Knockout Mouse (11 page)

“I understand. You know I wouldn’t do this if it wasn’t absolutely, totally, completely necessary.”

She let out a loud sigh. “I do, Billy. That’s the problem. Now I can’t even be mad at you. Wait a minute.” She paused, as if checking. “It turns out I can be mad, after all. This sucks.”

“I’m really sorry, Rita. Will you forgive me someday?”

“What a stupid question.”

“You’re the best.”

Next I called the hotel and confirmed that the diary had been given to Mr. Harros. Yes, the clerk was sure.

That left just one more call to make. Dugan. I punched in the number he’d left. I was and wasn’t looking forward to this.

He recognized my voice before I finished introducing myself. “I hope you’ve got good news for me.”

I made myself take a slow breath. “Yes, as a matter of fact. Sheila’s diary is in the proper hands. Her parents have it.”

“It’s not a diary. It’s a notebook. If you’ve stolen our work product, we’ll prosecute.”

“This was not a company email account. It was a private diary. Her family owns it. If it was so important, why didn’t you take it while you were removing her hard drive?”

A slight delay let me know I’d gotten him. “I hope you have a very good lawyer,” he said.

“You, too. You’ve got a couple of felonies to deal with. One, when your agents stole my personal property in the parking lot. Two, when they broke into my house.”

There was another hesitation. His answer had some pleasure in it, and I wasn’t sure why. “I’d like to see you file charges.
I’d like it very much. In the meantime, I think everyone will be interested in the fact you photocopied the notebook. Twice, if the cashier is correct.”

He had me there. My first thought, which I kept to myself, was that I needed to make yet another copy in complete secrecy. I told Dugan, “The copies are for the police. They’ll want to look into the circumstances of Sheila’s death.”

“I’m sure they will. I’m sure they’ll want to take a close look at your girlfriend’s apartment and everyone who was there.”

“We have no problem with that. I’m sure they’ll also want to look at Sheila’s place of work.”

“I’ll be assisting them in every way.”

A drop of sweat trickled down my spine as I hung up the phone. I’d had an answer for everything Dugan had thrown at me. So why did I feel like I’d lost?

Maybe I was in over my head. If we got into a battle of lawyers, he had me outgunned. So what did I have on my side? Information. The journal. I’d yet to find any keys in it, but maybe that was a matter of correctly understanding the lock. I needed an interpreter, a data miner. Marion came to mind, if only she could be trusted. She did work for Dugan. There was also Karen, the woman Sheila was going to meet before our dinner party.

It could be, though, that Dugan’s strength was also his weakness. Yes, he had the company arsenal behind him, but he also had a lot to lose if damaging news came out about LifeScience. Me, I didn’t have much to lose. Not much in the way of assets except my cameras. And a couple of little things like life and limb.

Work with Rita
at Kumar Biotechnics kept me fully occupied on Monday and Tuesday. Sheila’s funeral took place on Wednesday at the Mount of Repose mortuary in Colma, south of San Francisco. Colma had once been the terminus of the coffin railroad, which ran from the funeral homes in San Francisco down to the cemeteries here. Three-quarters of the town consisted of green hills and white headstones. Someone had to do it—San Francisco didn’t have room for dead people. In recent years the Lucky Chances casino had enlivened Colma’s commercial base.

Mount of Repose had a neoclassical theme. A grand pediment and four columns framed a generous veranda. A few knots of people milled outside. I was glad I’d dusted off the only suit I owned, and glad it was a somber color. Jenny was stylish but subdued in a deep blue cashmere sweater and long skirt.

A group of guys stood on the steps in khakis, blazers, and dark shoes. The one woman among them wore a skirt that no longer fit. She fingered a wrap as if unsure what to do with her hands. The men all had theirs in their pockets. Engineers, I speculated.

They glanced at us as we paused on the steps. I nodded to the one closest to me. He’d made an effort to slick his hair back, but
a few strands flew solo. His tie looked like a gift from an aunt. His head nodded in my direction, though his eyes wouldn’t quite meet mine.

I set down the small briefcase I was carrying. Inside was a mini-DV camera, a DAT recorder, and a small shotgun mike. I wasn’t sure I’d use the gear, but having it around made me feel better. A few years in the documentary world had helped me lose any inhibitions about walking up to people and posing questions.

“Hello,” I said, stepping forward with my hand on Jenny’s waist. “How did you all know Sheila?”

The guy with the bad tie scratched under his chin. “We worked together.”

“I remember how excited she was when she started at LifeScience. Did you work with her before or after she got transferred?”

Glances were exchanged, then most of them gazed at their shoes. Finally the woman spoke up. “None of us were happy to have her go. She was really into the program.”

“She told me about the monoclonal antibody. It’s going to do some good things, I hear.”

Their mouths remained closed. Jenny gave one of her candy-apple smiles, which loosened up the group. “It’s all right,” she said. “We’re not in the industry.”

“It’ll be big,” the guy next to me allowed, but went no further.

“Sheila had a real intuitive understanding,” the woman added. “She always seemed like a favorite of Dr. McKinnon.”

“That’s why it was so strange that she got moved. Seems like the kind of thing Dugan would do, huh?” I tried to sound casual yet certain about my conjectures.

The group shifted uncomfortably. No one seemed to want to respond. The guys kept turning their heads, like pond ducks checking a dog on the bank. I followed their glances to the
veranda and saw a man, medium height, in a plaid jacket. When he turned his head, I realized it was Doug Englehart, the balding leader of their group. Then another man stepped from behind a pillar. I saw only the back of his head, but the short hair and crisp, hard neckline of Neil Dugan were unmistakable.

“Dugan’s pretty new,” I said. “You guys get along all right with him?”

I felt like a teacher who’d just asked the class to explain the meaning of
Moby-Dick.
Finally one guy said, “What was your name?”

I shifted the briefcase and stuck out my hand. Only a couple of hands came out to shake it. “Bill Damen. And this is Jenny Ingersoll.”

Jenny, about to move forward to offer her hand, froze at the cold looks she got. Her eye began to twitch. I took the issue head on.

“You guys are scientists. What could cause the kind of allergic reaction Sheila had? It wasn’t anything she ate at our dinner party. Could it have been something from the lab?”

“Are you kidding?” one man said. “Regulations are so tight, you couldn’t catch a cold in there.”

Everyone was studiously avoiding our eyes now. We’d get no further with this group. I put an arm back around Jenny’s waist and said, “Nice meeting you.”

“I feel like a leper,” she whispered as we mounted the steps.

“Someone’s been spreading the news.”

“Geeks,” she muttered.

We crossed the stone porch behind Dugan. If he took note of us, he didn’t let on. But Englehart gave us a nod of recognition. I reintroduced myself and Jenny. His voice was strained, as if stifled by his shirt and tie. A rash ran up the side of his neck.
Between his unease and the proximity of Dugan, I didn’t expect to get much from him either. I murmured a condolence and moved inside with Jenny.

We entered a large anteroom with the usual urns and flowers. Some couches that looked too soft lined the walls. Ensconced in one of them was Fay.

Jenny gave a weak wave and went to join her. I would have liked to have heard Fay’s excuses. But the sight of Frederick McKinnon through a big archway drew me into the next room.

The casket was here. Closed. I gazed at it and its swallowed secrets from a distance. An image flashed through my mind of Sheila being taken apart for the autopsy. What did the tissues tell?

Discreet organ music piped through hidden speakers wrapped us in a mild dolor. Grouped loosely around the casket were men, mostly, in dark suits. McKinnon’s lanky figure was front and center, with his shock of golden hair and those translucent eyes. His suit was navy blue and his hands were clasped behind his back. He was speaking to a broad-shouldered man with streaks of steel through thick black hair. I couldn’t see the second man’s face. He wore a double-breasted suit. His broad hands rested lightly on the handles of a wheelchair.

I lingered in the background and listened. McKinnon must have just arrived. He was speaking: “… such a tragic accident. You don’t know how sorry I am. Sheila was a natural scientist, exceptionally bright. Her work was first rate. I can only imagine how you feel—”

The broad-shouldered man hardly moved. His straight-ahead stare didn’t waver as he interrupted McKinnon. “Of course, you won’t object to a full investigation of the lab. Responsibility for Sheila’s death will be determined.”

McKinnon seemed like a man who was never at a loss. But this threw him. He recovered enough to say, “Naturally. Our doors are open.”

“I’ve spoken to Mr. Dugan. He’ll coordinate with our attorneys.”

McKinnon’s fingers tugged at one another. “I’ll do all I can. Speaking as a scientist, the likely source of the allergen is a dinner party she attended that night.”

Harros turned. His profile made me think of a grim Caesar about to pass sentence on a traitor. “Thank you. We’ll be looking very hard at that party. I received the autopsy report yesterday.”

“It confirms food allergy?”

Harros gave a curt nod. McKinnon appeared miffed that he didn’t elaborate, but leaned over the wheelchair to check on its occupant, a woman I took to be Sheila’s mother. She appeared far older than her husband.

I felt a tug on my briefcase. I turned to face a man about my age. Certain aspects of the face were familiar: the olive skin, the strong straight nose, the wavy black hair. Others weren’t—a thrust in the jaw, a sense of its own rightness.

“Can I put this away for you?” he asked, reaching again for the briefcase.

I gripped it tighter. “Thanks, but I’m all right. You must be Abe Harros. Sheila talked about you.”

“I don’t know you.”

“I’m a friend of Sheila’s from the city.” I went on to offer the proper condolences, working my way around to asking about the cause of her death.

He gave me a bald stare. I wondered if everyone got the same searching inspection. “The autopsy’s been done. We have a good idea what happened.”

His words sent a small bolt through me. I stepped closer. “What was it?”

His appraising look said he knew all, but wasn’t going to tell me. Before I could press him, there was a stir at the entryway. A scent of musk and roses swept into the room. It was Marion, managing to look sorrowful and at the same time utterly sensual in a black ribbed sweater and flowered silk shawl. Her hair was up in a French twist. She went straight to Mr. Harros, who was powerless to resist a consoling embrace. The woman in the wheelchair got the same treatment, as did Dr. McKinnon and another couple who apparently were Sheila’s aunt and uncle. Marion told them all that she was a very close colleague of Sheila’s and went on about how she was devastated by the unexpected event.

The room was in the process of settling down when men with carnations in their lapels started touching people on the elbow and directing everyone out to the chapel. The service would start soon. Abe Harros remained next to me as people funnelled through the doors. Leaning toward him, I said in a low voice, “Watch out for Neil Dugan. I hear he’s been trying to get his hands on your sister’s diary.”

It was a clumsy attempt to establish some kind of connection with him and take some of the heat off of Jenny and myself. Abe’s eyes shifted left. Neil Dugan had silently slipped into the room. He stood with folded arms, tie knotted hard at his neck, staring at Marion. I wondered how long he had been there and what he had heard.

I looked straight at him. A smile that said nothing crept across his face, but he never returned the look directly. The message, as I understood it, was that I was an annoyance barely worth notice. And that I would have no impact at all on his actions.

I followed the casket
down a paved path to the chapel. Jenny was waiting well to the right of the entrance, looking a little forlorn. “Where’s Fay?” I asked.

Jenny hugged herself. “She kind of left me behind. I didn’t want to go in there with all those people thinking I was… Bill, it’s so weird. I’m starting to feel like I
am
guilty.”

I squeezed her hand. “Don’t let them do that to you.”

As we went in, arm in arm, I noticed a stairway leading to the choir. “Let’s go up,” I said. “We’ll look down on them for a change.”

From our perch, we watched the mingled elements of the crowd separate out like colors in a printing process. The family sat in the front. It was not a large group. Mrs. Harros was in her wheelchair on the aisle, shoulders slumped. Mr. Harros sat bolt upright next to her, then Abe, then the aunt and uncle. A set of younger people, cousins probably, were with them. Behind them were Fay and Marion, then Frederick McKinnon, Doug Englehart, and the bunch we’d met on the steps.

On the other side of the aisle was a group I’d seen only from the corner of my eye. Most of them appeared to be in their late twenties. A man with white hair sat at the end of their bench.
Neil Dugan was behind them, and in the same row, separated by plenty of space, was Jill Nikano, Sheila’s allergist.

Farther back was a scattering of people, alone and in pairs. I wondered if the mysterious Karen was among them. As the chapel slowly quieted, I heard a faint sound coming from a man in the rear, just below us. He looked to be in his mid-fifties and wore a pilled brown jacket. He was sobbing softly. I’d want to speak to him.