The Violet Crow (7 page)

“Not my type. Must be an Orthodox Rabbi.”

“Any idea what he's up to?”

“According to the Orthodox, nobody's supposed to mess around with the Kabbalah … except themselves. They say if you're not at least 40, married, and haven't mastered the Talmud and all the other sacred books, then using the Kabbalah will create a lot of trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“The evil eye. Avenging angels. False messiahs. Wrath of God. That kind of stuff.”

“Sounds bad. That's what happens when you talk to Peaches. Stay away from her from now on.”

“As if I can control that, now she knows where I live.”

“Yeah, that's too bad.” The Chief feigned sympathy. “But you can handle it. Do you have a weapon?”

Bruno points to his temple.

“Right,” crowed the Chief. “You're Bruno X, the psychic detective. Living by your wits and the awesome power of your brain.”

“You sound like my mother.”

The Chief hit him on the shoulder to buck him up. “Don't get down. It's just the cheesesteak talking. You'll be fine again in a coupla days.”

Chapter 14

NewGarden Biosciences was located to the north of Gardenfield, in Maplewood. To get there, Chief Black drove along Old King's Road, past Lenape Woods and through the security checkpoint.

Bruno noted that the grounds were mostly bare fields, which soon would be planted with corn. Off to one side was a cluster of abandoned military buildings from the 1960s. The property had been a Navy tracking station up until the defense cuts in the early 1990s. Then NewGarden took over and added a brand-new corporate complex consisting of research and administrative facilities, as well as greenhouses. The buildings were an impressive contrast of round and rectangular shapes—a gleaming statement in glass, alloyed metals and stone. And, for anyone who didn't get the message just by looking, it was spelled out in foot-high polished chromium letters on the wall next to the entrance:
NewGarden Biosciences—Transforming the way we feed and care for ourselves
.

The receptionist was a conspicuously beautiful woman in her mid-30s, dressed in a smart tweed suit with a surprising display of gold accessories. As if in counterpoint, there were also two armed guards, dressed in dark green paramilitary uniforms that were stiff and understated. They stood stoically in opposite corners, like potted plants, while the receptionist was all gracious gentility as she greeted the Chief and Bruno from behind an elaborate hardwood desk. A polished aluminum nameplate identified her as Rhonda Vick.

Rhonda emerged from the confines of the desk and shook hands with exceptional warmth. “Dr. Fischer and Dr. Jurevicius are expecting you and will be d
o
wn in a m
ow
ment,” she drawled, displaying a textbook South Jersey accent in her tightly formed, slightly nasal
o'
s. Bruno fell in love with her the moment he heard it.

Rhonda showed them to a conference room, offering coffee, water, or a soft drink. Bruno requested a Dr Pepper. And he practically melted in his chair when she said, “N
o
pr
ow
blem.”

When she left, the Chief leaned over to Bruno and said in muted tones, “Dr. Fischer—he's the CEO here—and Master Quentin go back a long ways. They're both Quakers. I think that's why the company's offering to provide security for the school. But Quentin doesn't seem to want to have anything to do with Dr. Fischer.”

It took Bruno a moment to get his mind off Rhonda and onto what the Chief was saying. “That makes sense,” he stammered. “I mean, maybe he feels they're keeping an eye on him and doesn't like it. On the other hand, I can see why he wouldn't want to have goons dressed up like commandos guarding the entrance to the Friends School. I'd be afraid to go in, too.”

“We could have them work plainclothes, if that's the only issue. There's something funny between Quentin and Fischer I'd like to know more about.”

“Why don't you just ask him?”

Before Chief Black could reply, Rhonda reappeared with Bruno's Dr Pepper. “The d
awgk
ters will be with you in just a few m
ow
ments.” She smiled and disappeared.

The Chief had to yank on Bruno's sleeve to get his attention. “If there is something wrong between the two of them, Dr. Fischer might not want to talk about it. That's why I brought you along. To see what you can find out without putting him on the defensive.”

“So you want me to …?”

“Read his mind, at least check out his aura …”

Bruno started to sputter, “I am not an eavesdropper … and I don't do
furshlugginer
auras.”

The Chief cut him off. “Calm down. They're coming in.”

“Good to see you again, Buddy,” said Dr. Fischer, vigorously grabbing the Chief's outstretched hand. He was a large man, at least six-two and overweight. He appeared to be in his 60s judging by his gray, thinning hair and the heavy creases worn into his face. He looked more like a rancher than a scientist, except he was dressed in a Brooks Brothers jacket, a button-down shirt that was too small at the neck, and a purple tie with tiny double helixes all over it.

“This is my associate, Serge Jurevicius,” said Fischer. “Dr. Jurevicius is our Chief Operating Officer and head of the Agricultural Division.”

Jurevicius stepped forward to shake hands. He was slim, in his late 40s, with dark hair combed back from his face and a carefully trimmed goatee. He wore charcoal gray pants and a black cashmere mock turtleneck.

“And this is Bruno X,” said the Chief. “He's consulting with us on this difficult and troubling case.”

The men shook hands all around as Dr. Fischer boomed, “He's not going to read our minds, is he?” His tone was jocular, but accompanied by a sharp look at Bruno.

“Nah. For that you need an appointment,” Bruno deadpanned. “But if you want, I been teaching the Chief here to read auras, and he can do it for you free of charge.”

The joke fell flat; everyone pretended to ignore it.

“We're here to talk about security,” said the Chief, without missing a beat. “You gentlemen have generously offered to provide guards for the school …”

“That's right,” replied Jurevicius briskly. “We can spare two members of our security team during school hours, with the exception of the week of our annual meeting. That's coming up late in May …”

“Which, unfortunately, is just before school lets out,” Fischer said. “And we were counting on your help, Bud, during the annual meeting, as in years past.”

Bruno was confused. “What happens at your annual meetings that you need police help?”

“NewGarden Biosciences is a biotechnology company,” Fischer explained. “We genetically engineer plants that are healthy to eat, easy to grow, and good for the environment. We also do some work with plants and animals to biofacture medicines. Some people call it
pharming
, with a “ph.” Cute, huh?”

“So you're worried about espionage? Protecting your intellectual property?”

Fischer gave the Chief a quizzical look, then turned to the psychic. “You must not read magazines or watch TV. You haven't heard of ‘Frankenfoods?' That's the f-word in our industry. And what else do they say about us, Serge?”

Jurevicius supplied the quote easily, “We're devils disguised as entrepreneurs and engineers … presenting people with a Faustian bargain.”

“People think we're creating renegade genes that are going to get loose and devastate the planet,” Fischer continued.

“Like those
cockamamie
dinosaurs in Jurassic Park?”

“Exactly,” huffed Fischer. “With just as little scientific justification. People create scenarios about what might happen and get themselves worked up that the world's about to end. Their idea of a solution is to try to disrupt our meetings. Consequently, we need to protect ourselves. But we're getting off the subject …”

The Chief consulted his notebook. “The school had some queries. They wanted to know more about the personnel. Who they are? What kind of training they have? That sort of thing.”

Fischer laughed, “So Quentin has
queries
? That's a very Quaker word, you know.”

“No, I didn't …” the Chief stammered.

“… Very Quaker, indeed. When you see Quentin, tell him you want to ‘speak to his condition.' Be sure to use these exact words. Say to him, ‘Emmanuel Fischer wants to
speak to thy condition
, Friend.' Can you do that?”

“Yeah, but then what do I say?”

“Tell him the children are his responsibility. It's not a time to sit in silence. He has to act.”

Silence filled the room as the challenge of the words registered. Dr. Fischer rose to leave. Bruno interrupted him with a question. “Isn't this a strange business for a Quaker?” he asked.

Fischer tilted his head to bring the proper part of his bifocals into play. “If you weren't here with my friend, Chief Black, I'd say that's none of your business,” he snapped. “Since you are here, and supposedly trying to help … I'm going to help you.” He turned to Jurevicius. “Serge, I have another meeting. Could you please show these gentlemen the museum and provide them with anything else they might need?”

He shot another look at Bruno. “Maybe a little education will be useful to you. People assume there's a contradiction between religion and business. Quakers have never said that and I've always felt the opposite is true. I think my craft and my God-given talent enable me to raise up a lot of good, if I can help to feed more people or cure their diseases.”

“But aren't you tampering with God's creation?” Bruno shot back.

Fischer went red in the face and turned to leave. “We'll discuss it some other time … when you actually have some notion of what you're talking about.”

Chapter 15

The museum was in a high-ceilinged room overlooking the NewGarden greenhouses. The interior walls were covered with oversized colored illustrations and grainy black-and-white photographs. In the center of the room stood a series of display pedestals dramatically lit by overhead spotlights.

“This room serves a public relations function,” explained Jurevicius. The emotional scene with Dr. Fischer did not seem to have affected him. “We use it to explain the science of what we do. Don't feel bad, very few people know much about biotechnology and those who do are full of misinformation. We'll skip the technical section about how we splice genes,” he gestured toward the illustrations, “and get right down to the results.”

He led them to the first pedestal, which contained a modest Petri dish. “E. coli bacteria,” Jurevicius explained almost reverently. “I should say, genetically engineered E. coli, which contain a human gene for producing insulin. It was the first biotech product, developed by Genentech in 1978. Before that, diabetics had to use insulin derived from the pancreases of slaughtered cows and pigs.”

“Sounds
treyf
,” Bruno commented.

“Actually, the Rabbis said it was kosher since it was injected, not eaten. But obviously the human protein works better.” Jurevicius turned toward a pedestal supporting a bowl of rice. “The next example is a product of one of our competitors. Golden rice. It turns yellow when cooked. The color comes from beta-carotene. Any idea where the genes came from?”

Bruno and the Chief exchanged blank looks. “Carrots?”

Jurevicius smiled happily. “Daffodils, actually. The point is to efficiently supplement the amount of Vitamin A in the diets of malnourished people, chiefly in Asia, where they eat a lot of rice. Vitamin A deficiency is a very serious condition. It causes blindness and is implicated in the deaths of some five million children every year. Monsanto agreed to share the technology for golden rice, free of charge, for use in underdeveloped countries. But that's probably a devious plot on their part to gain control of the food supply, don't you agree?”

The question took them by surprise, which also seemed to please Jurevicius. “Am I boring you?” he asked. “No? That's good. Because it gets better.” He gestured to a pedestal featuring an ordinary-looking tomato. “This is the Flavr-Savr tomato, designed to look good, taste good, and last longer on the shelf. Its critics complained it has a fish gene inserted. That can't be good: Fish rot and stink … don't they?”

“Sure,” agreed the Chief.

“
Feh
,” added Bruno.

“So why would you put a fish gene in a tomato?”

“No idea.”

“Well, there was talk at the same time of trying to identify the gene that allows the Arctic flounder to survive in near-freezing temperatures. But that wasn't how they made the Flavr-Savr. Actually the scientists at Calgene merely inverted one of the tomato's own genes to slow down its aging process. No one knows how the fish gene story got started, whether it was a mistake or deliberate misrepresentation—it's useless to speculate. But it has spread like a mutant virus—if you'll pardon my hyperbole.”

“Why would anyone worry or complain?”

“Because they're in the protest business. Their product is fear. To raise funds they have to scare people. When the fear starts to wear off they come up with something new. Like the monarch butterfly.” He waved in the direction of another pedestal supporting the familiar orange and black insect. “In a restricted environment, a scientist fed butterflies the pollen of a biotech corn variety. The butterflies died, proving the corn was toxic, right?”

“I'm not taking the bait on this one,” snorted the Chief.

“Good man,” Jurevicius commented. “
La dose fait le poison
, as we say in French. Later studies did not support the original report, but the scare persists. Protesters are everywhere. Street corners. High-priced clothing boutiques. And we've had our share of run-ins here, I don't have to remind Chief Black.”