The investment banking firm no longer resembled a triage center. There was no hint of turmoil, and it was almost as if Tim had imagined everything. The trappings appeared as peaceful as the day he first arrived to interview at Atterberry-Stanton. He could-n’t believe it was less than two months since his move from New York—not even sixty days. Now, highly trained professionals had restored artificial order. But artificial was the only kind of order left in Tim’s world. He understood that these scientific developments had altered human destiny forever.
One day, he suspected, somebody would release a biological killer on large numbers of innocent people, and that would mark the beginning of the end for mankind’s naïve peace-of-mind. The gates of hell stood wide open.
The Deadly Trade
KEN MORRIS
Bestselling author of financial thriller Man in the Middle
Baltimore, Maryland
Copyright 2004 by Ken Morris
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by electronic means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote passages in a review.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Bancroft Press (“Books that enlighten”)
P.O. Box 65360, Baltimore, MD 21209
800-637-7377
410-764-1967 (fax)
www.bancroftpress.com
Cover and interior design: Tammy Grimes, Crescent Communications
www.tsgcrescent.com • 814.941.7447
Author photo: Michael Campbell, Michael Campbell Photography
ISBN: 1-890862-35-5 (CLOTH)
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CONTROL NUMBER: 2004100481
As always, to my four sons, Colby, Tim, Scott, and Brett, and to my wife, Amelia.
Contents
Part I. A New Life
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Part II. The Deal
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Part III. Nowhere To Hide
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Part IV. The Countdown
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Part I. A New Life
Thursday
Jan.
25
chapter 1
HARDLY ANYONE—NOT EVEN COPS—DARED VISIT the discarded men and women living beneath this overpass in Southeast San Diego. But this late January day, a one-eyed man in a rotting Celica slowed to ten miles per hour and studied a guy leaning against a rusted chain link fence. Close enough to talk, he pulled over and got out. Before drawing attention to himself, he tugged a jacket-hood over his head, shadowing a heavily pockmarked face.
“Hey, man—” he said, trying to sound pleasant—“you wanna earn a few bucks?”
“Maybe,” the derelict said. “Who’re you?”
“Who am I?” he asked, stifling a laugh. “I’m Santa Claus, come to deliver a present.”
A blue stocking cap, long sleeves, and ghetto grime made it hard to tell if the bum was white or black.
“You got any relatives in this area?” the man asked.
“Unh-uh.” The drifter bowed, gazing at toes poking through shredded shoes.
“That mean no?”
“No.”
“You saying you don’t have anyone close to you here?”
“Nah.”
“Good. You have cancer or any other big disease?”
“No. Shakes sometimes.” Through toothless gums, he spoke with a lisp.
“Ever had a driver’s license?” the man asked, masking his disgust.
“No.”
“Any of these nothings know your real name?” The one-eyed man waved a hand, indicating the other vacant faces.
“Nah. They always try’n’ to steal my stuff.”
“Can you use a fifty?” The man held out a crisp bill.
“Fifty bucks?”
“Yeah.”
“I gotta kill someone?”
“No. See those two guys in the car?”
“Yeah.”
“We’re on our way to a big-deal party.”
“Party? Me?” The shreds of the vagrant’s plaid shirt flapped, exposing skin that confirmed he was a white guy.
“Fifty dollars now—” the man handed the recruit the bill— “fifty more later. You guys are part of the entertainment. I bet a few buddies I could find three guys could drink them under the table. They said ‘no way.’ Can you drink a bunch of a-holes under the table?”
“Fuckin-A. What kinda booze?”
“Everything. Beer. Wine. Whatever. You game?” The procurer smiled like this was an invitation to Mardi Gras.
“All I gotta do is drink?”
“You’re holding the money that says you’ll beat these guys into terminal hangover.”
“Man. I knew this was my lucky day. Gettin’ paid to drink. . .”
The one-eyed man bobbed in the direction of the car. “Now that we’ve got that settled, listen carefully. Your name is Sam. Those other two in the car, their names are also Sam. Everybody you meet tonight is named ‘Sam.’ Got it?”
Sam 3 nodded and broke into an unsteady path towards the car, as if improvising a jagged dance. The man nudged him into the backseat, where Sam 3 squeezed alongside Sams 1 and 2. All three smelled of month-old body odor and Thunderbird.
The moment he engaged the engine, the man spun the air conditioning vents onto his face. Twenty-two minutes later, having listened to the Sams blather about their collective good luck, he drove around the back of a seemingly deserted, turquoise-tiled building.
Lapping in air, hoping to obliterate the stench, he herded the three men around back. When they reached the entrance, a doctor beckoned all four men inside a darkened hallway.
“You’re certain they meet our requirements?” The doctor had a Dutch accent.
“Positive,” One-Eye answered. “They got no dental records, since they got almost no teeth. No family. And they’re still breathin’.”
“Get them inside.”
“Hey, man,” the last Sam said, “this is a shit place for a party.”
“Don’t worry, my friend,” the man said. “I brought you here to give you food first. You’ll be able to drink more on a full stomach. Smart, uh?”
“I guess. I could use a little wine now—”
“Not yet. Gonna save it for the contest.”
“I can have a drink now and still drink lots later.”
“No. Eat. Then drink.” The man pushed all three recruits towards a far room with a thick door. Once he corralled them, he pulled a hankie from his pocket, wiped his hands, and tossed the cotton rag in the trash.
Sam 3 looked at the doctor’s stethoscope on the way into the room. “Why we got a doctor?” he said. “I hate doctors.”
“He’s here to save the lives of those you destroy in our little drinking game,” the one-eyed man said, wishing this third Sam would just shut up and do his job.
Sam 3 attempted an awkward Muhammad Ali shuffle, shadow-boxing the thin air. “They try and keep up with me,” he said, “they gonna need a doctor, or an undertaker.”
A moment later, inside the sealed room, the Sams gummed sweetened pabulum from plastic bowls. The one-eyed man watched, grateful to be behind a two-way mirror. From overhead vents in the improvised cafeteria, tainted air filtered down. An hour later, the three homeless men began to pant and feel the first blisters. After that, the other symptoms progressed rapidly. Two hours later, the man heard the doctor mutter, “This is beyond our expectations.”
Shortly before 2:00 AM, the one-eyed man re-entered the room, looking like a Halloween elephant in his gray plastic coat, boots, and gas mask. Having been required to videotape the nightmare, and having witnessed his recruits pound the wall and scream as their bodies decayed from within and without, he appreciated the precautions.
He bent over the first man, carefully tying a thick surgical mask around the nose and mouth. He repeated the process with the other two. “Prevent leakage,” the doctor had explained to him.
“All that blabbing didn’t get you jackshit, did it?” said One-Eye, tying the mask onto Sam 3.
One at a time, he looped a rope under their armpits, dragged the bodies outside, and stuffed each into a sealable bag before tossing them in the back of a pick-up truck.
Job almost complete, he realized. A brief drive along a darkened dirt road, the final drop-off, and then home. Ten thousand dollars didn’t weigh much, he mused, but it sure felt good.
Friday
Jan.
26
chapter 2
SAN DIEGO DETECTIVE BOB MOORE, built like an aging ox, ambled around the dead bodies. Despite taking great care, he deposited several size-ten shoe impressions into the mud.
Stench from the detective’s cigarette blunted the scent of the ocean breeze pushing itself inland, across the gully where the sun was baking away the morning mist. Moore gave the surroundings one final glance before fixing his attention back on the corpses.
The young female officer, the first investigator to arrive on the scene, pressed her palms against her knees. Chunks of her vomit spotted her blue pants and black shoes.
“Here,” Moore said, his voice ragged and sympathetic. “Don’t worry. I nearly lost it, too. And I’ve been doing this shit for a long time.”
Plump but pretty, Moore thought as he handed the officer a tissue before turning his attention to the hiker.
“You touch anything?” he asked the fourteen-year-old who made the grizzly discovery. The boy hugged his arms around his chest and shivered, looking away from the human pile in the ditch and trying to focus on the questions. “Nnnnot really. I thought they were bums, then. . . well, when I saw their faces. My gosh. An animal must’ve eaten them.”
Something troubled the detective about the bodies. The absence of bloat or decaying stench meant the three had died recently, probably within the last twelve hours. What was especially shocking was the state of the victims’ skin, if that was the right word for the mass of sores and lesions on every visible body part. Moore had worked Homicide off and on for fifteen years and knew how to read death. These three men suffered, then died. No animal chewed their flesh. These weren’t bite wounds—more like giant cankers.
“You sure you didn’t move anything?” Moore asked again, searching the area with his eyes.
The boy nervously fingered a pimple. “Only touched that top guy to see if he was alive. I tapped him with my foot. That’s when I saw the face. I feel sick.”
At that moment, trailing dust and crunching gravel distracted Moore. A tan sedan was making its way down the narrow fire-road. “You stay here,” he said. “I’ll be right back. . . and don’t touch anything, not even with your shoes.”
Moore drew a last puff, then lifted his foot and pushed the butt onto the bottom of his heavy black shoe. Careful not to litter the crime scene, he placed the remnant in his breast pocket.
Moore struggled up the slick hill, tripped, and used a massive hand and wrist as a column of support. Brushing the dirt off his light-colored suit, he glanced back and noticed that the female officer had recovered and was preparing to cordon off the crime scene.
Once he reached the road, Moore hustled over to the car door and pulled it open.
“Hi, Doc,” he said, nodding to Dr. Tom Wheeler. “This one’s weird.”
“Where are they?”
“In that ditch.” Moore pointed.
The two men slid sideways, along loose dirt and low brush. At the bottom, they paused to catch their breath.
“I don’t know exactly what happened,” Moore said, “but these stiffs were fully-clothed, and from what I could tell, there was no gunshot wound, no strangulation, no intrusive bodily trauma. My opinion’s they bought it somewhere else and got dumped.
“Look at this area,” the detective continued. “Wet from that little rain we got the other day—no footprints except ours. See over there?” Moore took a step to his left, nodding his head in the direction of a narrow trail of flattened weeds. “I think they got rolled, one after the other, hit the bottom, and sorta piled onto each other.”
“Maybe,” the coroner agreed. “Let’s go take a look.”
As he bent over the bodies, the wind blew the doctor’s gray hair across his brown-spotted scalp. He studied the largest of several wounds on the unshaven face of the man on top. “You’re right,” he said. “These are disease sores. And it looks to me like they died from whatever it is they caught.”
“By the way they’re dressed,” Moore said, “they’re probably bums and winos. My guess? Three John Does.”
Wheeler bent down and caught a glimpse of the man at the bottom. “This guy,” he pointed, “has a surgical mask on. Why’s that?”
Moore bent down on one knee and peered under. “And there’s another mask beside that second guy. Patients maybe?”
“If so, then somebody’s sitting on one helluva malpractice suit.” Wheeler looked as if he had no interest in touching anything. “We need to get some body bags. If anybody touched anything, with a glove or a stick or whatever, I suggest you burn it.”
“You think this is contagious?” The detective glanced over to the young man who discovered the bodies. He’d tell the boy to take maximum care in removing his shoes before leaving them behind.
“All three of these men suffered from the same thing,” the doctor said. “They were either exposed to something as a group or passed it from one to the other. They’re no longer breathing, and I’d just as soon not join them, if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah. I know.” Moore wiped his hands against his trousers. Forty minutes later, the detective supervised the removal of bodies from above the gully.
In his peripheral vision, something caught Moore’s attention. He spun north and west, turning his back to the crime scene. He saw the flash and flames several seconds before he heard the blast.
Grabbing his radio through the open driver’s side window, he reported the incident. As smoke began to billow above whatever disaster was taking place less than a mile away, the dispatcher replied: “Detective Moore, you’re the closest investigator. Proceed immediately to Anderson Medical Park off Torrey Pines Road. Officer Suarez is already there. A crime scene unit, EMTs, and Fire Department are all on the way.”
Moore slid into his car and took off, churning up a load of dust in his wake. In that moment, he wished he could wash away every trace of this particular morning.
chapter 3
THE LOW RUMBLE BEGAN SLOWLY and built into a prolonged growl. Paradise has its drawbacks, Tim Mack thought. With all fingers pressed on the desk’s glass covering—and vibrations resonating through his hands and up his arms—he mumbled, “Welcome to Southern California.”
The walls rattled in response.
Unsettling as it was, this aftershock was nothing like the 6.2 on the Richter scale that hit a few weeks ago. That one lasted ten seconds and gave Tim second thoughts about having relocated. And earthquakes weren’t the only adjustments he’d had to make in the last three weeks.
Tim skimmed the cover of the research report he was working on:
GREYSON PHARMACEUTICAL
Industry: Biotechnology
Rated: Strong Buy
Analysts: Tim Mack (CFA) and Dr. Tak Chang
Risk: High
Current Price: $22.10
Twelve Month Target Price: $40
The tremble continued, and Tim clasped the picture of his wife and son as if the vibrations might knock it from the center of his desk. Four or five seconds later, the aftershock subsided but not his sudden emptiness.
Through the intercom, Carole Sommers’ voice was a welcome interruption. “Mr. Mack,” said his secretary, “Ms. O’Brien on line one. She says it’s urgent.”
Tim immediately realized that if Betsy O’Brien was calling in the middle of a trading day, this had to be important. Betsy made markets for Atterberry-Stanton’s clients in the same biotech stocks Tim researched, and they often worked as a team, exchanging insights. Betsy cared most about short-term market variables. Tim analyzed stock fundamentals. At times, the short and long term considerations overlapped, making their dialogue crucial to understanding investors’ buy and sell decisions. And since Tim had once been a stock trader himself, Betsy relied on him more often than someone in her position normally would. She was, he already understood, very, very good at what she did. He didn’t know, however, if her tough exterior was motivated by the demands of the job or was at the core of her personality. Tim suspected it was a little of both.
He pushed the Greyson Pharmaceutical pages aside and thanked Carole through the intercom while picking up the phone.
“What’s up, Betsy?”
“What’s up? A disaster is what’s up. How much do you know about Isotopic Research?” she asked.
“Not much,” Tim began, looking out at an eerie gray blanket of smoke on the horizon. “The stock symbol’s I-S-O-T, and the founder’s name is Aaron Berelson. I saw Dr. Berelson on local television about a week ago. And the only reason I remember that much is that he looked awful. He had a scab in the middle of his forehead—one of those things you can’t help but stare at.”
“Add this to what you know: there’s been an explosion at their labs and the stock has stopped trading.” She highlighted what she’d heard from the rumors spreading across Wall Street.
“That explains the sirens,” Tim said. “I can see smoke from my window—I assume that’s coming from their labs.”
“It is,” Betsy said.
“Were there casualties?”
“I’m hearing yes but hoping no. There’s a report that Berelson’s missing, but nothing confirmed as far as I know.”
“You own stock?” Tim asked, focusing on what he might control, praying this was a case of over-speculation.
“Yeah, I’m lugging twenty thousand shares at a cost of twenty-seven bucks each. Not only that, but Iso Research’s an investment banking client of ours. We were their banker on an initial public offering.”
“Not good,” Tim said, taking notes. “When was the IPO?”
“Over a year ago,” Betsy answered. “Typical micro-cap offering. We raised thirty or forty million bucks to fund research. When the stock resumes trading Monday, it could open near zero. That’d blow a half-million dollar hole in my trading book, not to mention the pissed-off investors we sucked into the IPO. They aren’t gonna be too jacked if the company goes belly-up.”
“Peter Stanton and Carter Ramsey—do they know?”
“Not sure. They’re in a meeting, discussing next week’s Greyson Pharmaceutical secondary. You mind taking care of that detail?”
“You wanna get back to me in an hour?”
“By Monday, I either bite the bullet and sell what I can, or buy more of this crap into the panic. Whatta you think?”
In the background, Tim heard one of the salesmen interrupt. “Bets. Got 50,000 Klein for sale. I need a tight price or my guy’s gonna shit in his pants.”
“Hold on, Bub. . .”
Tim heard muffled sounds through what he guessed was Betsy’s hand over the mouthpiece, and then she returned. “Thanks,” she said. “Gotta hop. See ya later.”
Tim’s phone went silent. As he set his pen down, he mulled Greyson Pharmaceutical—an Atterberry-Stanton client scheduled to sell stock next Wednesday. As soon as he plowed through that offering, Att-Stan had two more companies scheduled to come to market the following week. Now this.
He ran a hand through his thick brown hair. It was too long, but he’d probably let it grow another inch before finally going for a cut. His son’s words came back to him: “Nobody wears their hair like that, Dad. Totally uncool.”
Reaching for the picture sitting next to his phone—the one he had rescued from the small quake—Tim stared at the images of Brett and Emma Mack. In the photo, his son sat at a table while his wife leaned over and planted a wet kiss, mugging it up for the camera. Brett had Tim’s brown eyes and strong chin, but Emma’s electric smile. Tim’s hands trembled more than the big quake a couple of weeks earlier. He placed the photo to his lips, kissed the glass twice—once each for the son and wife—then set the silver frame down. I’d give anything for a drink, he thought.
“Get your ass back to work,” he whispered. He leaned forward and pushed himself up and out, leaving his wrinkled jacket draped over the chair. With sleeves rolled high, he stepped outside his office.
“Carole, I’ll be with Tak for the next half-hour,” he said. “Could you please check out whether Carter Ramsey and Peter Stanton are available later today?” Tim pointed to two blinking hold buttons. “In the meantime, you’ll have to take a message. I won’t be ready to talk to panicked investors before Monday morning.”
“Certainly, Mr. Mack,” Carole said.
“And sorry for the rush, but could you also do a news search on Isotopic Research for the past year? Also, I’ll need several quarterlies—the last few 10Qs—and some annual reports. Also, year-end 10K’s filed with the Securities and Exchange Commission.”
“I’ll have them within the half-hour,” she said.
Tim winked thanks and shuffled his way to Dr. Chang’s office. It was time to begin researching a tragedy.
chapter 4
WITH A HAND ON HIS HIP, Detective Moore inhaled and exhaled tobacco smoke over and over again. He watched a dry leaf blow off a nearby tree and catch fire. Several cinders combusted and flitted away like airborne fairies. Streams of water fought against flames, only to vaporize before dampening what was left of the building’s infrastructure.
With the fire raging, progress in understanding what actually preceded it was slow. The fetid smoke—black and thick—blew inland, pushed by Pacific winds. A few nearby trees ignited, and, for a while, it looked as if the fire would spread to adjacent buildings. Fortunately, that didn’t happen, but by the time the inferno burned itself out, the destruction of the main building would be total.
“It’s gonna be late tonight before we control this thing.” Detective Moore could barely hear the chief of the fire crews say above the crash of a collapsing floor. “It won’t spread, but no way this is gonna go away anytime soon—it’s as if there was a gas truck parked inside that lab.” Moore silently agreed. To him, it looked as if the sun had been yanked from the sky and stuffed inside the building, melting anything and everything.
“We’ve got Arson checking the grounds,” the fire-chief continued. “They’ve been instructed to share anything relating to your investigation.”
“Thanks,” Moore said. “You’ll let me know?”
“You got it.”
Moore took a long drag on his cigarette. He’d been there for over an hour but had little information beyond that collected secondhand from the people inside Isotopic Research’s remaining lab.
The detective turned to Marco Suarez, the first patrolman on the scene. “What’s that guy’s name you pulled from the rubble?”
“Vost. Nils Vost.”
“How do you spell that?”
Moore needed to collect details as close in time to the original disaster as possible. Having witnessed the explosion, he knew the exact time: 8:42 AM. From a brief conversation Suarez had with Vost, Moore learned the names of the four missing scientists, all presumed dead. Added to the three drifters, this now totaled seven corpses.
After a pause, Officer Suarez answered Moore. “Spelled V-O-S-T.”
Moore wrote the name down. “What’s that? Dutch?” he asked.
“Maybe. Maybe Swedish. I didn’t ask.”
“He say anything when you pulled him out?”
“He said something about being damned.”
“Anything else?”
“Not much. He did mention that he was out getting a smoke when the lab combusted.”
“You mean smoking a cigarette?”
“Yeah. I think that’s what he meant,” Suarez said.
“And he said ‘combusted’?” Moore asked. “That’s a strange word.”
“He had an accent, and I think he meant exploded.”
Moore studied Suarez’s long face. The officer, stooped over, looked exhausted. “You need some rest, son?”
“I think the fumes got to me. I’m kinda woozy. Headache. A little short of breath.”
“You get nicked or cut pulling that guy out?”
“Don’t think so, sir. Lucky, I didn’t get my hands cut pulling Vost from under the rubble of that wall.”
Moore followed Suarez’s gaze to a pile of broken cinderblocks thirty or forty feet from the lab.
“This guy Vost must have been on the backside of the wall, or he’d have been dead from the blast,” Moore said, stroking his chin.
“Yes, sir,” Suarez said, his hands shaking. “He was.”
“He mention why he chose that spot to grab a smoke?”
“No, sir.”
Moore didn’t say anything, but Vost was either extremely fortunate to have walked around the wall at that moment or was deliberately shielding himself from the blast—not too effectively, as it turned out. Moore made a mental note to eventually determine which it was.
“You sure you didn’t get cut?” Moore asked a second time. “You have a bite or something—a couple of them. On your neck. Right side. Under the ear.”
Suarez reached up and rubbed. He looked at his fingertips. “Not bleeding, but it hurts some.”
“If you don’t feel better in a coupla hours,” Moore said, “see a doctor. Now go home and get some rest.”
Suarez nodded thanks and sagged off.
Moore frowned. Dead bodies and exploding labs—two strange mysteries in one day. Normally, he took all these ugly events in stride, but something about this day bothered him more than usual.
He sighed. This was a three-pack of cigarettes day—and he was only half a pack into it.
chapter 5
DR. TAK CHANG’S DOOR WAS AJAR, so Tim entered without knocking.
Impressive piles of prospectuses, journals, and computer printouts covered every available surface of the scientist’s office. On a far wall, several educational degrees hung in plastic frames, the most impressive being the MD and the PhD in chemistry from the University of Beijing. At about 5’9”, Tak Chang was four inches shorter than Tim, and his broad back and neck blended into rounded shoulders that inflated every time he made a move. His thick black hair spiked from his oval head as he bent over, reading through notes.
“Tak.”
Spinning with almost athletic grace, Tak responded instantly. “Yes, Tim.”
Tak had deeply-set black eyes and spoke through a smile. Though he never asked, Tim guessed the man was late forties, early fifties—at least ten years older than he was.
“We’ve got a problem and, per usual, I’m scientifically challenged.”
Tak shook his head. “Come in,” he said in a deep voice. He had an accent, and occasionally had difficulty with verbs. Since the two men typically discussed technical topics new to Tim, he appreciated the fact that the doctor spoke more slowly than those whose native language was English.
“You learning—you are learning quickly, I think,” Tak said. “Already better than Mr. Demry.”
“Thanks,” Tim answered, weaving his way around the maze of clutter. Beside his disorganized desk, Tak pointed to an armless swivel. Tim sat and rolled closer, wondering about the absence of pictures. He saw just the one small photograph—four by six—in a cheap wooden frame, showing Tak, bowing humbly, a medallion draped around his neck. The doctor wore a pair of wrestling tights over his enormous chest and arms.
“I need your help, Tak—sounds like a familiar refrain, does-n’t it?” Tim put a friendly hand on the older man’s shoulder. The knot of muscle convinced him that Tak remained impressively fit.
“I happy. . . I am happy to help. It is my job.”
“This’s about Isotopic Research,” Tim explained. “We did an offering for them, I understand.”
“Yes. More than a year ago. It went well enough, I think. But the company has had some misfortunes to go with their successes.”
“Well, they’ve got the Moby Dick of misfortunes now. That fire in the hills is from their labs.” Tim explained about the explosion and asked Tak to walk him through Isotopic’s businesses.
Tim knew little about his predecessor in the research department, Charles Demry, but he had access to the man’s files. Having retrieved an Isotopic Research prospectus issued ahead of the stock offering a year ago June, he flipped through the hundred pages of slick paper designed to entice investors. Tak, meanwhile, launched into a confusing explanation of what the company did.
“Please,” Tim pleaded, a few sentences into the discussion. “In plain English. You’re losing me.”
“They do radioimmunodetection.”
“That’s a word?”
Tak nodded. “They inject a patient with a radioisotope which conjugates to a disease-targeting antibody. The antibody attaches itself to an antigen and delivers the radioisotope for imaging. The antigens are on tumors.”
“The tumor cells are cancerous?” Tim asked.
“Yes. Then physicians. . . the physicians then image the tumor with special equipment.”
“This is a means to get a picture of the tumor? To get size and location?”
As a fly flew past, Tak snatched it in mid-air. He smashed the insect flat on his desk, then took a tissue from a packet and wiped the smear.
“Basically, yes,” the scientist continued. “You see? It is not so difficult.”
As Tim listened the next few minutes to Tak’s lecture on antigens, radioisotopes, and imaging technology, he continued to thumb through the prospectus, scanning two paragraphs referencing something known as a gamma camera, used to display radioisotope concentrations. It allowed a doctor to detect the presence, location, and approximate size of a lesion. Aaron Berelson’s company had a proprietary chemistry that Dr. Chang claimed was outstanding.
“Any other sources of revenue?” Tim asked. “Testing. They have a contract that pays them to test for another company.” Tim added this note to the page of scribbles he had already compiled. “They have two labs,” Tak went on. “One imaging. One testing.”
“What type of contract research?”
“Contagion. High contagion.”
“You mean like viruses?”
“Yes,” Tak answered. “Virus, maybe bacteria. Toxins that are deadly in the extreme—it is best, I think, for you to stay away from the scene.”
Stay away? Tim silently asked. Good advice, but that’s never gonna happen. . .
Once Tim returned to his office, Carole explained that Peter Stanton and the Head of Syndicate, Carter Ramsey, knew about the Isotopic situation and wished to meet with Tim in the afternoon, once he’d done some preliminary research.
“You found all the data I needed?” Tim asked.
She nodded, patting a four-inch stack of papers. “That’s everything you requested. I went back an extra year on the news search, in case you needed it.”
Tim thanked Carole and began to head for his office, but her stuttering beckoned him back. “Hmm. Mr. Mack?”
“Yes, Carole.”
“I don’t know if you’ve had time to think about this yet, only being here a couple of weeks, but,” Carole looked at her fingernails, “I’d like to be considered for the position as your permanent secretary—if you think it’s a good idea.”
Carole’s eyes slid down to her knees. She was a waif-like woman with deep lines running across her pale face, making her look older than her forty-four years. Tim heard she had worked for Charles Demry his entire five year stint at Atterberry-Stanton.
Tim smiled and nodded. “I’ll attend to the paperwork first thing Monday.”
As he left, he heard her whisper, “Much nicer than that dreadful Mr. Demry.”
He didn’t know why, but Tim had heard that sentiment expressed several times: Nobody cared much for Charles Demry, and not one person had expressed an ounce of sorrow over his recent passing. That seemed depressing to him. It was as if his predecessor was a sad, lonely ghost.
chapter 6
TIM BEGAN WORKING THROUGH THE MATERIALS on Isotopic Research and immediately noticed that the company had made a small amount of profit during the most recent quarter. For the same quarter a year ago, it had lost over four million dollars. Contract testing had made the difference. He spotted the footnote section of the most recent quarterly report:
In June, the Company agreed to undertake biological research on behalf of an unnamed third party. It is management’s opinion that the revenues are sufficiently long-term to qualify as “ordinary” income rather than “extraordinary.”
Tim typed in “ISOT” and pulled up the company’s stock market data on his computer. Next, he depressed the key that accessed Isotopic’s pricing history since going public.
He typed some notes:
June 5—offering price: $10. Shares outstanding: 3.5 million.
Jan. 1 last year—price: $6.50. Average daily volume: 29,100 shares
June 12 last year—day of press release (re. Contract Research)—shares open +$9.00 @ 16.50.
Friday Jan. 26—price as of suspended trading: $27.75. Volume: 152,900 shares.
Monday Jan. 29—re-opening price: ????
Tim also discovered that during its first twelve months of operating as a public company, ISOT had burned through much of the $35 million raised in the initial public offering. By the end of the first year, the shares sold at $6.50, well below the original offering price. If they had not announced the lucrative contract for the third-party research, it was obvious Isotopic would have soon run out of cash to fund their own research.
Something about recent trading also concerned Tim. He constructed a price sheet for the past week, starting with activity a week ago and working forward:
“Mr. Mack. Ms. O’Brien is here to see you,” Carole announced, breaking his concentration.
Tim grabbed the pages, stuffed them inside a folder, and put his doubts on temporary hold. “Send her in,” he said.
Betsy entered, her red hair flung over a shoulder. Despite the unhappy circumstances, a smile brightened the room.
“What a bullshit day,” she said.
“I’m fine,” Tim said with mock sarcasm. “Thanks for asking.”
“Sorry.” She didn’t sound sorry. “How ya doing, Bub? Anything on Isotopic?”
“Some of what I’ve got is interesting. Other things I still don’t understand.”
“Mind if I help myself to some coffee? You want some?” She was already pouring two cups.
“Sure. You look nice.”
Betsy wore a slate gray suit with an ivory-colored knit top. Tim’s gaze, seemingly with a will of its own, drifted down to her legs. Taupe stockings, along with the sheen of shoe buckles, mesmerized him until Betsy looked up. Redirecting his attention to a press release sitting on his desk, Tim focused back to the issues at hand. He recalled his own years trading. Buying and selling large blocks of stock was never for the faint of heart, especially when dealing with the thinly-traded companies that Att-Stan specialized in. Instantaneous decisions, based on risk and reward, took into account price, trading liquidity, and how other stocks in the industry group performed at a given point in time—those sorts of variables. Then, you’d price the block and try and make the best of it. If you lost money, well, it was never pleasant, but those things happened. Tim knew no amount of good judgment or smarts could have saved Betsy from getting burned on her Isotopic position. This was going to be a difficult trade-out.
“What’ve you got for me, Bub?” she asked, taking long strides toward his desk while balancing two University of Chicago mugs.
“There may be some reasonable value in Isotopic’s shares,” he said, pointing to Isotopic’s balance sheet, “even after this tragedy. The company’s got no debt and a little over eight million dollars in cash.” Tim hoped this wouldn’t sound like an accounting lecture. “That comes to just under three dollars per share.”
“Terrific. I’ll only lose twenty-four bucks on my position.”
“Bad attitude. I checked footnotes and discovered an insurance policy on Aaron Berelson. I know it sounds cold-hearted, but if he’s dead, that’s another three million. They also had the research labs insured. There are two facilities. One’s covered for twelve mil, the other for eight.”
Patents and proprietary chemistry would add substantial value, he explained. “Gets us to something like eighteen to twenty bucks a share. The market will discount that number some— maybe knock off a couple, three bucks a share—but it might help the stock price rebound some if it trades down too far. That is, if the main laboratory is undamaged.”
“Will we know the details before trading on Monday?”
“Since tomorrow’s Saturday, and the lab’s nearby, I’ll go see for myself.”
“Great. I’ll pick you up at your place. Half past eight.”
“Pick me up?”
“You got a problem with me tagging along?”
Tim smiled and shook his head. “I gather you usually get your way with people.”
“Why, Bub. . . moi?” She fluttered her eyelids, mocking a southern belle.
“By the way, why do you call me Bub?”
“Dunno. You prefer Bozo?”
Tim smiled. “No. Bub’s fine by me.”
“See you at 8:30, Bub.”
That settled, Betsy left in a rush. Tim snatched his phone, hoping to reach someone at Isotopic Research.
He had zero success. As far as he knew, all the employees were as dead as their phones.
chapter 7
A PISSED-OFF CARTER RAMSEY PACED around Peter Stanton’s office, awaiting Tim Mack’s arrival at the meeting to discuss Isotopic Research. He looked at Stanton’s thinning hairline as the day’s dismal events whirled inside him like a racing engine. Carter regarded himself as an important man. He was smart, rich, and handsome. He was Head of Syndicate Operations, responsible for putting together as many as three stock deals in a single week. Why then, with all of this going for him, was everything such a mess?
It began with his wife that morning. She said that if he did-n’t straighten out, she’d walk out on him. Yeah. Right, Carter thought. Moments later, she went to go skiing in Aspen, leaving him to hang around and work his ass off. Leave him permanently? No such luck.
And then there was some unpleasantness with Peter Stanton—a man who understood nothing yet decided everything. Even if Stanton was the CEO, he had no business busting Carter’s balls at the morning meeting, accusing Carter of failing to get adequate representation in other investment banks’ deals.
“It’s your job to organize our deals with the Street,” Stanton had lectured him, “and get them to return the favor and invite us into their banking deals. Pretty simple, Carter, wouldn’t you say? Why is it that we don’t get invitations to participate in the big New York underwritings? How about you generating a few significant allocations so we can make some fucking money.”
Right, get the big boys to invite Att-Stan. If he thought Stanton capable of understanding, he might have explained to the clown that the New York banking houses didn’t need or want Atterberry-Stanton in their stock offerings. Att-Stan was relatively tiny and had only microcap deals to offer back as a quid pro quo. Hell, a lot of these other firms wanted nothing to do with transactions capitalized at under one hundred million dollars—even called these offerings “micro-crap” behind their backs. It didn’t matter that Att-Stan was making a hell of a return for its employees. When it came to absolute financial muscle, the firm was still a sparrow to New York’s vultures. Carter was all too aware of the silent laughs from the bigger, arrogant bankers—people he aspired to rub noses with. He deserved better than this. One day he’d have better than this.
Adding to the day’s pile of crap was the explosion at Isotopic Research when Att-Stan had stock on their trading book. Losing a client and a few hundred K in the bargain was massive bad luck.
Finally, worse—much worse: on Monday, Melanie Sprott from VanCo Securities was due to darken Att-Stan’s door to discuss Isotopic and the day’s events. Carter felt his skin crawl. Melanie Sprott—what a nightmare. There had to be easier ways to make money than dealing with people like her and her firm.
Carter took three strides toward the west-facing window of Stanton’s oversized office, half-spun, headed south, stopped, and repeated the process. As Carter circled a third time, he paused, facing his boss, assessing the shorter, flabbier man, and feeling his anger rising. Stanton didn’t even have an MBA. He was common and coarse. His family was banal, vulgar, South San Francisco working class. And talk about colossal luck. The idiot had been a mid-level sales manager at a San Francisco brokerage firm when he ran across Anson Atterberry. Atterberry had used his father’s connections and money to create a broker-dealer in San Diego, catering to high net-worth clients. Twenty retail brokers, smiling and dialing, pushed local companies’ shares down clients’ throats.
It’s true, Carter was forced to admit: Stanton had the foresight to realize that with Atterberry’s brokerage shell, he could move into investment banking and use its local presence to attract the hundreds of San Diego companies needing to raise money in the equity markets. But so what? Had Carter been lucky enough to have crossed Atterberry’s path first, he too might have had the same idea—Stanton just beat him to the punch, that’s all.
Now, Stanton ran the place, having moved Anson Atterberry into a non-managerial role. Since Atterberry had practically no ability or ambition, he was eager to step aside. A devotee of Eastern mysticism, he mostly wandered the company’s halls, noting the presence of burnt-out light bulbs or handling requisitions for office supplies. And although Carter had ascended to Stanton’s second-in-command, and made a couple million dollars a year, it was humiliating taking orders from a fool. Stanton even wore Old Spice, for God’s sake. Nobody wore Old Spice.
Carter spun and trudged a few more steps before finally speaking to Stanton. “Do you think that Sprott blames us for any of these recent problems?”
Peter Stanton looked up for the first time in several minutes. He tugged on an earlobe. “She’s gonna be pissed-off enough to bust a brain vein. Originally she was upset over the slow pace of their research. I can’t imagine how she’s gonna feel after this.”
“Maybe we need to cut the cord with her and her friends. Who are these so-called ‘associates’ she keeps referring to?”
Color flowed into Stanton’s face. “Bad question, Carter.”
“They make me nervous,” Carter breathed, wanting to say fuck you instead.
“Good. And your suggestion that we break with them is stupid.”
Carter looked at Stanton’s fat face, then burst. “Bullshit! The suggestion is brilliant.”
“Drop it, Carter.”
“Come on, Peter. Quit hiding from the truth.”
“Truth? What truth is that?”
“Let’s start with Charles Demry and how he ended up dying. Do you actually believe that his falling down seven floors through an open elevator shaft was an accident? And what about Garrett Decker? Where the hell did he come from?”
“Demry was an unhappy drunk,” Stanton answered. “He probably jumped. If he didn’t jump, he fell. He was completely shit-faced at the time. And if I were you, I’d leave Decker out of this altogether.”
“The fucking guy looks through people like they were glass, and how come Sprott demanded we bring him in? To do what? Spy on us?”
“You’re stomping on thin ice. If you’re not careful, you’re gonna fall in and there isn’t gonna be anyone around to fish you out.”
Carter realized this downward spiral of a conversation was a mistake. “Sorry. I’m stressed,” he said, attempting to turn down the suddenly hot emotional temperature.
“Work on fixing your attitude.”
“I said I was sorry.” Carter felt many emotions, but none of them was sorry.
“We’re making plenty on our end. Don’t screw around with the pudding.”
“But—”
“But nothing,” Stanton said. “Drop the conversation before you get yourself in the deepest shit in the history of deep shit.”
Carter dropped the conversation but not his thoughts.
Three doors from Peter Stanton’s office, Garrett Decker listened intently. He turned the volume higher, not wanting to miss a word. With so much suddenly going on, Att-Stan was, at long last, about to become a fascinating assignment.
chapter 8
LEANING INTO THE MESH SPEAKER, Tim identified himself. The elevator immediately rumbled to the top floor. When he stepped out, Tim faced a wiry man whose suit did nothing to hide the bulge alongside his left shoulder. “Good afternoon, Mr. Mack,” the man said through a forced smile. He handed Tim a clipboard.
Tim initialed the sign-in sheet and proceeded through an oak door into a long hallway leading to the executive offices. Oil paintings hung in rows as if this were a museum instead of an investment-banking firm, while a restored grandfather clock ticked conspicuously from a small foyer. The carpet was hunter green, the walls fashioned from hand-carved wood.
Atterberry-Stanton occupied the top three floors of its eight-story building. The firm’s two lower floors had cheaper trim-mings—like plastic philodendrons embedded in scrappy phony moss meant to look like sphagnum. The executive floor boasted living plants, including miniature palms and fresh geraniums.
The first office Tim passed—with door closed and curtains drawn across glass walls—belonged to Garrett Decker. The nameplate identified Decker as Head of Compliance and Security. Having the same man responsible for insuring that employees adhered to SEC rules and regulations—a legal function—and maintaining the building’s physical integrity, seemed an odd combination of duties. But then Decker was an odd man; an individual appearing at places—ghostlike—rather than arriving like everyone else.
The next office belonged to Anson Atterberry, the firm’s founder. Tim felt sorry for Anson. He seemed to have nothing more to do than supervise maintenance, and an air of sadness often hung over him.
“Tim. How are you?” Anson asked through his open door.
“I’m fine,” Tim answered, peering in. Anson, approaching his sixties and appearing emaciated, sat on the floor, legs pretzeled in a lotus wrap.
Anson sprang to his feet in a single, acrobatic motion. Tim tried not to stare. He’d heard Anson was slowly losing his marbles, and his attire did nothing to refute that analysis. A lime green jacket looked ridiculous hanging on his 5’6” frame, as did the white cotton pants draped over sockless espadrilles—an ensemble, Tim speculated, better suited for a vaudevillian than the millionaire founder of a successful investment bank.
“This’s quite an impressive fortress up here,” Tim said, noticing that the hall camera was pointing at him. “What’s the story with all this security, Anson? I worked at Gordon, Ashe in New York. We represented some of the world’s largest corporations, but we never had guns and Big Brother bearing down on us—at least not anything like this.”
Anson pulled his shoulders into his thin neck. “I think it had to do with Charles Demry’s accident,” he said. “We hired Garrett Decker immediately after, and he installed all this security.”
“And Decker? Is he as intense as he seems?”
Anson nodded. “More so. I hear he was military or CIA or FBI or some such thing. Where are you headed, Tim?”
“A meeting with Peter and Carter.”
“Anything important?” Anson asked.
“The Isotopic situation.”
“Ah. Yes. Too bad about that. I think I’ll join you. Stay in touch with matters. I need to speak to Peter about a few issues anyway.”
A moment later, they entered Stanton’s office together. From the two men’s faces and body language, Peter Stanton and Carter Ramsey looked close to blows, especially Carter, who didn’t bother to hide a series of hostile side-glances directed at Stanton.
Another curiosity, because Stanton was not the studious type, were the hundreds of books—all hardbound—filling the built-in shelves running the length of two walls. Novels, biographies, books on management and investing, all squeezed together. Tim even recognized several textbooks he had used in business school at the University of Chicago. Tim suspected Stanton had not read a single volume.
Before meeting Stanton for the first time in mid-December, Tim had expected a polished Wall Street executive. Instead, he got an unremarkable, short, stocky man who used crude language and corny clichés. Not stupid, but not smart, he was the right guy in the right place at the right time—a bull market winner, succeeding despite his physical and intellectual limitations.
In a corner of the office, Tim’s eyes locked on a wet bar. In the cabinet, he recognized every label glued to every bottle. Across his tongue, he tasted first the scotch, then the bourbon, rum, and cognac. His hands shook as he tugged his mind away from the poisons and their hold on him.
He looked at Stanton and Carter. Side by side, they contrasted like coal and diamonds. Carter was very much the New York banker—smart, well-educated, stuck up. Dressed in expensive suits, never a hair out of place, always rigid—as if he had a broomstick shoved up his ass. Tim had seen the demeanor many times: the air of sophistication masking a self-centered heart. Not someone to rely on in a pinch.
Seeing Anson tagging behind Tim, Stanton frowned. “Anson, we’re busy. You need something?”
“Perhaps I should be involved,” Anson answered.
“No.” Stanton shook his head. “You’ll find it boring. Anything else?”
“Did you know we’re running low on certain staples?” he asked. “Uh, like ballpoint pens and light bulbs.”
“Light bulbs? A client’s been blown up and we’re in a fair amount of trouble over that, so maybe I’ll leave the pens and light bulbs to you. Anything else?” Stanton’s tone made the question sound like a dismissal.
Anson allowed himself to be escorted from the office. This was evidence of what Tim had already guessed: Anson Atterberry had zero influence left in this firm.
“Next month, it’s over,” Stanton said once Anson was out of earshot. “I’m gonna buy the guy out at book value. I doubt he’s even aware I have that right under our partnership agreement.”
Tim almost reacted to the comment, but held back. He wasn’t there to defend Anson Atterberry. After tossing a few pages on the table, a signal that he wanted to move on, Tim spent the next ten minutes briefing Stanton and Carter on his findings. When he finished the review, Stanton suggested a further update on Monday. “I’ve got a meeting later that day with an important colleague—Melanie Sprott—and she’s going to want me to have some fresh information and perspective.”
“Make it early, then,” Tim said. “Before the market opens. 5:30.”
Stanton pursed his face. “That’s damn early, but. . . Carter, I want you there. I’ll have Garrett Decker there too, for compliance.”
Tim left, still unhappy about Stanton’s treatment of Anson Atterberry. He passed it off as office politics. Leave it be. He had suffered through enough of his own problems over the last two years—fought enough demons to fill hell several times over. The last thing he needed was to get involved in other people’s business. Besides, Anson was an adult. Let him deal with it on his own.
Yet Tim felt a twitch in his spine. Just don’t ever try and stick a knife in my back, he thought.
chapter 9
JUST AS FRIDAY’S LAST FEW MINUTES SLIPPED AWAY, the two men faced off.
The one-eyed man’s second thoughts could have filled a hot air balloon. He didn’t know this stranger who sent him on dangerous errands, always arranging cash payment. To gain this first ever audience, One-Eye had to leave a message on a greetingless answering machine and wait several hours. Then, forty-five minutes ago, a nasty voice ordered him to a heavily overgrown location above Cardiff’s beaches. Now, in the dead of night, his skin prickled. Blinking with the rhythm of a ticking clock, he decided it was too late to turn back.
Through his solitary eye, he took the other man’s uneasy measure. Fucking guy looked like a bull—hunched over with flaring nostrils—unblinking eyes surveying him as if he were no more than a gnat, floating in a cup of tea.
“Thanks for meeting me on such short notice,” the one-eyed man said, his conciliatory words at war with his face, hoping small talk might magically soften this unmoving edifice.
He flicked his limited sight-line in a circle, realizing that with the surrounding trees thick enough to block out the light from the nearby rabbit-hutch homes, nobody would witness this interaction.
“You know, since they found those bodies—” he struggled with the words—“and it wasn’t my fault they did, and I was taking all the chances, and I did a good job of getting those three bums and dumping them, and I delivered the videotape. Maybe another ten grand is fair.” He hated that he was panting like a damn dog.
“I don’t think so,” the other man said.
Trying to frame his marble eye with a smile had no impact. “Make it five grand, then. That’s fair. Right?” Goddamn it. This wasn’t going anything like he’d imagined it would, and he wished he’d wrestled with this notion longer before asking for more money.
The bull-like man removed and folded his jacket and laid the tailored garment across a retaining wall. “Greed,” he said, “is a dangerous thing.” He rolled up his shirtsleeves, exposing two-by-four wrists.
One-Eye coughed, unable to get his thoughts to translate into speech.
“You think I am incapable of forceful action?” the man growled.
“No, no, no,” One-Eye stuttered. “This is a discussion. We’re here to negotiate. That’s all.” He took a half-step back, finding himself boxed in by a cinder block wall. “I don’t think you need to punch me out or anything—”
A vice wrapped around One-Eye’s pock-marked neck, jerking it with a ferocious tug. The attacker’s right thumb jutted into his only good eye, pushing through the posterior cavity. The world went black. A massive palm, flattening out, compound-fractured the jaw, blunting the screams. A fleshy tongue shredded between chipped teeth.
Then a knee to the back. The spinal column snapped like a branch off an aged tree.
All this, but not dead—yet. That would have taken several more minutes if not for the knife gutting the throat, passing through the esophagus and larynx, severing bone with a surgeon’s precision. Part of a two-piece puzzle, the head rolled off the shoulders, and One-Eye folded like a lump of Jell-O. The murderer anticipated the direction of the arterial spray and came away unstained.
He pulled the wallet from the corpse’s back pocket and emptied it of money and credit cards. He tossed the fake alligator skin next to the upturned feet. It would look like an incredibly brutal robbery.
“Sleep tight, Puddin’ Head,” he whispered before leaving.
As the killer made his way back to the car, parked a mile and a half south, he mentally reviewed additional impediments. On that list of potential problems, one name had risen to the top: Tim Mack. Mack might be trying to hide from his past, but he was too smart for his own good. If the analyst wasn’t careful, the only thing he’d bury would be himself. In fact, if he were a betting man, he wouldn’t put much money on Mack’s chances.
Too bad, he thought, but sometimes even nice guys don’t survive.
chapter 10
DURING THE WORK DAY, passionate voices pinballed off the floors and ceilings. Wall-to-wall ego and aggressive opinion were sources of constant, noisy energy.
But a few minutes before 10:00 PM, Atterberry-Stanton’s offices felt merely lonely. Aside from the drone of a vacuum cleaner down the hall and his own keyboard taps, no sounds registered in Tim’s brain. He sipped lukewarm coffee while his eyes misted from fatigue. Since he needed to get a handle on the firm’s upcoming stock deals, as well as digging into Isotopic Research, Tim decided that these late nights would probably become standard fare. “So what?” he thought aloud. “It’s not like I’ve got anything else to do with my time.”
In the background, the vacuum died. It took a moment for the silence to soak in.
Tim sagged deeply into his chair, exhausted and depleted. Against his will, his eyes wandered over to the calendar and began a mental countdown to February 1st—six days from now. That day was like a freight train that would knock him sideways—just as it had for the past two years.
In the midst of these fears, the office door creaked open and a deep voice hummed “Can’t Buy Me Love.” When a pair of eyes peered in and saw Tim, the tune halted mid-note. Blank surprise flashed across the face of a nearly middle-aged man who stood half-in, half-out the door. He clutched a handful of rags and a spray bottle quarter-filled with yellow fluid.
“I’m sorry, mister. Who’re you?”
“Tim Mack. This is my office.” Despite Tim’s friendly tone, the man remained unsettled.
“You’re not supposed to be here. My boss—he works for the people who own this building—well, he says nobody would be here when I cleaned.”
Tim noticed the name Stanley Pointer stitched across baggy overalls. “I’m working late,” Tim said, “but go ahead. It won’t bother me.”
“I don’t know. Should I?”
It was becoming obvious that Stanley was marginally retarded. The janitor squinted, and Tim doubted the slumping man could see his face, even if he found the courage to look up from his sneakers. Across the back of his head, spears of unkempt hair surrounded a gleaming bald circle.
“Yes. By all means, do your work.” Tim glanced around his office. “In fact, Stanley, while I’ve got you here, mind helping me get rid of that large potted plant? Plastic trees never did much for me.”
“I’m not supposed to leave this part of the floor when I’m cleaning. I was told I was supposed to stick to my job.”
“I’ll take responsibility. It’ll only take a few minutes.” Tim got up and put a reassuring hand on Stanley’s shoulder.
“I don’t know. . . you sure, Mr. Mack?”
“I’m sure, Stan.”
“It’s a really nice tree. My mommy loves plants.”
“You want this thing?”
“Mommy would love it, but I shouldn’t. Sure is nice, though.” Stanley looked lovingly at the plastic leaves.
“You’re welcome to it. Come on. Let’s move it out.”
“Gee, thanks, Mr. Mack. Mommy’ll love it.”
Although the plant wasn’t particularly heavy, its dimensions—seven feet of plant stemming from a three-foot pot—made it cumbersome. They each grabbed an end.