The Target (24 page)

Despite the AC, sweat dripped from her forehead. San Diego was the last place she wanted to be in July, except maybe Phoenix…or Iraq. She missed cool evenings on the deck with Jared, in her garden back home. But until she arrested someone for Joe’s death, she would sweat it out.

Santera’s head was on the table when she walked into the interrogation room. He jerked upright, revealing a face that had gone slack and lost some of its robust color.

“What is going on?” he whined. “I want to see my lawyer.”

She had purposefully not spoken to him earlier. Not knowing was more unnerving than having someone shout in your face. People could shut down when confronted with stress. Silence tended to grow and undermine one’s confidence.

River made a point to cuff him to the table before she sat down. “We saw Cheryl Decker meet with a known criminal this evening, so we have the search warrants we need to look at every file in your company. We plan to charge you personally with conspiracy.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You sent Decker an email today after we told you not to communicate with anyone at TecLife.”

“I had research information she needed. The work we do is important.”

“You mentioned her new assistant, and minutes later, Decker fired our undercover agent. You sent a coded warning.”

Santera yanked at the cuffs, wanting to gesture. “No. I told my boss I was out sick and gave her an update on my research. I haven’t done anything criminal.”

“Why mention her assistant?”

“I was trying to give her access to more data.”

River didn’t know if she believed him, but decided to move on. “We’re watching Decker. If you’re involved in sabotage or product tampering, we will find out very soon. You might as well cooperate and get a plea deal.”

“What product tampering?” He seemed genuinely surprised. “Are consumers at risk?”

“You tell me.”

“Are you talking about ProtoCell’s new implant? That’s the only one we consider a threat to our pipeline.”

“Tell me everything you know about Decker’s competition with ProtoCell.”

A long pause while his eyes went through a series of stressful calculations. “It’s personal for Cheryl. She used to work for Jonas Brickman, back when ProtoCell was first founded. He fired her and stole her product research. The SlimPro is based on her work with peptides.”

The research probably belonged to the company. That’s just how it worked. “How did Brickman steal it from her? Did she sue him?”

“Technically, the data belonged to ProtoCell, so Cheryl didn’t have a lawsuit. But Brickman forced her out and gave her no credit for her discovery.”

“So she bears a personal grudge.”

“Yes. They used to be lovers too.”

A woman scorned
and
ripped off. “Is that why Decker is developing a competing product?”

“It’s one reason.”

“What are the others?”

“The weight-loss market is huge and still untapped.” He sighed. “But it’s more than that for Cheryl. Her daughter has Prader-Willi Syndrome, which gives her a voracious appetite. Cheryl is determined to help her have a normal life.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this last time?”

“It’s very personal for her, and it didn’t seem relevant. And you were mostly accusing me.”

River still thought Santera might have seen or heard something important. “Did you know about the fire at ProtoCell’s warehouse?”

“Afterward, yes. Everyone in the industry heard about it.”

“Did Decker ever talk about the warehouse? Or mention sabotage?”

“No. I’m a scientist. I can’t even stand the marketing meetings they make me attend.”

River stood and crossed her arms. “After the fire, did you ever suspect Decker or anyone at your company?”

His jaw tightened and he glanced away.

In the silence, River heard him think
We all did.

The whole company thought their president had committed arson?

“Of course not,” Santera lied. “Decker isn’t capable of that kind of thing.”

“She hired someone to do it for her, and a warehouse guard died. Conspiracy charges could send you to prison for a decade.”

“I didn’t know about it.”

“But you suspected her. I can see it in your eyes. Why not go to the authorities?”

Santera was silent for a long moment. “I still don’t believe Cheryl would hurt anyone on purpose.”

“Let me remind you that an FBI agent who was looking into TecLife’s activities is also dead. And a ProtoCell scientist conveniently committed suicide over the weekend. Why would he do that?”

“How would I know?”

River locked eyes with him and waited him out.

Finally, Santera asked, “What was the scientist working on?”

“An improved SlimPro device.”

“Oh, god.” Santera wouldn’t look at her.

“Tell me what you know. More lives could be at stake.”

“I don’t know anything. But I fear Cheryl Decker may have gone off the deep end.”

Dallas jogged along the boardwalk, enjoying the warm air and tangy ocean scent. The pounding surf soothed her rattled nerves, helping her make peace with her failure that evening. She finally stopped obsessing about what she could have done differently with the unsub and shifted to strategizing about what she could do next to assist the investigation. The undercover part of her assignment was over—‌unless she could get into ProtoCell, maybe posing as a reporter doing an in-depth story. Someone had sent a data thief into TecLife on Friday, and the competitor seemed to be a logical source. Why wouldn’t they retaliate against their competitor’s aggressive tactics? Someone in authority had orchestrated the theft, and it seemed likely that it was Decker’s ex-partner, Jonas Brickman.

Dallas planned to re-read her background information on Brickman and show up at the Pacific Family Clinic tomorrow when he underwent his implant. She might be able to intercept him beforehand and ask a few questions. Or, if the bureau analysts identified the female unsub, Dallas might be assigned to help track her down. She wasn’t ready to be sent home. San Diego was pleasant—‌especially compared to Phoenix—‌and she loved being near the ocean. She knew there was more to it though. Such as avoiding another encounter with Cameron until she could figure out if she really wanted a relationship with him. But how would she know until they spent more time together? He claimed he wouldn’t pressure her or be needy, but she’d heard that from several boyfriends.

There was also her dying father. If she stayed in California long enough, his funeral would be held before she returned to Arizona.

The boardwalk ended when the hotels, restaurants, and bars gave way to condos and private homes, so Dallas jogged toward the ocean. She turned and headed back north, running along the water’s edge, whitecaps glinting under the moonlight. Jogging in the sand made her winded, and she had to slow her pace. A moment later, she passed a couple stretched out on the beach, kissing. A pang of loneliness crept in, and the sound of the surf was suddenly ominous—‌a relentless pounding force that couldn’t be trusted. She eased away from the surf, and the sand under her feet became softer and harder to run in.

Up ahead, the pier loomed in the dark, a long platform sticking out into the ocean. Rental cottages lined the sides with interior lights glowing. Or she assumed they were rentals. Would anyone want to live out there year round, surrounded by the constant pounding of waves?

Dallas shifted to the right again, heading for the opening in the braces under the pier. About a half mile left to go, she calculated. As she entered the covered space, the air temperature dropped and the moon disappeared. Thick beams with X-shaped cross supports were evenly spaced on both sides. She quickened her pace, eager to exit the dark passage. Dallas passed another post and sensed movement to her right. A faint fruity scent caught her attention. She reached for her pepper spray and spun, instinctively bringing up her other arm.

But she was too late. Something hard smashed into the back of her head and she collapsed to her knees. Yellow pinpoints of light danced around her eyes. Before she could think or turn or use her spray, another blow slammed into her temple. The lights blinked off and her brain shut down.

Wednesday, July 16, 8:55 a.m.

The crowded briefing room reeked of sweat. The temperature gauge at home had hit eighty-five, and Cortez had left his air conditioning on high for Grumpy. Still, the detectives—‌even the few women—‌were all wearing suits, leather shoes, and weapon holsters. Hawthorne sat on the end of the back row, looking miserable, his cast extended into the aisle. Cortez was glad they were meeting now, instead of at four this afternoon after a long day in the field.

Sergeant Riggs called the meeting to order. “I’m filling in for the lieutenant, so we’ll make this brief. I know you’re all swamped with work, and this heat will only make things worse. But we’ve asked the FBI to help with the College Killer, so we hope to make an arrest soon.” The sergeant called on the lead detective for that case and asked for an update. Cortez tuned out, rehearsing what he would say if asked to report. But it would most likely be Hawthorne who gave the update.

Riggs gave new assignments on the serial killer investigation, then asked Detective Ricci to update his case. Ricci, always a bit egotistical, stood and talked without notes. “The medical examiner hasn’t made a ruling, but all the physical evidence indicates Michael Pence committed suicide. His wife is adamant that he was murdered, so I’m still looking into his personal computer files. But the FBI has essentially taken over the investigation.”

“Why does the wife think he was murdered?” Riggs asked.

“Because he was on the verge of a research breakthrough on a billion-dollar product.”

A charge of energy shot up Cortez’s spine, and he interrupted his coworker. “Who did the suicide victim work for?”

Ricci turned slowly, giving him a look. “ProtoCell. It’s a medical device company.”

“Holy mother.” Cortez blushed at his outburst. “Our murder victim, James Avery, had financial ties to ProtoCell. And it may have been the last place he was seen alive. We should meet and compare notes.” He started to say
and combine the cases
, then hesitated.

Riggs cut in. “What else do you have?”

Cortez looked at Hawthorne, who nodded, giving him the go ahead to speak for their team. Cortez summarized everything they’d learned and only had to check his notes once.

“What is your next move?” the sergeant asked.

“We’ll bring in Jonas Brickman, the CEO of ProtoCell, for questioning.”

The sergeant scowled. “He’s running for mayor. Why would he kill a famous actor? Why would he kill one of his own scientists?”

Good questions.
Cortez doubted himself again.

Hawthorne spoke up. “It’s about money, of course. ProtoCell is launching a blockbuster product. Brickman may not be our main suspect, but someone in the company is. We have to start somewhere.”

“Get together with Ricci and write subpoenas,” Riggs ordered. “We need to see who benefits from their deaths.” The sergeant moved on to the next case.

The meeting with Detective Ricci took longer than expected, then Cortez had to spend an hour writing a subpoena, then another hour driving back and forth to the court because the judge wanted to narrow the scope of their financial probe. Cortez grabbed a quick lunch, and by the time he arrived at ProtoCell, it was after one o’clock. The receptionist let him in, and he went straight upstairs to Brickman’s office. The CEO’s assistant told him her boss wasn’t in the building.

Cortez didn’t believe her. “This is a homicide investigation, and I need information.” He reached for the inner door, but it was locked.

“I told you. You’re wasting your time.”

Cortez turned back. “Where is he?”

“I’m not supposed to say. Jonas will be back in a couple of hours.”

“I could bring you in for questioning instead.” Cortez couldn’t believe he’d just said that to a pretty young woman.

Her eyes went wide, then her mouth tightened in irritation. “Fine, then. He’s at the Pacific Family Clinic on Broadway in Chula Vista. They’re implanting a SlimPro and filming it for marketing purposes. This is a really bad time to ask him questions about a murder.”

“I’ll be discreet. Who in this company would benefit from the death of James Avery?”

“Who’s that?”

Did anyone under thirty watch his movies?
“He was a famous actor.”

She looked annoyed. “What does he have to do with our company?”

“He’s an investor.”

“Then our competitors are more likely to want him out of the way than anyone here. We like to keep the money coming in.”

It made sense—‌unless Avery had discovered something irregular. “Who would want Michael Pence dead?”

“The same competitor. Michael was our lead scientist. Without him, our pipeline could dry up.”

“Which competitor?”

She shrugged. “Most likely TecLife. They’re working on some secret product to rival the SlimPro.”

“Thank you.” Cortez hurried back downstairs, wondering if he should bother Brickman at the clinic or drive to TecLife instead.

Wednesday, July 16, 5:55 a.m.

Cheryl woke sweating and trembling. In the nightmare, she’d been trapped inside a burning building and couldn’t get out because she was too big to fit through the exit. The third time this month. Guilt about the death of the warehouse guard surfaced in her dreams no matter how much she repressed it during the day. She headed straight for a cool shower, dreading another hot day.
The dead man had been near retirement,
she told herself. And he hadn’t burned; he’d died of smoke inhalation. K had claimed the watchman wasn’t supposed to be in the building on the weekend, and Cheryl had tried to let it go. The important work she was doing far outweighed the risks of bringing the product to market. People sometimes died in clinical trials too, but that didn’t stop the industry from developing new, life-saving medicine. No pain, no gain.

She pulled on her favorite sleeveless black dress, white pumps, and pearl necklace. Today was special. Brickman—‌the fat, rat bastard—‌would finally get what was coming to him. She’d looked forward to this moment for a long time. Hearing that he was having a SlimPro implanted had made her nearly giddy. The tainted device would give him an infection and make him pull the product from the market. It served him right for stealing her research and pretending it was his own. With his family history of heart disease, the infection might even kill him. But she probably wouldn’t get that lucky.