Chapter 8: Kansas

Sistine called me herself, bypassing Carmen. “Just heard back from G and G — they’re pretty exercised about something in those Rowley pages you sent to Carmen.”

“Want me to go back in?”

“Of course not — wouldn’t that be ... um, bending the law?”

“Right, stupid thought.”

Translation: okay, Winter, get your butt in gear and don your B & E threads. This time, photograph every work-related page you can uncover.

Later for you, Nowak.

I had a Dr. Samantha Rowley problem. The first time I’d ... um, researched her house, she’d been spending the weekend in NYC. I couldn’t wait around for another road trip. The quiet urgency in Sistine’s tone told me that accessing the remainder of Rowley’s work product was now a priority.

That left broad daylight.

Once she arrived at the Triple-I lab, she stayed there. Except for the one time she came home for, I assumed, lunch. I spotted her purely by accident. The tracker under her Volvo hadn’t moved. I just happened to be driving by her house when she and another woman pulled up in her coworker’s Nissan.

I explained my dilemma to the Hakleford of the day, “I’m planning a surprise party for the woman we’ve been following.”

“Rowley.”

I looked at him sharply — I’d never mentioned her name. Nor Fowler, nor Nowak.

He said, “Where you from, Kansas? Think we’re dummies? Acourse we know who we’re following.”

Kansas? Fucking Kansas?

I said, calmly, “Give me a call if she leaves work.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll have Hiram watch the house too. Case anybody else shows up.”

I would have thought of that myself.

The Sullivans finessed the alarm system again. This time, I picked the back door lock. Did a quick room-to-room, then settled down in Rowley’s office. There were at least two dozen file folders — I started with the two that were open. Didn’t bother trying to remember what I might have already shot ... just snap, snap, snapped every single page.

Two hours and forty-some minutes later, a combination of bored and nervous, I relocked the door. Domestic Hakleford picked me up a block later and drove me to FedEx.

Pilar had taken to wearing a statement tee — ‘It’s Mueller Time’ — whenever Gertie came by the loft. Walker joined her in ... sisterhood, I guess.

Gertie just shook her head, “Wistful thinking.”

Carmen called me two days later. I was planning a nighttime incursion in Elmont, New York. Jakub Nowak’s garage apartment.

“Winter, I booked you on United, 10:30. Mitchum will pick you up.”

“That’s sudden.”

“All hands on deck. Gloria, Sistine, Gathers and Gates. You.”

“Preview?”

“All I know is that ... package you sent in kicked off a ... commotion.” Carmen had started to say ‘panic’. Caught herself; she works for Gloria Allen. Panic is not in their DNA.

“See you this afternoon.”

I didn’t bother to pack, the Beverly Wilshire had my California wardrobe.

Mitchum and his wife had sparkly polka dot glitter on their eyelids. She still wasn’t speaking. Fine.

Carmen led me into what I now thought of as my conference room. Sistine stood and said, “Winter Jennings, this is Amos Alonzo Washington, general counsel for Gathers and Gates.”

A tall, tall, African-American dude smiled down at me. One gold tooth gleamed, “Call me Zo.”

I resisted the urge to say, “Call me Your Worship.” It’s called maturity. Probably.

Gloria Allen said, “Sit, Winter.” She looked solemn, just short of grim. The bowl of Snickers was about half empty. Or full.

Zo was wearing a machine-knit blue cardigan and a yellow tee: ‘Did You Eat Your Honey Today?’ Tall and lean and ... composed. So at ease. Maybe a Macklin fire burned somewhere deep in his belly, but you wouldn’t know it from his placid countenance.

Yet Zo’s appearance seemed ... just off. General counsel for G and G. Gold tooth? ‘Did you eat your honey today?’ And, machine-knit? But, I certainly wouldn’t underestimate him. Nor judge him by the ... eccentricities of his appearance. Maybe he was at a station in life where it just didn’t matter. Maybe I’ll arrive there someday. Ignore my bra for a meeting like this one. Maybe.

Zo said, “Macklin is further along with his PTSD ... project than we had anticipated.”

I started to ask what PTSD had to do with Gathers and Gates. Stopped myself. Listen-and-Learn Winter, that’s me.

Gloria said, “G and G has the scientists already in place. For the opioids run-up. We asked their biochem team to analyze the ... latest data.”

Not once, not that day, not in the future, was any reference made to the Rowley break-ins. We had new data, updated work product, latest results. Purloined was not in our vocabulary.

Zo said, “In all of the material they examined, one chart puzzled the lab boys.”

He looked at me curiously. Somehow I felt it was an evaluation. After a moment, he nodded to himself as if satisfied. Or at least reassured.

“That chart tracked controlled experiments on what appeared to be a set of Rhesus Macaques.”

I thought: some sort of monkey. Monkeys.

Zo picked up a sheet and read from it, “A 22-year old male presented with signs of internal and external ophthamoplegia, including anisocoria and ptosis.”

He looked up at me, the dummy in the room, then back at his notes, “Ophthalmoplegia is the paralysis or weakness of one or more intraocular or extraocular muscles that control the movement of the eye; this condition can be caused by neurologic or muscle disorders.”

I nodded. Yep, just what I would have suspected. The old intraocular symptoms.

He said, “They had to put him to sleep.”

That I understood.

Zo said, “Then ... then it got interesting. They did an autopsy and ... well, let me read it to you — ‘Postmortem gross examination revealed a mass at the base of the brain attached to the meninges. Histopathologic examination led to the diagnosis of intracranial meningioma. Here we describe a case of intracranial meningioma with internal and external ophthalmoplegia.’”

Gloria interpreted, “Bottom line, Winter, intracranial meningioma is almost unheard of in primates.”

Tummy-flip. Did that mean the 22-year old was a human?

Amos Alonzo Washington smiled, shook hands with Gloria, Sistine, Carmen, and me. As he left, he didn’t trot out any clichés. ‘Need-to-know only’. ‘Keep digging’. ‘Be careful’.

I thought about Zo that night back in the hotel. Over room-service poached salmon. Asparagus. He had treated us as adults; had assumed we’d know enough to do the right thing. Was this what hanging with mature people was like?

He wasn’t all-business either. He read from one of Rowley’s summary sheets, “Life is proteins. Magical structures that perform all the functions of life. What we don’t understand is how they form. Long folds of amino acids bundled together into a single-file formation. It would seem like there’s an infinite number of ways to form, but there isn’t. They follow rules, most of which we don’t understand.”

Zo smiled, continued reading, “We can’t catch up with Mother Nature, she had a big head start.” He put the paper down, “Pretty poetic for a lab scientist.”

Carmen had filled me in later that afternoon, “That chart was what triggered your ... second visit.” So I hadn’t found anything worthwhile during my later incursion. One early chart, that was it.

I said, “The real skinny has to be in the lab.”

Carmen nodded, didn’t say anything further. She may be a paralegal, but she had the considered reticence of a seasoned litigator.

I thought about the lab. About the ZB wing. Three stories plus a basement and subbasement. Tight security at the only entrance that was remotely available to the public. Admission by appointment only.

Okay, I could finesse that. Somehow. I’m a New York Times reporter. No, that’s the last thing they’d want. A visiting professor of microbial genetics. I’d last about one sentence into that conversation.

I didn’t have the solution, not yet. But let’s assume I did finagle my way inside. Almost certainly a laminated pass or security code or key or palm-print or retina scan or ... something would be required to access any area that was remotely sensitive. Which was probably the entire ZB wing. Probably the entire Triple-I lab, now that I thought about it.

And even if I turned myself into some sort of new superhero — Invisible Wonder Woman! — I wouldn’t know what the fuck to look for, nor how to interpret it.

However, I had a glimmer of an idea about gaining access to Triple-I. But first I’d explore my other options.

Was there another approach? Maybe.

No one had mentioned, not Zo, and certainly not Gloria and her team, that two of the files I’d photographed had been copied to Eric Roberts, Macklin’s Director of Security. The man Drake Fowler reported to.

Now, did Gloria simply overlook the routing footnote? Hardly. Did she not mention it to me because she wanted a denial-layer between us? Possibly.

I flew back to Newark the next morning. Back to my earlier plan — take a careful look around Jakob Nowak’s garage apartment.

As United lifted off, I closed my eyes and tried not to think of intracranial meningioma.

Two of them had been waiting for me inside the All-County garage in Elmont.

Tonight’s H. Hakleford had dropped me three blocks away and around the corner from Jakub Nowak’s apartment. A second H. Hakleford was tailing Nowak to Manhattan, to 6th Avenue, to pick up his boss. I’d have well over an hour, probably closer to two, but I wouldn’t take that long.

As I strolled toward the garage, I thought, ‘film noir.’ It was a misty night, just before ten. 9:47. Ghostly halos as I moved from streetlight into darkness into streetlight. I was traveling light this time — no weapons; just two sets of lock picks. My Barbara Reynolds ID — Richmond, Virginia driver’s license, Master Card, Visa, Amex. Various lesser identifiers too — library card, Social Security Card, two bills — Aetna Better Health of Virginia and Dominion Energy. A new burner, not yet used.

And my red Page Boy Bob wig. Auburn.

The pedestrian entrance was inset into the garage door. My surgically-gloved hands had what I liked to think of as a controlled tremor — anxiety channeled into disciplined purpose. Okay, I was nervous.

The pins dropped smoothly and silently. I looked around, no one seemed to be paying any attention to me. I slid in, closed the door behind me, and took inventory. Saw what I would expect to see in an auto-repair garage. Oil-stained concrete floor, tools and greasy rags all over the place. Soda machine, cigarette machine both glowing. Ghetto blaster turned off.

A black All-County tow truck — Dodge — was the cleanest thing around. An old Chevy was up on the only lift. A battered Honda stood nearby, hood left open, rear passenger tire flat.

The only light was a dim overhead bulb under a round tin shield that hung down from the ceiling.

A carpeted stairway with a tilted wooden handrail on the right side was in the left corner, at the rear of the garage.