and like magic have the credit receipts to prove it. Bartender or waiter tries to sell the story, I educate them on the perils of capitalism. Episode disappears. Everybody's happy. I'm good but not perfect. Things still get out. Usually before I'm on the job. That's why I get called soon as possible, and I why don't do repeat clients. ”

  “Yes, but this isn't an ordinary type. Dr. Ansbach, he's known for being—odd. Sometimes he's odd in places where a scientist wouldn't normally be...”

  “What? Street chess? Come on.”

  “He's vanished on other occasions. For days.”

  “And he returns? Right?”

  “Yes. But it's important for the company that—

  “What you're asking is crazy,” I cut her off. “You don't know where the guy is. You've not seen him for a couple days. I assume he ain't married. This is a missing person's case. Maybe worse. There's cops for stuff like that. Just head to a 7-11 off the pike on your way out. If none are there, drive around for a while without a seatbelt, or turn on red but don't signal. They'll catch up to you quick. If you'll excuse me.” The Green Hornet's The Green Hornet.

  “I don't think you understand fully the value of difficulty of my position, Mr. Drake,” she remained. But your reputation precedes you. Had you bothered to open the folder I'd given you, you'd understand that your familiarity with the... seedier sides of the area is perhaps your greatest selling point. Further,” she was pointing in the air. I hate it when they point in the air. “Further, Mr. Drake, failure is an option here. Should you not be able to locate our scientist, fine, but you've looked, quietly. As long as he doesn't appear somewhere, surprising us at a key fundraising event, perhaps... at least, not without a chance to dress professionally and sober up.”

  She reached into a satchel, pulled out a cashier's check. “Agate, my firm, will start you on a retainer of $25,000 to find this man, quietly, with another $25,000 upon completion, payable as soon as our meetings are finished. Three days time. You will of course look earnestly. Any additional expenses you run into, especially those monies spent in the cause of... discretion, will be paid in full, by my company.” She dug back into the bag, grabbed a thick envelope, and passed it along as well. “A first batch—I assume you deal in cash? More if you need it... Are you sure you're not interested?”

  For that kind of money I could get the complete Green Hornet on DVD.

  “You got my attention. Any idea of his hangouts?”

  “I have no idea. I didn't even know they had bars here.”

  “Great. Where's this guy's office?”

  “As I've stated before, Mr. Drake, Agate Pharmaceuticals is located in the heart of Washington's Technology Community, along the Research Corridor...”

  “Is that Exit Six or Seven?”

  “Six. Eastbound. Just behind the Amoco. Make a left at the dollar store.”

  “I'll be there fourish, time to read his email and talk up the staff.”

  “Mr. Drake. We can't have you interrogating our other scientists...”

  “Right. The scientists. Like they'd know which side of the lab coat their pocket protectors were on. I don't give a damn about them; I'm talking your real staff. Janitors, maids. He'seccentric , he just might be crazy enough to talk to them; he's a user, he might buy from them; he's a bon vivant, he might date them. Know the company that does your cleaning?”

  “Why on earth would I?”

  “No reason. Just the odd chance. I'll figure it out from the uniforms.”

  She stood sullenly, hands clenched, half-ready to grab her check back. I left it there on the desk, with the cash. Finally, she nodded, gathered up her satchel and trundled off.

  “Please let me know before you arrive. I'll see to it you can come in through the side entrance.”

  “Right. I'll dress the part.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Jeans. T-shirt. Another uniform your scientists won't notice.”

  She remained. Flustered. Inside, I pegged her for a girl out of Boston College; close enough to the uptight apex of the nation that she'd long lost any ability to deal with real people, far enough away from the centers of power that she'd be feeling a physical revulsion from the working-class. No doubt when she retold the story I'd have a Southi
e accent.

  While pondering these deep issues, I blanked my face utterly. It's a useful thing, developed through many years training in bars. I'm able to look upon a potential client with that mix of stupidity and indifference. You watch them closely, corporate types, natural predators outside the hunting grounds, you catch the moment where they get all confused, fight or flight response provoked by the dullard laborer, thinking they should snarl and shriek.

  But they never scream. They just leave.

  She harrumphed, said something to the effect of “even my contacts with you here must be kept strictly confidential,” tailed off, indicated again her cellphone number as the sole repository for updates, and exited.

  I sifted through her folder, its sides bulging with HR memos concerning the misconduct of Agate's most recalcitrant exec on the job site. Just a myriad set of unexcused absences, drugs negative, not a single juicy sex harassment claim. I tossed the papers to an overstuffed trash can behind the door as the closing theme from the Green Hornet played.

  TWO

  The doc in question had a fascinating resume online, here and there publications in top journals, appearances at universities, lectures, even getting named as a possible for big time prizes. I didn't give a damn about any of this. Nobody sneaks off from work to professorize. But after a quick check on the Doc's employer, I started wondering if the check the girl fobbed off was gonna clear.

  I zipped a few files to my brick of a PDA and ran to the bank.

  Agate Pharmaceuticals, I read on the LCD as I waited in line for a special assist at the bank, was a late-stage biotech engaged in the discovery of novel therapeutics for the treatment of cancers and other diseases. I was sure one or another of the drugs their page hyped was novel, but all I really knew about the company was the following: Cash on hand, $1.2 mil.; prior year's loss, $94 mil. losing $20, 30 million every three months. Nothing left in the bank, and they were dropping 50 large for my sorry services. I fingered the cash in my coat, wondering if I wasn't working from Agate's employee coffee budget now.

  They could drink instant.

  The stock had been in the dumps for years, price wedged between two and four like an afterschool special. Lately, on no news, it had risen to 15. OK, the dame had said something about new financing. And from what I know of stocks, anything that bad trades for a nickel unless people know something good's coming in, the shares kept rising. Lots of bad stock marks on the report card. I vaguely remembered hearing about a conference of scientists each year. Easter-time, medical folk, talking cancer, money flowing, soaring prices in the lead-up to the show—the story went—but geeze, they were doctors, the science kind, best you could hope for was a DWI or two, maybe a stabbing by an underpaid subordinate, so I never offered my services.

  Agate was a dedicated company, focused on saving lives and losing the money.

  It was a short line at the bank, but I found myself waiting impatiently and wishing this was the kind of check you could pass through the ATM. Finally the vanload of grandpas ahead of me finished counting their pennies, teller windows opened, and there I was.

  Clerk laughed when I passed my check over with that trepidation a sucker feels handling an oversized Nigerian money order after having already wired back “change.” He ran it through quick, said it'd be mine part then, and bulk after the bank spent a week doing vault dives into my money at their central office.

  Whatever doubts I'd had about the check were eradicated when the manager came over to offer me some counter spam.

  “Interested in a great deal on term life insurance?”

  “I smoke.”

  “We have many retirement options just right for a small business...”

  “I mix firearms and liquor.”

  “We can help you draft a will to protect your assets—”

  “I hate my relatives enough to have them spending my estate fighting over the proceeds.”

  Doubts assuaged, so I cruise down the beltway, putting distance between myself and the afternoon appointment, park by a university, plug a laptop into the cigarette lighter, find an anonymous wifi signal, install the latest in hop-skipping networking, and start tracking down the good Doctor's prior absences.

  The Maryland Department of Motor Vehicles has spent millions of the taxpayer's money, on top of whatever they get from traffic fines and seized cars sold at auction, to deploy a high-end, access-anywhere system that combines every driver's record, address, criminal history, and much more into one big giant database. The servers are secure from fire, hackers and nuclear holocaust, with redundant backups galore, providing information, real-time to officers on patrol.

  But of course the brain trust, in spending the people's monies, went with an established, well-known, brand name software provider, kind of technology decision that nets a bureaucrat all-expense paid tickets to Vegas with everything thrown in, so using a script I'd picked up from one of my neighbor's kids, I slipped past the firewalls and began searching the records unmolested. It took me 23 seconds to get through and find the doc's records, but I blamed the connection, not the kid, for delays. Boy'd earned his beer.

  The doc in question, Ansbach, lived up the Pike, in one of the fake lake communities. Sole owner of a single-family house, so the neighbors wouldn't be much help. (Townhouse neighbors care). Not a speed freak, he roamed about in a 5-year-old Korean sedan; hadn't gotten a speeding ticket in seven years. Bit of a sketchy parker, with citations here and there, but that's the cost of living in Moco.

  Checking further, some accidents reported, low-speed, damage and reports filed... Doc wasn't at fault. There were no criminal charges pending.

  Enough additional information let me run a credit check on the man, mortgage, gadget buys, lots of takeout restaurants. I found him decidedly boring, and my info not worth the hack, but I saved every ticket, ogled a few coeds that passed by, and made it back to the beltway just before the 3:00 rush.

  THREE

  The research zone of upper Montgomery County fanned out into solid brick clusters. Combination of extensive government cash and occasional Wall Street hype produced acre after acre of glassy, rectangular buildings. Fanning out among those structures, like piglets at feed, a litter of expensive cars, Japanese, German all. As far as I knew, nothing else had ever come from the money flowing, just those cars, and longer waits at the good Chinese whenever some jackass posted a review in one of the print rags.

  Agate's lot was half-empty, and my American-made fit too well. I pulled into a space on the side, half-covered with decaying leaves and marked “deliveries.” Made a mental note to double-check with the bank and be sure that check cleared. Of its own accord, my right arm sped to the laptop, seeking to log in get an account update then and there. But no way this place would spring for Wifi.

  A second check around the sidewalk revealed a cigarette butts here and there, none of the sodium scars we all associate with playful and clever scientists out conducting research.

  The gal didn't meet me up front, and I figured we weren't destined for a back door encounter, so I sauntered along. Button pressed, main door opened, eventually, sliding back with what sounded to me a like a creak. No oversized, pale-faced butlers offered greeting; no perky young things either. Reception desk was empty. So too the security station up front. Wall directory said “Research, 2nd floor.” And that was it.

  I peered over the security desk, thankful to discover they had a clipboard. Two pages, one side, lot of cross-offs and gaps. Ansbach's office was on the 2nd floor, near the water fountain and vending machines. Maybe. I flipped a switch at the desk and called the elevator. Ding, no waiting. I set off for the second floor, emerged to a vacant, walled-off corridor. Tiled floor. No carpet. My boots made echoes.

  No signs indicating for who occupied an office; but late in the real estate boom I was glad to see nothing in this neighborhood signaling “for rent.” I futzed at various doors, got lots of locks but nothing promising enough to bust through. Circling 'round the hall back to th
e elevator, I rechecked my internal GPS, realized what I was looking for probably lay behind a pair of double doors I'd neglected.

  I moved to open them, by wristflick, lockpick or quick kick, when a shout from behind signaled it was time for my head to smack their wall.

  The blow had hit me around the waist. I snapped my head back, whipped around, gave a punch to the face of whoever it was standing there. He dropped and I jumped on top of him. Mid-leap, I discovered it was a Hispanic man, early 30s, uniformed with the colors of a building management company. Pulling my elbow back from his neck, I looked down, apologized, was about to say “Sorry man, VP babe said come, you know?” when those magic doors opened and out popped Agate's executive staff, my hiress, bunch of extraneous suits, an Asian businessman or two, and the glad-handing visage of what could only be local political figures.

  Nobody said anything for a minute. I looked to the executrix for help. She glared at me with an unspoken lecture about discretion. My eyes extolled the virtues of punctuality. CEO seemed at a loss. The guests were nervous. Lady spoke.

  “Well gentlemen, as you can see, inside the lab, it is all about science. But I'm afraid outside, everyone involved in support has had concerned themselves with issue of security and secrecy. Top to bottom, we take our intellectual property very seriously. This is a minor misunderstanding that I'll take care of. If you'd just follow along, we have a break area set up to give you folks a rest between presentations. Charles?”

  “I—yes. This way, gentlemen,” one of the cheaper suits said.

  The troop filed off, giving me the quizzical glances you'd expect. A few lingered, but were shooed away with the promise of cake, and years of conditioning on when it was safe to ignored the lower classes.

  My VP friend clucked over the co-combatants.

  “Javier,” she said, followed by lots of Spanish in a dialect I didn't know. Of course, that's every Spanish dialect. He smiled at her finally, shook my hand briskly, marched off for the secret janitor's break room.