The Survivors (25 page)

Slowly he spun his glass on the table. “I thought about it for a few weeks and got some calls from people at Braeder trying to convince me to make the jump. It's nice to be wanted. I decided to take it.”

“And that's where Eric Russo came in,” I said.

He raised his eyebrows in surprise, then smiled. “Not right away, but yes—the lawyer to handle the paperwork. Somebody had to put together an employment agreement. I didn't want to hire an attorney, and Eric said he'd take care of it, make sure the contract was fair to everybody. I didn't even read the damned thing, just signed on the dotted line.”

“Stupid,” Scottie mumbled.

Sorensen's eyes flashed. “Yes, but we all do foolish things when we're young.”

“The contract didn't give you what Bowles promised?” I said.

“No—I got the salary, the benefits, the title of division head. But as they say, the devil is in the details. That contract turned me into a serf. Everything I created was Braeder's property. And if I left the company, I couldn't work anywhere in technical design or research for seven years. That's a lifetime in the area I worked in.”

“What area was that?” I said.

“Optical design. I was working on high-magnification systems for planes and satellites. Ned gave me everything I wanted, the best help and equipment. I burned through every idea I had in two years. We filed a new patent application almost every month. Then as soon as I started to slow down, Ned kicked me to the curb. I was still division head of research. They couldn't take that away. But they shifted all their attention from optics to avionics, something I knew nothing about. I had an office, a great salary—just no work to do.”

He'd finished his drink and so had Scottie. Sorensen added more to their glasses.

“I had other job offers, including with the Hubble Space Telescope Program. Right up my alley. So I went to Ned and told him I was leaving. No, he said. Actually, he said, ‘Hell no.' He intended to hold me to my contract—no research work outside Braeder for seven years.”

“That's when you went back to Eric Russo,” I said.

“He worked for Braeder, but I thought he worked for me, too. I figured he'd come up with some compromise. We met at his office on K Street. Things got pretty heated, and I told him if he didn't get me out of that damned contract I was going to sue him. Bury him. If I couldn't win in court, I could ruin him in the newspapers.”

He lifted his glass to take a sip.

“Charlene was his administrative assistant then. She heard what I said to him and cornered me in the hall.” He smiled grimly. “Remember that saying they had a few years back—Mama Grizzlies? Charlene was the original. She backed me right against the wall and said if I went after Eric, it would be the last thing I ever did.”

“You let her tell you what to do?” Scottie said.

“Of course not. I got a lawyer and filed a lawsuit against Ned and Eric and Braeder.” He waved his thin hand around. “What you see here is the settlement. I'm banished from research, but I get to have this place, with a steady stream of cash from Braeder. I can be a thorn in their side, but nothing serious. I'm too small potatoes for that.”

He brooded for a few seconds, then got himself together. “Ned Bowles and his crew are careful. They're polite. You met Howard Markaris; you saw it. But they don't let anyone get in their way. And they don't let anybody out from under an obligation.”

“Was your family's company Clovis-Knight Optics?” I said.

“Yes, it was. How did you know?”

“I talked to a former employee of Braeder's named Lois McGuin. She mentioned Clovis-Knight. Lois became quite wealthy when Braeder went public.”

“So did a lot of the original Braeder employees,” Sorensen said. “I didn't land there in time.” He laughed, as if he was putting all the bitterness behind him. “So tell me about this patient of yours—how can I help you there?”

Scottie had his backpack, and he reached inside and laid my mother's unemployment filing on the table. Sorensen clicked a switch on the corner of the deck, turning on a ring of lights behind the planters.

Sorensen took his time reading it. “Denise Oakes,” he said. “That name is familiar, but according to this she left Braeder several months before I got there. I never would have met her.”

“She was fired for taking design plans out of the office,” I said. “Lois McGuin implied she might have been trying to sell them to Clovis-Knight.”

“That's nonsense,” Sorensen said. “Until I started working for Braeder, they didn't have a single idea worth taking.” He shrugged, realizing how that sounded. “Braeder's strength was in manufacturing. They had a great production line, everything made to perfect specs. But their weakness was moving the science forward. In defense work, you have to push the materials, get the most out of every component.”

He noticed my glazed expression.

“The technical part doesn't matter. Braeder was never a leader when it comes to developing new ideas. They buy their technology. No, that's putting too happy a face on it. They buy people, like they bought me. They use them up and throw them away like tissues.”

I tapped the paper. “Could that have happened to Denise Oakes?”

“Like I said, the name seems familiar, but I don't remember—”

Scottie broke in. “She killed herself, after she shot her husband and kids.”

“Ah . . . yes,” Sorensen said, with a grimace of distaste. “I do remember that. I didn't connect it with the name. There were lots of whispers about Mrs. Oakes, long after I got to Braeder.”

I looked down at the table. “What did those whispers say?”

“That she was crazy and had been for a long time.”

I nodded. I wasn't going to let my anger show. Scottie didn't have that kind of control. He drained his glass and thumped it down. Silently, I cursed him for drinking so much.

“If there wasn't anything at Braeder worth stealing, why was she fired?” Scottie said.

“I don't know,” Sorensen said. “If she was unstable, maybe that's why.”

“Maybe?” Scottie said sarcastically. “That's the best you can do?”

I cut in on him. “These whispers you heard—can you remember who talked about her?”

Sorensen frowned and rubbed his jaw. “It was so long ago. People just talked—before meetings, in the staff lounge. I never paid much attention. She was only a technical writer, not one of the upper-level people.”

“Not important,” Scottie said. “So she didn't really matter.”

“That's enough, Scottie,” I said.

“No, he acts like—”

“
That's enough
.” And it was time for us to get out of there before he really made a mess of things. Sorensen had a lot of information that could be helpful. I wanted a chance to make a second run at him on my own.

“Mr. Sorensen, thanks for meeting with us.” I handed him a business card. “If you remember anything specific about Denise Oakes, I'd appreciate a call.”

He tapped the card on the table. “I'm sorry I couldn't give you much. That whole episode upset everyone at Braeder. They gossiped about it, but no one really understood. The person who probably knows the most about it is Ned Bowles.”

I stood up. “It's good then that he's agreed to see me. I hope you won't mind if I phone you after I talk to him. Maybe I'll have some fresh questions.”

He gave a dry smile. “Certainly. I'm always interested in what Ned is up to.”

I shook his hand and thanked him again. Scottie had already made his way to the stairs. He gave Sorensen a cold nod and stomped out of sight.

I caught up with Scottie in the front yard. He'd unlocked his bicycle and was ready to get on.

“What was the point of that?” I said.

“That pompous ass? You were just going to let him talk about her that way.”

“I don't care what he thinks about my mother. He didn't even know her. But he might have known something useful.”

“He wasn't going to tell us anything.”

“How do you know that?” I said.

“Everything he said I already knew. It's all public record. I found it in fifteen minutes. He wasn't going to tell us the truth.”

He kicked his leg over the seat, ready to ride away.

I stepped in front of him. “This isn't about Sorensen. It's about you and me. I found him, I thought it would be a good idea to talk to him. Not your decision—not yours to control. So you had to have a tantrum and ruin it all. And to top it off, you had enough scotch to float a canoe. Talk about acting foolish—”

“He was lying!” Scottie's voice was vibrating, singsong. “When he sued Braeder, they counter-sued. I read an article. Sorensen lost his security clearance. That's why he can't do defense work anymore. Did he mention that?”

“Here's a news flash, Scottie. Everybody has secrets and everybody lies. I checked out Callister Resources, where you said you worked. Nobody answers the phone there—ever. And this line of bull you gave me about being some kind of data clerk. I've seen what you can do with a computer. So what's the truth, Scottie? What kind of work do you really do?”

His eyes seemed ready to pop out of his head. He swallowed hard and looked away. “Everybody lies? How about you?”

“I've kept things from you, yes.” I put my hand on his arm. “But I only—”

He jerked away. “Forget it. Just forget it.”

He pivoted the handlebars and dug hard on the pedals. The bike lurched over the curb and into the street.

“Scottie, come on. Let's talk this out.”

He kept going, moving from light to darkness as he passed between street lamps.

“At least put your helmet on!”

He came into a new pool of light and raised his left hand, giving me the finger.

TWENTY-FIVE

I
got in the car and headed for my apartment. Scottie would turn up sooner or later, sheepish and full of apologies. Or maybe he wouldn't. And maybe I didn't care. How quickly we'd fallen into old patterns: he'd mess up, and I'd get mad; he'd come slinking back, and I'd be happy to see him. He'd always been a nuisance, but a damned interesting one.

I turned my mind to Pete Sorensen. It was odd that he hadn't probed more on why we wanted information on Braeder. My explanation had been thin, but he bought it without a blink. Maybe he was just too self-centered to be worried about someone else's problems. That didn't mean he'd told us the whole truth. Scottie was right about that. But what should we expect? We show up on his doorstep, begging for information with nothing to offer in return. Sorensen had once been a science geek; now he was an old Washington hand. He was right to be careful, especially with a couple of guys whose only connection to him was Charlene Russo, somebody Sorensen probably thought he'd never cross paths with again.

Charlene was another curiosity here. Why had she given me Sorensen's name? Anything I might learn from him wouldn't be flattering to her husband. Possibly she was trying to send me on a wild-goose chase. Or maybe Charlene figured that Pete Sorensen was the worst of the worst as far as Eric Russo was concerned. Whatever dirt Sorensen knew hadn't destroyed Eric in the past, so it wasn't likely to hurt him now.

I yawned as I turned onto my block. The only way I was going to get answers was to keep asking questions. The best chance for that was Saturday, with Ned Bowles. I'd have to be prepared for that meeting. But for tonight—enough. I had real work to do, and I wanted to get a good night's sleep for a change.

I parked in my usual spot, and, as I headed around to the front of the building, I pulled out my phone. I'd had the ringer off, and the message light was flashing. It was a call from Jamie Weston. I stood for a moment debating whether to listen to it or leave it for morning.

A car rolled by. It didn't strike me as anything special until the driver touched the gas, and the engine gave a low growl. I stepped out in the street. It was small, silver or gray—the same Acura I'd seen a few nights ago? Maybe. Probably. Dammit, if someone was following me, I was going to find out who.

I moved back to the sidewalk. Keeping up on foot wasn't easy. The driver slowed and I had to step behind a tree. He took off and I nearly had to sprint. One turn, another. There was a parking space, just wide enough for the little car to fit. I hung back to watch.

The driver knew how to handle the wheel. It took less than five seconds to squeeze into the spot. The engine rumbled to a stop. Now what? Just walk up and confront whoever it was? That didn't seem smart. I slipped behind a parked truck, waiting to see what happened.

I heard the door open and close. The car was in the shadows, so I could barely make out the driver. The locks clicked and the figure glided away down the middle of the street. I followed fifty yards back.

It wasn't long before I began to feel foolish. This was just someone on their way home. They'd turn for their doorstep and spot me, a vague shadow. Something to be afraid of.