Transparency: Bio-Tech Cavern Secrets Untold (17 page)

At the main house Halliday ignored Jillian’s oak framed sign, PLEASE REMOVE YOUR SHOES.

Gladstone stood in the living room eyeing a bookcase. “Find anything Halliday?”

“Nothing of importance. What about you?”

Gladstone held up a ring. “Spare keys from inside the desk over there.” He gave Halliday a long look. “You sure you don’t need to see a doctor. Your face is as white as a sheet.”

“I’ll be all right.”

The interior of the spa manager’s house didn’t belong to a member of the hunting club. Jillian’s living room covered a niche of the color spectrum from pink to red. Everything had its proper place. She had owned an impressive collection of dolls from all over the world displayed in a glass cabinet. It needed the soundtrack from the Disneyland’s, “It’s a Small World.” He couldn’t imagine Jillian’s woodsman enjoying the rose sofa strewn with pink pillows.

Gladstone held up his gloved hands. “Not a spot of dust on them.”

“Jillian was a tidy lady,” Halliday said, putting on his gloves. “It’s hard to believe that she stuck the barrel of a hunting rifle in her mouth. It would make an incredible mess.” Having said that, he realized anyone was capable of doing anything given the right circumstances. Gladstone, out of inexperience, didn’t argue the point. Halliday had learned that psychiatric disorder often accompanied suicide. That left out Jillian. Suicide required more guts than murder. He suspected Jillian had guts, though.

“Look at this.” Gladstone removed an eight by ten framed photo from the case.

The young detective grasped the frame with both hands. He pushed it toward Halliday for him to get a closer look.

“It’s Jillian Andrews. The man must be her father.”

Gladstone headed down the hallway to investigate the bedroom.

Halliday examined Jillian’s modern, cheerful study. A laptop computer sat on a large oak desk. Behind it, an oak cabinet covered the entire wall. Dolls stood on books. Jillian had apparently been to Asia. He recognized teakwood elephant carvings. Various Buddhist images promised peace of mind. In the opposite bookcase sat blond haired dolls from Europe.

Halliday powered on the laptop.

It requested a password.

He lifted the lamp, ran his hand under the desk pad, and under the front of the desk. He found a business card with account passwords. None of them were the password for the laptop. He placed the card in his wallet.

On an uncluttered wall, she had hung her degree from Stanford University. Beneath it a single line framed adage by Norman Vincent Peale read:

“Never talk defeat. Use words like hope, belief, faith, victory.”

No, Jillian hadn’t committed suicide.

“I found something,” Gladstone yelled out from the master bedroom.

Halliday finished up in the study. He found nothing of importance. The girl had been so damned organized that it would be easy to detect anything out of the ordinary. He headed to the master bedroom.

In the bedroom, Gladstone lifted up what appeared to be a letter by the corner. “Read this.”

The scribbled, unfinished letter from Jillian to her father didn’t fit her neat image. Several lines were crossed out. The despondent girl, after breaking up with the woodsman, wrote that
they
were winning. She wanted to leave Santa Reina Hot Springs to start a new life. She apologized to her father for her lack of success. She didn’t elaborate. Scribbled along the bottom of the page were the words,
I’m so sorry for dear Laurel
.

“That’s a despondent woman,” Gladstone said, as he placed the letter in an evidence bag.

Halliday thought it odd that a woman so neat and tidy had such poor penmanship.

“What do you think?”

“No doubt the person who wrote this was despondent,” he said. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. There’s much more going on here than it appears. Do we have any other samples of Jillian Andrew’s handwriting for comparison?”

Her office had probably been torched. “We may find more samples of her handwriting at the spa.”

“I’m planning on heading out to the hot springs,” Gladstone said. “I’ll check on it.”

Halliday said, “Did you find a safe or a lockbox anywhere?”

“No.”

“That’s odd,” he said. “Did you find a jewelry box?”

“On the cabinet against the wall. There’s nothing of value in it,” Gladstone said. “Believe me, after marriage you develop an expertise for gem stones.”

“When I saw Jillian yesterday she wore real pearls. You saw the photos in the living room cabinet. This girl enjoyed wearing expensive jewelry. So what did she do with the good stuff? The jewelry should be in a lock box or safe. I think we need to look further. I couldn’t find the password for her laptop, either.”

They made a thorough search. Twenty minutes later Halliday smacked his hand on an expensive cherry wood dining table. “There’s no safe or lock box in this house.”

“I’ll check her office when I go over to the hot springs,” Gladstone said. “You want I should check the guest house again for a safe?”

Gladstone didn’t need to know about the creature in the doorway. “No, I gave it a thorough search. By the way, make sure that you or Leo check the interior of Jillian’s vehicle. It should be in the parking lot at the hot springs.”

Gladstone wrote down another “to do” in his notebook. Then he gave the living room a final look. “Anything else?”

Halliday shook his head. “No one’s been here since she went to work this morning. Why would she leave a crock pot with a chicken simmering if she hadn’t planned on returning?”

“Which brings up a question,” Gladstone said, “Are suicides planned or impromptu?”

The kid was beginning to use his noggin. “Jillian didn’t impress me as the spontaneous type,” Halliday said. He wondered how her union with the woodsman had begun. “Let’s head back to the office. My car is parked in the lot.”

“Did you sweep the garage?”

“I took care of it along with the utility room.”

“Okay, let’s pack it in.”

He locked the front door behind Gladstone. “When you see the chief ask him if he found out where Jillian obtained the ammunition for the hunting rifle. There’s no ammo here. If possible, we need to prove Jillian did or did not purchase the ammo.”

“Got it,” Gladstone said. He removed his notebook again as they walked off to the car.

“You draw up the report.” He didn’t give Gladstone the SIM card evidence or the photos from the guest house.

“Not much to report besides the letter. I mean, it’s not a homicide.”

Halliday shrugged.

“I’ll get on it when I get back to the office later.”

“I’ll send you a voicemail if I have anything to add from the guest house. All you have to do is print it out.”

Before they got in the car Halliday said, “Did you receive any feedback regarding the MPs?”

“I’ve got a possible lead. Merced PD reported a missing vagrant. The witness, a bus driver, retracted his statement. I’ll run up there tomorrow.”

“These missing persons may be linked. If this case escalates, if the media gets wind of it, it could blow up in our face.”

“I noticed Tommy Hartnett has been nosing around.”

“Don’t underestimate Tommy,” Halliday said. “If Genevive is somehow involved with the MPs Tommy’s an asset to us.”

The young detective regarded Halliday like he had just dropped a pass in the big game. “You said the MPs were linked. Does that mean we are now considering it the work of a serial killer?”

“No, not a serial killer. I’m thinking all these missing vagrants have something in common. That’s all I can say for now. As I mentioned, you’re going to need me to back you up on this when it breaks. Keep me posted, okay?”

“Roger, Halliday,” Gladstone said as he dipped his head. “What the hell does all of this mean? Murdered transients? A suicide that makes no sense at all. The U.S. government in the cattle rustling business?”

Halliday understood the young detective’s quandary. “That’s our job, to figure it all out. Let’s get out of here.”

The kid laid rubber as they headed back in the direction of Santa Reina.

At close to 4:00
p.m.
Cindy’s diner languished except for the shuffling feet of the waitresses. A bald, well-dressed civilian whom Halliday didn’t recognize sat alone in a booth, reading a newspaper. Halliday walked past him to a nook in the corner where reporter Tommy Hartnett sat scribbling on a yellow legal pad.

Halliday slid into the nook, with his back to the wall. “What’s up, Tommy?”

The reporter dropped his pen and said, “John, I went out to Santa Reina Hot Springs today.”

As always, Tommy’s voice hinted of conspiracy.

“The folks I talked to said no way would Jillian Andrews commit suicide. She hated guns.”

The waitress placed Halliday’s ice tea on the table.

“Thanks, Carmen.”

He would play devil’s advocate. “Tommy, anyone is capable of suicide if they are motivated enough.”

“That’s what I said. So what motivated her? Could it be because she’s a descendant of the Foxworth family, the original owners who got screwed over by our federal government in cahoots with Genevive Labs?”

Halliday glanced over at the man dipping a fork into a chicken pot pie. Someone dressed like him would more likely have lunch at the Santa Reina Inn restaurant down the road. The man had obviously been here before. How else would he know to order Cindy’s homemade pot pie? They didn’t put it on the menu.

What were you saying, Tommy?”

“Nothing that will hit the printing press… John, this is between you and me, right?”

“Sure.”

He liked Tommy’s chutzpah. The renegade reporter had written a hard-hitting blog post titled,
What Have I Got to Lose?
It slammed the mayor and the city council over Genevive Labs’ indiscretions. The reporter had said everything Halliday would have said if he could.

“You know what a nosy bird I am, huh Halliday?”

“Well, yeah.”

Tommy leaned in. “You’re not going to believe this shit, detective.”

“Try me.”

“Sniffing around at the spa, I came across some apartments behind the main office that burnt down.”

Jillian had mentioned that Laurel had stayed in one of the apartments.

“I had to check them out. You know me, Curious George.”

Tommy had his full attention.

“I stopped at the door when I heard the chief’s voice. I also heard that Genevive piss head Palmier. Along with a deep voice named George.”

That must be Genevive Security Chief George Altman. “Go on Tommy.”

“It’s the chief,” Tommy said.

Worry had captured the reporter’s face.

“You wouldn’t believe it Halliday. That prick Palmier
instructed
the chief to lay off one of Genevive’s security pukes named Wayman.”

“Sam Waylen?”

“Yeah, that’s him,” Tommy said. “He got picked up for assaulting a Latino girl. It happened out at Margarita’s Bar in Santa Reina
Sur
early this morning. I heard he made a mess out of her face.”

Had Waylen been celebrating a job well done out at the Santa Reina Hot Springs Resort?

“The chief started to object to Waylen, then that bastard Palmier threatened him. He told the chief if he didn’t play by his rules then Genevive Labs would discontinue his benefits, whatever that means.”

Halliday figured Genevive had been providing the chief with the prostate cancer beta drug, unavailable on the market for another two years. That’s why Palmier and Genevive had him under their thumb. “What happened with Sam Waylen?”

“The chief called Sergeant Garcia and told him to release the bastard. I tell you, the old man’s been bought and paid for by Palmier. It disgusted me just listening to them.”

“Tommy, are you sure no one saw you listening in on their conversation?”

“I may be nosy, but I’m stealthy.”

“You haven’t told anyone else?”

“No, I wanted to run it by you before—”

“Before what Tommy?” The Tribune wouldn’t print his conjectures. “You’re not planning to publish it on your blog?”

“Hell, I don’t know. Something’s got to be done.”

“Tommy, I want you to keep this to yourself. Give me a chance to check some things out.”

“Sure, detective. I just don’t think we should sit on it too long. If Genevive has control of your police department then there’s no telling what they can do.”

“Like I said, keep it to yourself for right now.”

“First it’s Genevive rustling our animals. Now I find out that they own the chief. This stinks to high heaven, John.”

Tommy moved in even closer and said, “Who the hell is that man in the corner? He looks out of place here.”

“I don’t know. Maybe he got the wrong address.”

“John, there’s something else,” Tommy said in a lowered voice. “I hear those scoundrels have been dumping shit into the underground aquifers. It could be linked to Jillian Andrews’ death. I hear she quarreled with the Genevive scientists who dropped by.”

The sorrowful tone of Tommy’s voice fueled Halliday’s anger toward Palmier and Genevive Labs. “You didn’t hear it from me. You may be onto something, Tommy.”

“If they weren’t dumping waste then why else would Genevive close down the public spa? John, I know this sounds crazy. I have a bad feeling they silenced Jillian Andrews. She must have found out what they were up to. They made it appear to be a suicide.”

He wouldn’t dispute it. “If there’s anything illegal happened I’m sure… ” He was going to say that the chief would sniff it out. Instead he said, “We’ll find out what the truth is.”

Tommy said, “Why aren’t you heading up the hot springs investigation? Leo and the chief are way past their prime.”

“It’s a long story. Is there anything else on your mind Tommy?”

When the reporter hesitated Halliday glanced over at the far booth. The man looked up, bringing his napkin to his lips. His gaze reminded Halliday of a general visiting an NCO mess hall.

“Tommy, you ever hear from any of the farmers east of town complaining of
strange sightings
?”

“Who told you?”

“I talked to some farmers in Redwood Bluff the other day. One of them mentioned seeing a green luminous object. Maybe its swamp gas.”

The words, “strange sightings” had lit a fire in Tommy’s eyes. Still, he hesitated, aware of having gone too far in the past with his speculations.

“There’s something strange roaming the forest east of Redwood Bluff, that’s for sure,” Tommy said. “No doubt in my mind that Genevive Labs has a hand in it.”

“What do mean, strange?”

Tommy leaned in closer. Halliday didn’t know if his face expressed embarrassment or fear. “John, farmers’ have told me that there are animals roaming around that glow in the dark. Although I’ve never seen it personally, I believe them. It’s Genevive’s weird science supported by the DOD.”

Halliday grunted.

“I’m not crazy. This is farmers’ talking, not me.”

Halliday decided not to mention Lamar Festus and the MPs to Hartnett. The man was still a newspaper hack despite the fact that ninety percent of his reports never went to hardcopy.

“Keep me in the loop if you hear anything further, Tommy,” he said.

“I sure will.”

Tommy swung out of the nook, like a tired rider, dismounting. “John, you’re a good cop. For the life of me, I don’t know why you stick around this one-horse town. You belong in L.A. or San Fran, man. Shit, you stay much longer… Genevive will own you, too.”

The reporter’s last sentence stayed on the table next to spilt ketchup. Halliday said, “Tommy, be careful, okay?”

He watched the old reporter angle to the door. Tommy Hartnett could be mistaken for a vagrant. Halliday would hate to see the newspaper man drink too much one evening. He could become another MP.

A few minutes later the well-dressed bald man passed by and said, “Detective,” on his way out.

Was his occupation that obvious? Halliday considered following the man, but decided against it.

He had a mission to complete.

# # #

At close to 5:00
p.m.
Halliday returned to Jillian’s house unannounced in his Saab. As he drove in the driveway his phone rang.

Area code 202, from Washington D.C. “Halliday.”

“John, this is Stan Tolbert. I only have a minute.”

“What’s going on Stan?”

“I’m up to my ass with Genevive Labs. Jesus, what the hell did you get me into?”

“What do you mean?”

“As soon as I mentioned Genevive Labs and DARPA the shit hit the fan. Whatever is going on out there, it’s hush-hush, all the way up to the Secretary of Defense.”

“I figured DARPA vis-à-vis Sierra Contractors had a hand in it. What did you find on Agent Coulter?”

“John, you know me. We worked together for five years. I’m telling you to stay away from it. Stay away from Coulter, from DARPA. Stay away from Genevive Labs.”

Tolbert’s words bothered him. “Is this a threat?”

“No, this is advice from a concerned DS team member. I have a meeting to go to now. I just wanted to warn you. If you have the opportunity to transfer to L.A. do yourself a favor, take it.”

Tolbert hung up.

He questioned Stan’s statements. Did his ex-cohort know about the job offer from LAPD? Could Tolbert have become contaminated by the DOD like the underground aquifers from Genevive’s waste?

Was Stan Tolbert still one of the good guys?

He opened the gate. The golden retriever met him with tail wagging. Jillian wouldn’t have left the dog.

The neighborhood disturbed him. He saw no cars, pickup trucks, nor pedestrians. Even the birds were content not to leave their positions on the telephone lines.

Halliday backed the Saab into Jillian’s garage and shut the door.

He entered the guesthouse with caution. Someone had opened all the windows.

Palmier or Genevive security had the creature removed from the doorway. A sweet smelling air freshener had replaced the creature’s putrid musk. A breeze whisked through the open bedroom window. Halliday made a quick search. He found nothing new.

He opened the door to the main house with Jillian’s key. In the living room he smelled the odor of the guest house. He removed his Glock.

The intruder had gained access through the rear garage door. Once inside the garage he compromised the door leading into the utility room off the kitchen. Both doors were easy credit card picks. No one in this neighborhood would have taken notice of a meter reader or a pest control inspector.

Halliday stowed the Glock. He jammed a chair under the door handle leading to the garage then secured the deadbolt on the front door. The windows were all secure.

A few of the old ranch houses in this area held a unique feature for Santa Reina. He hadn’t been able to check when he and Gladstone were here earlier. In the utility room, he kicked away the throw rug. He pulled on the basement handle inlaid in a wooden frame. The door rose up unleashing a dank odor, different than at the guesthouse.

It, too, raised the hairs on the nape of his neck.