When The Devil Whistles Page 10

  “Lots. I put together a complaint and disclosure statement yesterday and sent them to Max Volusca early this morning.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. “Wow, that’s fast. What’s the rush?”

  “You kidding? This is a big case and the target has a history of document destruction. We had to get this into Max’s hands as fast as possible.”

  She wiped sweaty palms on her jeans. “Okay, I was just a little surprised is all. I like to see the papers and sleep on them before we file.”

  “Sorry about that. I’ll get you a copy ASAP and we can file an amended set if we need to.” His voice was distracted and she could tell he wanted to get to something else. “But anyway, I just got off the phone with Max. He sounds ready to jump in with both feet, but he’s going to need a little help from us. He wants a sworn declaration repeating the story you told me about shredding at Deep Seven.”

  She stiffened. “Why?”

  “Max wouldn’t say and I’d rather not speculate, but he hinted that whatever he’s up to will probably make the local evening news tomorrow.”

  She winced. This just kept getting better and better. “I don’t know. Isn’t the idea to keep my name out of these cases?”

  “It is, but this will stay under seal. Forever. Besides, Max will get suspicious if you say no.”

  She said nothing. This was all moving too far too fast. She felt like she was in a driverless car that was picking up speed. She desperately wanted to get out, but didn’t see how she could.

  “Allie?”

  She closed her eyes. “Okay, send it over with a messenger and I’ll sign it.”

  Allie switched on the TV at five the next day and perched on the edge of the wide leather sofa facing her television, sipping from a can of Diet Coke. She’d been as high-strung as a caffeinated cat ever since she talked to Connor yesterday morning.

  The lead story on the local Fox station was about two baboons that had escaped from the Oakland Zoo. She clicked over to CBS. They were also covering the baboon story. ABC—more baboons. Apparently their names were Gavin and Arnold. When she found their hairy faces on NBC too, she jumped up and started pacing. “Come on! If I want to see baboons, I’ll go to a nightclub!”

  Click. “… Forty-Niners quarterback controversy flared up again, which…”

  Click. “… plan was endorsed by heavyweight political groups like the Harvey Milk Gay, Lesbian, and Transgender Club…”

  Click. “… elderly woman reported having feces thrown at her by Gavin and Arnold…”

  Click. “… raid carried out by the California Bureau of Investigation, acting on a warrant obtained by the Attorney General.” The screen showed the main entrance to Deep Seven’s headquarters. Half a dozen men in blue jackets emblazoned on the back with “CBI” were carting boxes out through the glass and steel doors. “A company representative denied any wrongdoing,” intoned a female newscaster over the video clip “and insisted that the company would be completely vindicated.”

  The scene switched to a photo of two familiar simian faces. “Now for an update on the search for the Oakland Zoo’s escaped baboons.”

  Allie turned off the TV and dropped the remote onto the teak coffee table. It clattered loudly, making her jump. She took a deep breath and ran her fingers through her hair. “Okay,” she said to the empty room.

  The air in her apartment suddenly felt thick, stale, and unwholesome, like the atmosphere inside a long neglected attic in summer. She walked outside, but once on the balcony she felt eyes watching her.

  She went back in, but left the sliding glass door to the balcony open. A fresh breeze flowed in, and that helped. A little. “Okay,” she repeated. She took another deep breath. “Okay, this is working.” Now came the hard part.

  24

  CONNOR DECIDED THAT HE COULD DO A LITTLE INVESTIGATING OF HIS OWN without too much risk. Now that the complaint was on file and Max had, in his subtle way, alerted Deep Seven to the fact that they were under investigation, there wasn’t much to lose by interviewing former employees. The worst they could do was say they didn’t want to talk to him.

  He pulled out the list of Deep Seven ex-employees that Allie had given him. A low-level marketing vice president, an accountant, an IT guy, and a security guard. He tried the accountant first.

  After two rings, a cheerful woman’s voice answered. “Hello?”

  “Hi, is this Janet Lee?”

  “Yes, who is this?”

  “My name is Connor Norman. I’m an attorney with the law firm of Doyle & Brown, and I’m investigating a matter related to a former employer of yours. It doesn’t involve you at all, but you may be a witness. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

  Unlike most witnesses he cold-called, she didn’t suddenly become more reserved after learning she was talking to a lawyer. “Oh, sure. A friend of mine works at Doyle & Brown. Susan Mendoza.”

  Connor knew her friend—a perky, social forty-something who never missed a firm party. “In our billing department. Right. I’ll tell her you said hi.”

  “Thanks. So, what can I do for you?”

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Deep Seven.”

  Silence. Then, “I can’t really talk about that.”

  Connor pulled out a legal pad, plucked a pen out of a pewter mug on his desk and got ready to take notes. “Okay. Can you tell me why not?”

  “I signed a nondisclosure agreement.”

  An NDA? Interesting. “Did they say why they wanted you to sign it?”

  “I’m sorry, but this conversation is making me uncomfortable. I have to go. Goodbye.”

  Click.

  Connor put the receiver down slowly. Then he dropped the pen on his pad and stared at it. Well, that had been different. He’d had lots of witnesses refuse to talk to him, but he’d never had one go from hot to cold that fast. One second they’re chatting about a mutual acquaintance, the next she clams up like a door slamming. And the second after that, she hangs up on him.

  He tried the marketing veep next, but that conversation was even shorter. As soon as Connor identified himself as a lawyer, the man politely ended the conversation. He also had signed an NDA and didn’t want to talk about it. A little on the paranoid side, but Connor wouldn’t have thought anything of it if not for the oddness of the first call.

  His third call went to the IT guy, but the line was disconnected. Connor jotted down a note on his to-do list: “Do search on Samuel Stimson & find good number.”

  The ex-security guard was next. Unlike the first two, he didn’t immediately end the conversation as soon as Connor revealed who he was and why he was calling. But Connor’s conversation with him was hardly a normal witness interview: “So you’re investigating Deep Seven, huh?”

  “That’s right. Do you have time for a few questions?”

  “Let me ask you one first. Does this have anything to do with that raid at Deep Seven yesterday?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you’re not with the government, right?”

  “No, I’m with a private law firm.”

  “You might want to let the government do the investigating.”

  “Really? Why is that?”

  “It might be healthier.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Connor swallowed hard. “Well, thanks for the tip, but I’d still like to talk to you. My first question for you is—”

  “Weren’t you listening to me? Look, buddy, I just answered every question you need to ask.”

  Click.

  25

  THE PACIFIC OCEAN SPREAD CLEAR AND FLAT, A PLAIN OF POLISHED GLASS under an empty sky. Mitch stood on the bow of the Grasp II, enjoying the view and the gentle breeze as the ship cut through the still air at five knots. The horizon was so sharp and distant that he thought he could see the slight curve of the Earth.

  Or was it an optical illusion? Another sailor had once said any curve in the horizon was so slight that it cou
ldn’t be seen. Mitch had nothing better to do, so he decided to test that claim. He fished a piece of paper out of his pocket, smoothed it out, and held it a foot from his face with the corners touching the rim of the ocean. Then he stared over the center, trying to decide whether he could see a sliver of dark blue above the paper. There it was. No, one corner had slipped down a hair below the horizon. Now there was nothing but bright sky above the blurry white of the paper. Was he holding it too high?

  After ten minutes, he gave up and looked for something else to do. He had a lot more free time on this trip than he had expected.

  He had thought he would be down below working with Ed Granger on the search for Nazi treasure. But after one busy day getting the ROV, sidescan sonar, and dive equipment ready, he was suddenly a fifth wheel.

  Jenkins had pulled Mitch aside and told him the “good news” that David Cho would be working with Ed, which would give Mitch plenty of time to “relax” and “kick back.” Nothing against Mitch, of course. The passengers just wanted Cho, that was all. They insisted that he was good at this sort of thing, whatever Ed might say. Ed had said plenty, of course, but it hadn’t changed anything.

  So Mitch watched the ship’s scratchy collection of James Bond DVDs for the dozenth time. He fished out the old Nintendo console in the lounge and played Super Mario Bros. until he had rescued Princess Peach twice. He stared at the horizon. And through it all he chafed at not being down below with Ed, surrounded by monitors, keyboards, and joysticks— all feeding him dozens of types of information. He knew more about the ocean bottom sitting in his battered old swivel chair than a diver on sea floor. That’s where the action was. And Mitch was shut out.

  Well, he’d know soon enough. They had reached the search area three days ago. They had deployed the sidescan sonar and the sensor arrays, and now they were slowly sailing back and forth in long sweeps criss-crossing a jagged undersea mountain range with roots miles below on the ocean floor and peaks just a few hundred feet below the surface.

  Mitch walked over to the railing and looked down into the small bow waves. The Nazi treasure sub must be down there somewhere among those rocks. They would have been running silent and deep to avoid American destroyers and anti-sub planes. Their sonar would have been off, and they would have been relying on charts to navigate. The German sailors wouldn’t have had any warning. They would have been working, eating, sleeping, and playing cards over coffee. Then a sudden shock and water roared in. Maybe they were crushed to death or maybe they had time to drown.

  Mitch crossed himself unconsciously, a habit he had picked up from his Mexican mother. Salvaging a shipwreck, especially one filled with bones, always made him uncomfortable. It hit too close to home.

  “Hey, I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  He turned and saw Ed Granger coming toward him. Ed was breathing heavily and his low forehead was damp. He hauled his fireplug frame up a short flight of steps and tugged at Mitch’s arm. “Come on!”

  Mitch saw the excitement in his friend’s eyes. “You found it?”

  “Maybe. I found something that’s about the right size and shape. Don’t wanna jinx it, but…”

  “That’s great! So, when are we sending Eileen down?” Envy stabbed him as he suddenly remembered. “Or, I mean, when are you sending her down?”

  Ed laughed and punched him in the arm a little harder than was necessary. Mitch was about to complain, but the words came tumbling out of Ed. “It’s we, buddy! That’s why I was looking for you. As soon as I saw it on the sidescan, Lee says, ‘You must send down the ROV at once.’ So I say, ‘Yeah, right. No way I’m sending it into a wreck without Mitch backing me up.’ And Lee says, ‘You have Mr. Cho.’ Then I tell him, ‘That’s not good enough. Not with a wreck. Do you know how many things can go wrong? We lose the ROV down there and we’re done. D-O-N-E. We can turn around and head back home. I do this with Mitch or I don’t do it at all.’ ”

  “Thanks, man! So they agreed with you?”

  “No, they called Jenkins and wanted him to order me to do it with Cho. Jenkins turns to me and says, ‘If I order you, you’ll just disobey, right?’ And I say, ‘You think?’ So he tells Lee, ‘If he does that, I’ll have to confine him to quarters and the ROV still won’t go down. You’d better let him use Daniels.’ Then they jabber away in Korean for a while. And then they said yes.”

  Mitch felt a warm glow in his chest. He grinned. “I’ll try not to screw anything up.”

  Ed snorted. “Oh, you’ll screw up, down, and sideways. You always do. But you’ll be better than Cho.”

  26

  CONNOR SAT BACK IN HIS OFFICE CHAIR AND REREAD THE SEARCH RESULTS for Samuel Stimson, the final Deep Seven ex-employee on Allie’s list. No wonder his phone was disconnected: he had vanished.

  According to the one-paragraph news item Connor found in the Oakland Tribune, Deep Seven’s security records showed that Stimson left the building at 5:11 p.m. on March 23. He didn’t show up for work the next day or the day after that. His parents had filed a missing person report for him on April 3. The police called his disappearance “suspicious.”

  That was all. No follow-up item announcing that his body had been found or that the police had opened a murder investigation. No new phone number or address indicating that Stimson had reappeared. Nothing. It was as if the ground had opened beneath his feet as he walked out of Deep Seven, swallowed him up, and closed over his head.

  The search results also contained a list of Stimson’s known addresses and phone numbers. Most were clearly obsolete (university dorms, his parents’ home, etc.), but his last place in Oakland still had a phone number listed as “current.”

  Connor’s eyebrows went up. That wasn’t the number Allie had given him. Maybe she had found Stimson’s cell number and this was a landline that he shared with someone. Whoever it was, a call was in order. Probably a waste of time, but worth a shot nonetheless.

  He dialed the number and it rang. And rang. Connor kept waiting for voicemail to pick up, but it never did. After ten rings, he was about to hang up. But as he reached for the “Call End” button on his phone, a loud clattering came through the receiver. Then came a loud thunk and a scratchy male voice swearing in the background. Then more clattering. Finally, the male voice—clearly an old man’s—said, “Hello? Who’s this? What do you want?”

  Connor slouched back in his chair and wondered how long it would take this guy to hang up on him. His record for this case was about two minutes. “My name is Connor Norman, and I’m an attorney at Doyle & Brown. I’d like to ask you a few questions about Samuel Stimson. Do you know him?”

  “Sam’s my grandson. Why do you want to know about him?”

  “Well, I’m working on an investigation of Deep Seven Maritime Engineering. I understand that Sam worked there, and—”

  “You work for Deep Seven, do you?”

  “No. I’m not at liberty to say whom I represent, but it’s not Deep Seven. I’m looking into whether Deep Seven committed certain wrongdoing, so—”

  “Well, good. I’m glad somebody finally is.”

  Connor sat up a little straighter and started taking notes. Maybe this wasn’t a wasted call after all. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because they murdered my grandson.”

  Connor’s pen stopped in mid-word. “How do you know?”

  “Things he told me before he disappeared. They had this secret computer, see.” The old man’s voice grew excited and quick as he talked. “The S-4 or something like that. No one could look at it, not even Sam—even though they hired him ’cause he was a computer genius.”

  “Any idea what’s on the computer? Could it be evidence of fraud on the government?”

  “Could be, could be. They’ve got all sorts of secrets over there.”

  “And you think they killed Sam to protect those secrets?”

  “I know they did!”

  “Okay. Do you mind telling me how you know that?”

  “Sam would
never just run off like that. I don’t care how much money he owed.”

  “Sam owed money to someone?”

  “Yes, but that’s not the point.”

  “Was it a lot of money?”

  “It doesn’t matter! The credit card companies didn’t kill him.”

  So Sam Stimson had unpaid debts. That detail hadn’t made it into the database Connor had searched. “So the reason you think Deep Seven killed him is that he disappeared? Do you have any other evidence?”