At the MG security gate, I gave Jacki and Jill a parting wave and earned scowls and folded arms in return. The drive back to town was slow going. Twenty minutes out on the 101, the traffic ground to a halt in a snarl that trapped me between two exits. Also, either the fuel gauge was broken or the engine was running on fumes. It didn't look like I was going anywhere for a while, so I killed the ignition. The motor kept going, though, rumbling and coughing until it finally made up its mind to stop with a knocking sound that also violently shook the vehicle.
There was nothing to do but sit and think. I had a dead Dr. Tanaka, murdered, according to an unreliable witness, by a now-dead Professor Boyle, who was himself killed by an apparent attack of either karma or bad luck — I could take my pick. I had the company they were working for, Moreton Genetics, saying nothing, as mute as the people back in Washington who were paying all the bills. I also had ice-rain slanting in through the broken window like a shower of little razor blades. I needed something to stuff in the gap. There was plenty of rubbish on the floor of the passenger side — disposable cups and burger wrappers — but nothing that wouldn't get turned to instant mush by the deluge, so I shook the pages out of the manila folder Arlen had given me and used the folder. Then, with nothing better to do than watch the steady stream of emergency vehicles making their way up and down the lanes closed to all other traffic, I flipped through the material itself. I'd already skimmed most of it, except for an addendum about the latest in NLWs — nonlethal weapons.
That was intriguing in itself. Arlen had included it for a reason. Did it confirm, in an oblique way, that what Tanaka, Boyle, and Moreton Genetics were developing was some sort of biological nonlethal weapon? Or was it included because MG had developed NLWs for the military in the past? As for NLWs, generally speaking, the “nonlethal” part was a misnomer. It implied some caring for the target on the part of the targeter. From my knowledge, however, no one had ever been disabled by a nonlethal weapon that carefully placed them in a comfy chair with a hot dog. More often than not, NLWs were used to set up the target for a sucker punch, which was, in most instances, lethal in the extreme.
Arlen's notes confirmed this. There was a description of the Taser, which I already knew about. There was also a page about the missile that fried all electronic circuitry within a three-hundred-yard range so that an air base could be approached and stealthily overwhelmed by an attacking force and, theoretically, wiped out without one of our people breaking so much as a fingernail. I had no ethical problem with this — if someone was going to get killed in a battle, I was all for it being the other guy. But, being in the language police, the term “nonlethal” made me want to reach for my handcuffs and call for backup.
I checked the traffic situation. No one in front or behind was moving. It occurred to me that it was the night before Christmas and nothing was stirring except for San Francisco's entire fleet of emergency services vehicles. I went back to reading.
Here was something I didn't know: stuff called “Liquid Ball-Bearings” containing hollow smart particles that released an ultraslippery agent in response to heat. The idea was that you could spray it on a doorknob, making it impossible to twist open by anyone not wearing special gloves. It could also be sprayed on floors, saving a fortune on banana skins. It was totally non-toxic and water-soluble. I could see it being placed in kids' Christmas stockings sooner or later, along with the next item, called “Spray ‘n' Stay.” Cute. Again nontoxic and biodegradable, this was a substance created by the genetic modification of a protein used by the orb-weaving spider in the production of its web. The spray, which came out of the nozzle as a kind of string, quick-dried as strong and fine as fishing line. Who came up with this shit? Silly question. I knew that already and two of them were dead.
The car behind me honked. I hadn't noticed that the traffic had started to move. I turned the key. The starter motor ground out a dirge. I gave it another try. Same result. First it didn't want to stop and now it didn't want to start. I tried again and it rumbled into reluctant life.
I turned on the headlights. The tourist blurb I'd found in my hotel room said night didn't fall around here till five o'clock at this time of year, but it was only four-thirty and it was already dark.
As the section of traffic jam I was in nudged toward the city, I could see the smoking Transamerica building, helicopters circling it, spotlights on full flood. I rang the cell number Eugene Metzler had given me. After half a dozen rings, he answered it with a snarled, “Yeah?”
“Eugene, Vin Cooper.”
“Yeah, Cooper, what can I do for you? Haven't seen you around here.”
“Wanted to keep out of your hair.”
“Please, no hair jokes. What can I do you for?”
“Just checking in. You still thinking it was a hit on a wise guy made to look like something else?”
“Yeah. Be honest with you, Cooper. Some things don't fit but it's still the only theory that makes any sense to my people. We got no one sticking their hand up to take credit, except for the usual bunch of crackpots. But no one did for 9/11, right? Also, we've got a preliminary report in from the FBI forensics teams. The gas leak at the Four Winds was intentional. The gas main was tampered with and they've found the ignition system — an electric spark unit straight off a barbecue, wired to a pager.”
“Would you know if my guy has turned up yet?” I asked.
“Remind me. Who's your guy again?”
“One of the residents at the Four Winds. Sean Boyle.”
“No, he hasn't turned up. What floor was he on?”
“The third.” I gave him the apartment number.
“OK, well, I'm just gonna tell you again what I might have told you already. Where the gas explosion originated meant those bottom floors were the worst hit. Unless your professor happened to be out splitting the atom someplace else, you can cross him off your Christmas list, because only Jesus and the angels are gonna be on his.”
Or maybe the other guy would be on his list, I thought, the one downstairs with horns and a pitchfork.
“Take down this number,” Metzler said. “It's for one of my people, Detective Sergeant Ed Rudenko. Tell Ed I told you to call. He's coordinating the missing-persons angle. It might take a bit of persistence to get through as he's kinda busy right at the moment.”
I jammed my knees under the steering wheel while I dug a pen out of my jacket and wrote the number down on the back of Arlen's notes. “Listen, Captain,” I said, feeling a little guilty about the prospect of having a lazy tumbler of Glen Keith by the fire back at the hotel bar, “you need a hand with anything? Happy to help—”
“I appreciate the offer, Cooper, but we got enough cooks spoiling the broth down here already. Hey, maybe there is something you could do,” he said. “You being a fed an' all… could you come up with a strategy to get this CIA guy off my back?”
“Is this CIA guy like a dose of stomach flu dressed up as a Brooks Brothers model?”
“I get the clothing reference, but stomach flu?”
“He gets up your nose and then gives you the shits,” I replied.
“Yeah. That about nails him.”
“So, Bradley Chalmers … what's he up to?” I asked.
“Making life difficult. He's looking for someone or something, but won't tell us who or what. We got a crime scene down here and the guy's jumping all over it like it's a trampoline while he orders people around in the name of national security.”
I had no jurisdiction over Chalmers. If anything, the jerk outranked me, the CIA being a lead agency at the scene.
“Sorry, can't help you, Captain. All I can tell you is that the guy's a known asshole wanted in Japan for crimes against his spouse.”
“Hey, stop right there. You're speaking to a happily divorced man — three times. I'm liable to break out in sympathy for the guy. Look, gotta go, Cooper. Good luck.”