Chapter 15: Eagle

I woke up in Palo Alto feeling ... refreshed. More like my old self. First time since ... well, it had been a while. Feeling morning-naughty, I sat under the shower spray and treated myself to a quickie.

Dressed for success, I was checking myself out in front of the hotel mirror. Picked up my cell, “Hello.”

“What are you doing in California?”

I smiled, sat back in the club chair, Clint Callahan.

“And this is your business ... why?”

“I made it my business.”

“Oooh, tough guy. I’m still working for Gloria Allen. Still on the Macklin case. Trying to run that security guy to ground.”

“Eric Roberts.”

“Yeah, we don’t have any real leads, but he used to work out here.”

“You have to start someplace. Gotta run. Luck.”

I was smiling on the elevator down to meet Felicity. Two guys, tanned, eyeballed me. I didn’t mind.

The Adams girls — Rachael and Felicity — met in a small conference room in the Four Seasons. If it hadn’t been free to the hotel guests ... I guess we could have met in a library. Maybe Felicity’s home, although I’d never been there.

She said, “The Macklin research is very thorough.”

“Yeah. Gloria started working on it back when it was opioids. Then the PTSD angle sort of informed and animated the original intel.”

I still felt a sort of a glow from my morning shower. Concentrate, Winter.

Felicity said, “One thing that sort of struck me...”

“Yes?”

“I mean I know you’re the ace and all...”

“God, don’t go diva on me. What?”

“Eric Roberts was in New York when you out here working on the God Pill.”

Silicon Valley’s search for eternal life. Or at least a life a lot longer than the billionaires can expect today.

I said, “Yeah?”

“But he was born and raised here. Stanford grad. Launched his career here. Became a techie millionaire. I bet anything he stayed in touch with at least some of his buddies.”

I sat up. The tumblers started clicking. Of course!

“Yes! Roberts had to have known about the search for the God Pill. The patents, the experiments. The human experiments were all over the news.”

My mind was racing. Could Roberts have been behind the PTSD experiments from the beginning?

He was already heading up security for Hugh Macklin when the company purchased the ZB8687 patent. Roberts would have known — by corporate osmosis if nothing else — about the lab failures. He’d be read in on the due diligence reports. The tumors in rodents, then primates.

As they tweaked the neuron blocker formulae, could it have been Roberts who first suggested testing humans?

Fuck me. Inna ass.

I reached for my cell.

“Carmen, can Gloria spare five minutes? No. Wait. Let Felicity and me go over this, refine it. Can you schedule phone time me for this afternoon? Fifteen minutes.”

Felicity nodded, “Very professional, Winter. Stepping back, thinking things through.”

The new, improved Winter.

I called the Sullivans, “Hi Jessie. Felicity had an interesting thought. Could Roberts have been close to someone out here connected to the God Pill?”

I listened, nodded. “Yeah, overnight the God Pill flash drive to the Four Seasons. Rachael Adams. Another copy for Felicity. And you and Jessie comb through the files too. Look for any possible connection between Roberts and ... well, you know what to do.”

Walker, on our little road trip to CajunLand, had sort of unlocked the physical tension in me. A bottled-up feeling that had been there since ... since Matt.

Vanessa — she knows me so well — had waited weeks and weeks before reverting to her old, aggressive style in bed. And last night, Le Wand, bless you Felicity, had been almost as satisfying.

I felt especially alive. Suddenly hopeful about Roberts. Maybe it was the possible link between the God Pill and ZB8687. In any case, was my now-churning brain somehow related to my physical reawakening? Whatever the reason, association neurons were busy ... um, associating again. Rapidly.

That night, I pored over my entire God Pill venture. Adventure. From the day Bulldog first introduced me to Bobsy Atwater. Back in Kansas City, back in my office.

I took my time, read it start to finish. The finish was when Daddy and Hank Morristown flew out here to lead an FBI raid on a rogue lab. Nelson-Eamons.

No mention of Eric Roberts anywhere in the files, and I hadn’t expected one. But now the Sullivans and the LA research team were combing through the entire Macklin portfolio looking for any matches anywhere in the God Pill fiasco.

A long shot. But pussy solves a lot of problems. No, wait. A different bromide — a long shot is better than no shot. That’s the one.

Felicity and I compared notes.

I said, “Okay, Eric Roberts. What do we know about him?” I held up my hand, “Not the biographical stuff — the researchers will be all over that. But the man, the man himself.”

“Native Californian — fourth generation. Intelligent.”

I said, “Maybe even brilliant.”

“Probably. Nice looking. Not movie star, but nice. Let’s see ... one thing that struck me ... look at how many private clubs he belongs to. Or did.”

We went over the list:

> Pacific Union Club. Felicity said, “I dated a guy who was a member. Told me they looked around a while back and realized their average member was like 90 or something. So they had to lower the entrance requirements.”

I nodded, “And Roberts didn’t come from money, his father wasn’t a member.”

> University Club. I said, “Which gave him reciprocity in New York.”

> Olympic Club Felicity said, “Golfer.”

> Boho Club I said, “What’s that?”

“Exclusive. Very. When it was founded you were supposed to have some sort of artistic talent — singing, playwriting, acting. But ... money talks. Several Presidents have belonged. Helen Hayes was the first female guest they allowed in the upstairs dining room.”

“Penis required?”

“Yeah, to join. And to go up to the Boho Woods in the summer.”

> Presidio Golf & Concordia Club Felicity said, “More golf.”

Also, Roberts had joined a few clubs in New York, but we put those aside for now.

Short of driving around the Bay Area hoping to spot Eric Roberts, we were mostly waiting on LA and the Sullivans. Hoping they’d uncover a California / New York pharmaceutical connection.

I’d considered calling my former client, Bobsy Atwater, but put that off until I was more desperate. He and his girlfriend, Bunny Carville, are Chatty Cathys. And maybe that could come in handy someday, but for now ... below the radar.

Ash Collins called. Himself.

“Winter, someone broke into the Barbara Reynolds apartment. Thorough search, tore it apart. Even dusted for fingerprints. Took a hairbrush and toothbrush.”

“DNA.”

“Yeah.”

“Well that’s good, right? I mean I’ve never even been to Richmond, never even seen that apartment complex.”

“Good in the short term. But it means that Fowler is unleashing the hounds. Some of whom used to be MPs. Those guys know how to track down deserters, rapists, AWOLs.”

“Do we know how much loot Fowler has squirreled away?”

“No, but you need to figure it’s a considerable sum. He was well-compensated at work. Plus he still owns 51% of Fowler Zone Security.”

“And he would know how to hide it.”

“That he would.”

Well, it’s better to know about the hunters than not. But they weren’t that high on my worry-list. When they hunted a deserter, they knew who he was, what his habits were, what he looked like. Oops. They know what I look like. May even have a photo.

And something else was niggling away at a corner of my mind.

Then I flashed on it. My wig. The Barbara Reynolds wig. They’d taken it from me that night in Nowak’s apartment. Well ... think it through, Winter. They had taken my fingerprints that night. And probably had hair samples from the inside of that wig.

None of that was on file, nothing that would lead back to me. However, it would tell them that Barbara Reynolds, that apartment, the ID, was fake. They might not know who I am, but they know it’s not Barbara Reynolds.

This was giving me brain cramps. I opened a hotel red.

“Felicity, do you have an Earthquake Fund?”

“Of course. Everyone does.” She shook her head, “But mine’s down to around $2,700. I need to get it back up.”

A moment later she said, “How long do you think this job will last?”

“Impossible to say. If we don’t get a nibble, I’m going to call it off. But I’m hoping to see it through. All the way.” Another trait I picked up from Daddy.

Carmen Ortega said, “Winter? I’m going to put Jesse on.”

So, the Sullivans were back in LA.

“Winter, this may be something, may be nothing. We ... uh, stumbled into a hidden webmail account on Roberts’ laptop at Triple-I. Security Department laptop.”

“Okay.”

“Personal stuff, most of it pretty innocuous. A lot of notes to himself. Reminders.”

“Like what?”

“Golf lesson. Make a reservation at the 21 Club. Like that.”

“Why wouldn’t he put it in Notes? Or Reminders? Calendar?”

“The only thing we can think of is that it was a company computer.”

“Maybe. Anyway, what’d you find?”

“Jessie found it. An email to a John Bolton in San Francisco. Three words, “Burial of Burdens.” That’s it, didn’t even sign his name.”

“Fuck does that mean? Burial of Burdens?”

“Both Roberts and Bolton are members of the same three clubs in San Francisco — Olympic Club, University, and Boho.”

“Okay.”

I could hear a little excitement in his voice, “The Boho Club has a summer retreat near the Russian River. That’s a couple of hours north of San Francisco. It’s outside of Santa Rosa — the Boho Woods.”

“What does that have to do with Burning Burdens?”

“Burial of Burdens. It’s an annual Boho ceremony. Apparently a lot of pomp and ceremony — a tongue-in-cheek celebration of leaving your cares behind.”

I looked at Felicity, “Ever hear of ‘Burial of Burdens?’”

She laughed, “Sure. Boho Club. Bunch of fat cats get drunk, piss against trees, bring in hookers. Been going on over a century. Long before the earthquake.”

I said, “Jesse, good work. When is this year’s Boho Woods?”

“This Friday will be the second weekend of three. Started last Friday.”

“How do you guys like the Beverly Wilshire?’

Giggles.

At the Four Seasons, Rachael Adams signed for two overnight packages on Wednesday morning. Heckler & Koch, with shoulder holster, from Vanessa. My lock gun was included and I immediately started recharging it.

John Bolton thumb drive from Jessie Sullivan.

I asked Felicity, “Could I sneak into the Boho Woods this weekend?”

Shrug. “I dunno, never been up there. But I doubt it. I’d imagine with all the CEOs, the DC bigwigs, the media members ... I’d bet they post guards.”

“You mentioned whores.”

“Yeah. If you had the time to figure out who they were. Or who was supplying them.” Grin. “You’d fit right in.”

“Okay, this is our plan. We’ll drive up tomorrow. Probably just a skeleton crew waiting for the weekend partiers. We’ll reconnoiter, find a vantage point. Maybe a couple of them.”

“Hmm.”

“Then on Friday, we’ll try to spot the whores.”

“Winter, those rumors may not be true.”

“I know, but we don’t have anything else. Do you think the girls stay in the Woods the whole weekend? Or maybe just come back at night?”

“Again, rumors. I’ve heard the men do men things during the day. So the girls might stay in a ... I don’t know, motel?”

“Well, it’s not much of a plan, but maybe I can find a way to slither my way into the Woods on the last weekend.”

For the trip to the Russian River, I was extra watchful. It was highly unlikely that Fowler’s hunters would be in contact with Eric Roberts. If he were even in California. But ... it was just barely possible that Fowler needed to get a message to Roberts.

One that his attorney had passed along to the hunters.

Further stretching credulity, would Roberts — openly wanted by the FBI — dare to show his face? Even in the rarified luxury of the ultra-private Woods?

One thing possibly tilting in our favor — the Burial of Burdens was always performed during the final weekend.

John Bolton was a year younger than Eric Roberts. But they’d overlapped for three years at Stanford. Roberts, computer science. Bolton, international relations. Emphasis on trade policy.

Bolton was the youngest of three partners in a San Francisco firm specializing in Pacific Rim relationships. And, he spent a lot of time as a registered lobbyist in their DC office.

One DUI negotiated down to reckless driving. $2,500 fine and thirty hours of community beautification. Otherwise unblemished. Except for the fact he’s in communication with a federally-charged ... scumbag, is how I believe the warrant reads.

Bolton had recently separated from his wife — her ultimatum. No kids. He was renting a loft in SOMA, which looked to me to be dangerously close to turning into a touristy mecca like SOHO.

At least San Francisco doesn’t have New Jersey next door. But it does have a rapidly gentrifying population all around Market Street.

South of Market, Bolton lived in a refurbished factory building now called The Modernist. Maybe a reference to the private club of the same name? Or to the nearby SF Museum of Modern Art? Maybe both? Maybe neither?

Didn’t matter; I bought a membership in the Strivers Health Club located in the basement.

Street level, there were four retail shops and a bar / restaurant called, yawn, The Modernist. Lots of lobby traffic. No doorman. The security guards seemed to be as much, maybe more, concierge than watchdogs. If I had the time, I’d ... I don’t know what I’d do. Something frightfully clever and subterfugey with the security staff. Only one of them was on duty at a time.

Like so many old buildings around the world, The Modernist had gone through several identities. Originally, back in 1862, it was set up as a rival to the blue jeans pioneer, Levi Strauss. Failed. Printing presses were hauled in and yet another newspaper launched. Failed.

The Modernist was eventually carved up into a warren of small shops and offices. Two of which were occupied by a minor cultural attaché to a third world country. Whose government, unluckily, had been overthrown, char-broiled, and banqueted upon. Contrary to early, and enthusiastic, media reports, it was not Kansas.

My John Bolton plan was as audacious as it was illegal. I’d strolled past the lobby guard in a bevy of three other girls, all of us shower-fresh from Strivers. Naturally they pushed three different floors, but that still left me three plus the penthouse level.

Bolton was on two so I got off at four and skipped down two flights.

Fuck me. Medeco. Out of my league. Inna ass.

Plan B. Which I need to think up.

It was an uneventful drive up to the Boho Woods. Walker, research nerd, had sent me background info on the environs. I read as Felicity drove. “Indigenous people were called Pomo.”

“Indians?”

“Indians. Hunter-gatherers. Basket weavers.” I read the Wikipedia bumf, “The Pomo Indian cultures are several ethnolinguistic groups that make up a single language family in Northern California.”

“Hmm.”

“My son can be the single dullest teenager in the country.”

“He means well.”


“Sometimes.”

Felicity pointed to a sign, “What’s that mean?”

“Kulanapan Lake. It means ‘deviated septum’ in Pomoan.”

“Right.”

Boho Woods was a complete bust. Felicity and I not only couldn’t get close enough to scope anyone out, we forgot bug spray. Didn’t even get to see guys peeing on trees.

I said, “Well, Roberts probably wouldn’t have been there anyway.”

“Probably not.”

Tired, a little sunburned, itchy, we slunk home. As she dropped me off, I said, “We’ll regroup Monday morning. Go to Plan B.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Smartass.

An excess of caution? Well, I’ve been shot at by three guys. Had something injected into my unconscious body. So, no.

Fowler had seen a photo of me. With my Barbara Reynolds wig and without it. He may not know who I am, but he knows what I look like.

Would he have shared that with his boss, with Eric Roberts? No way to know, but the assumption had to be, yes. Now it would be a stretch to assume that Roberts had shared my description with his college buddy, John Bolton. Especially since Roberts had no definitive idea that I’m after him.

Still. Fowler was pretty steamed. Sent a team of army buddies to check fingerprints and DNA in the Barbara Reynolds apartment. He may have been so emphatic to his former boss that Roberts might just possibly be watchful for someone who looks just like Winter Jennings. Watchful enough to alert Bolton.

Whose loft I plan to invade.

Even though my Boho Woods plan went up in mosquitos, Felicity and I did learn that Bolton spent the past weekend there. We Friday-followed him from his Kearny Street office in the Financial District to his SOMO apartment and from there up to the Woods.

Felicity said, “It might have worked if we could have gotten in.”

“Plan B.”

Starting the Monday that Bolton returned from his weekend retreat, we began tailing him at noon. That is, we began monitoring the tracker that I’d attached to the undercarriage of his black Porsche convertible.

Felicity pointed, “Look! It’s a classic. Bathtub. Cool, right?”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“I think it’s a ‘54. 365. Worth more than this baby.” She patted the Audi dash.

“365 horsepower?”

She gave me a heavy-lidded glance, “Never mind.”

“How do you know about cars? Your ex?”

“Two brothers.”

“Oh.”

We tailed Bolton for a week. A boring week. At least he was consistently repetitive. Monday through Thursday he left his office somewhere between seven and nine in the evening. Parked in his own space in the apartment garage of the Modernist.

Went upstairs and, presumably showered. At least he changed clothes. Then Bolton became a man about town. Walking everywhere, barhopping, snacks here, dinner there, more bars. One night he brought a woman home. Tried other nights. But he wasn’t a belligerent. Tipsy, friendly, smiling, taking no in a cheerful manner. But imbibing steadily, all four nights we tailed him.

Felicity said, “He’s not drinking and driving.”

I nodded, “Yeah, one DUI was enough.”

Friday, Bolton and his Tumi case and my tracker left work around eleven in the morning and headed north. Toward the Woods. We didn’t bother following him.

I said, “Monday.”

“Plan B.”

Friday evening I called the Sullivans; Jessie answered.

I said, “Where are you guys?”

“Waldo.” Back home.

“What’s your schedule for next week? Can you come out here on Sunday?”

I heard the twins jibbering away, maybe some jabbering too. Excited chatter about San Francisco.

Jesse said, “We can change Baxter. Move Shelton around.”

Jessie came back, “Yes, Winter! What’s up?”

I explained Plan B. In discrete, coded language. More excited chit-chat, this time in whispers. She said, “We’ll need to do some shopping out there.”

“You’ll have all day Monday. Maybe Tuesday. Everything will go down at night. If it goes down.”

I gave the little leprechauns the flight info courtesy of Carmen Ortega. Who hadn’t asked a single question.

I told Jessie, “Remember to pack sexy.”

Once the fog burns off, August days in the City can warm up. But it usually becomes mercifully cool at night. I was using a local app, Mr. Chilly, that did pretty well on San Francisco’s micro-climes. Union Square and SOMA would usually be warmer than Fisherman’s Wharf. Or anywhere along the Bay.

These summer nights Bolton wore a similar outfit — pressed jeans, polo, and a summer-weight blazer or deconstructed linen jacket. He looked pretty good too. Six feet or so, trim, nice shoulders. A shock of black hair that his hairdresser spent a lot of time on. You can tell — it’s not easy to maintain that casually disheveled look.

On each of the four nights we followed Bolton, he unconsciously performed the same little ritual as he left The Modernist. I told Felicity, “It’s ingrained.”

She nodded, “Maybe. Hope so.”

Like making the sign of the cross. Wallet? Check. Cell? Check. Keys? Check.

We picked the Sullivans up at United. Cheerful and chattery and excited.

Jessie said, “Check out my clothes, Winter. When we get to the hotel.”

“I’m sure they’re fine. But we can always buy something else if we need to.”

Ah, life in the Expense Lane.

Clint called me, “Still in California?”

“Yeah.”

“Any progress?”

“Not yet. Where are you?”

“At work.” New York.

“Oh.”

“Too bad you’re not here. I’d take you to Brooklyn Industry City.” Whatever the fuck that is.

“Hmm.”

“Escher exhibition. Sketches and tessellations.” Tessell-what-the-fucks?

I felt I should say something, anything, “I like Escher. Of course he was criminally insane.”

“I’m not sure about criminally.”

I wasn’t about to let him have the last Escher word. I said, “Faceless men defying gravity and Euclid.”

That stopped him for a mo.

We chatted for a few minutes. Nothing consequential, but I liked it that Clint was staying in touch. Being the aggressor without being aggressive. I felt a little undercurrent between us. Nothing major, not yet, but something.

Of course ... wedding band.

Carmen called me, “Good news, Winter. Gloria told Zo about the leaker. You should have seen them spring into action. Turns out it was just a Fowler plant. He placed someone, a woman, in the cleaning crew in New York. No leaker.”

“Old-school. Sorting through the trash.”

“That’s what we believe. And Fowler wasn’t even thinking about ZB8687 back then. He was just trying to vacuum up intel on Gathers and Gates. What progress they were making into the opioids prosecution.”

“I agree, that is good news. Gloria must be relieved.”

“She is. And G and G put in tighter security protocols.”

For Operation Bolton, I’d go full Rachael Adams. Including the Mr. Kenneth boots with three inch lifts. Puts me at just over six feet. I smiled to myself, that would drive Walker wild. Wilder.

Jesse didn’t seem to have any concerns that his twin sister would be Ms. Distraction. Ms. Sexy Distraction. Nevertheless, I gave him a little bump, “If Bolton were gay, I’d be using you.”

Jesse rose to his full height, about a foot shorter than me, stood at rigid attention and saluted smartly, “Aye-aye, Mon Capitan!” Little leprechaun volunteering for combat duty.