I pulled books off the shelves in bunches. Nothing. Then, opening a carved box that sat on the shelf as a bookend, I found what I wanted. Three zip disks. I stuffed them into my pocket.
Fay and Jenny were standing by the apartment door. The manager was sniffing around to see if we’d done any damage. I nodded at the pile of books on the dining table, which we hadn’t gone through yet. “Shouldn’t we clean those up?”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said.
I started back toward the bedroom. “Time to go!” she growled.
“Just turning out the lights,” I called.
I entered the bedroom, turned on the light, took one last glance around the room, and turned off the light.
The manager was closing the front door behind us when I asked, “Did you notice if the man from Sheila’s work took anything away with him?”
“He had a briefcase,” she said as she escorted us to the gate. “I wouldn’t know what was in it.”
We walked down the alley to the Scout. I was glad Jenny insisted on climbing into the backseat so Fay could take the front. Instead of aiming the Scout toward the street, I drove back to the apartment gate. “Fay,” I said, “we should find out the manager’s name. Could you?”
“I’ll do it,” Jenny said.
“That’s all right,” Fay said. “I’m in front.”
Once she’d left, I leaned over and rifled through her handbag.
“Bill!” Jenny protested.
I held the black book up for her to see. “Sheila’s journal.”
I slid it under my seat, then straightened to wait for Fay. In the rearview mirror, I could see Jenny staring at the gate, her face as stunned and blank as a vacant window.
6
Jenny kept her eyes glued to the landscape of strip malls, upscale car dealerships, and corporate campuses as we drove east across the valley, toward the bay. Biotech companies tended to grow in bunches, and several were nestled down there. LifeScience was about half a mile south of BioVerge.
Jenny and I wanted to talk to Marion in person. I waited for Jenny to say something about Fay, or the diary. We’d dropped Fay off at her apartment. Jenny had stared silently at her the whole way over. Fay seemed unaware that the trust had suddenly drained from their partnership.
“The manager’s name is Jennifer Poloni,” Fay had said when she got back into the jeep. “Looks like you’re not the only Jennifer on the scene.”
Jenny just wrinkled her nose. I knew the expression was aimed at Fay, not the manager.
After we crossed under Highway 101, the neighborhood turned industrial. We passed generic business hotels, bulldozed lots, and nameless aluminum sheds on our way to a more landscaped area near the water. LifeScience sat by itself at the end of a sinuous drive. The bay beyond had the thick, greenish look of antifreeze.
The LifeScience complex consisted of two four-story wings in front, bisected by an atrium, and a new addition in back. At the fulcrum of the three structures was a central tower. All were built of lightweight greenish-silver materials. A thin colonnade encircled the building.
Jenny paused at the main entrance. Her shoulders sagged. I touched her arm. Her skin, always soft and milky, felt vulnerable under my fingers. “Are you up for this?”
She gathered herself and we went in. The atrium soared above us. Sunlight streamed in, feeding a cluster of tall bamboo. The walls were flagstone, wood panelling, and glass; the floors were polished stone. None of it was overdone, not the way certain tech firms were. Not a bad place to shoot a film, I thought; at least the set would look good.
A long granite counter blocked further entry. Behind it was a wall of frosted glass etched with LIFE SCIENCE MOLECULES. The receptionist, a pony-tailed twenty-something, smiled at us.
“We’re here to see Marion Roos,” I said.
He punched a button, listened, and said, “I’m sorry. She’s not picking up.”
“Ah.” I leaned over the counter and noticed his thin fingers and clean white nails. Was he the only security in the place? “We’re here about Sheila Harros.”
His face remained placid. “Would you like me to try her?”
“No, we need to go to her desk to give her something.”
“You can leave it here. I’ll make sure she gets it.”
His switchboard bleated. He held up a finger for us to wait while he answered. “No, I’m sorry, Dr. McKinnon is in a meeting… Yes, with investors… I’m sorry, I can’t tell you that…”
He looked up at us. Jenny put on her platinum-melting smile. But the phone interrupted again. The receptionist went through a virtually identical conversation with this caller.
“Your company is popular,” I commented.
He blew out some air. “Especially today. I can’t even get up to use the bathroom.”
Jenny put her smile back on. “About Sheila — it’s just really personal.”
He returned the smile, but the corners of his mouth stayed firm. Pressing a button under the desk, he said, “Someone will escort you.”
A man in a blue suit appeared so quickly it startled us. His sober features and by-the-book hair left little doubt about his job. “Why do you want to see Ms. Harros?”
“It’s kind of private,” Jenny said, wielding her smile.
It bounced right off. He turned, walked a few feet away, and spoke into a handheld computer. Over his shoulder I glimpsed bamboo on the handheld’s screen. He was getting a video feed of the lobby. I glanced up: the cameras were mounted above the front desk, each with a small shotgun mike pointed down at us. Mr. Security had been watching the whole time.
“Come with me,” he said.
“Badge them?” the receptionist asked.
The security man waved him off. We followed him around the frosted glass, under the bamboo, and across the polished floor. At the far end was a curtain wall. Through it, the bay winked in the afternoon sun.
I was disappointed when we took a right into a conference room. I’d been hoping to get upstairs into the offices, maybe the labs. A moment after we sat down, three men entered the room.
“Don’t get up,” said the first and tallest. He bent to shake Jenny’s hand, then mine, which prevented us from standing. He was probably six foot three, around fifty, athletic and tan. His golden brown hair was swept back, revealing a high forehead and a congenial face with a strong triangle of a nose. He wore a tawny wool suit and a sky blue tie that matched his eyes.
“I’m Dr. Frederick McKinnon,” he said. “This is Doug Englehart.”
The one behind him came forward. Englehart was all elbows and knees. He was younger than McKinnon, with a mustache, a narrow jaw, and a bulbous skull, across which a few lonesome strands of brown hair crawled. He gave the impression of being choked by his tie.
The third man did not give his name. His clipped dark brown hair made a crisp square line around his ears and across the back of his neck. He stayed by the door and in turn was joined by Mr. Security.
McKinnon did not sit but leaned toward us from the head of the table. “Now, about Sheila…” He stared at his hands for a moment. They were large, the fingers elegant, wrinkled at the knuckles, a thick gold wedding band on the fourth. A small quiver came into his voice. “I’m afraid I have some bad news—”
“Actually, we know about Sheila,” I said. “We came to see Marion.”
“We feel just terrible, as you can imagine,” Dr. McKinnon said. “Today of all days. We’re hosting some critical investors. I haven’t had time to process the… losing her.”
“You had to make presentations, I imagine.”
Doug Englehart spoke up. “Yes. The hospital called for help identifying Sheila. I was obligated to show the investors around the lab. Otherwise I would have gone.”