This was a new challenge. I’d never had to track down a corporation before. Maybe it was a publicly owned business. If so, I had a connection that might help me, for once.
Lavercan Kimbell, of Kimbell, Kimbell, & Schwartz, was my investment broker, with the emphasis on broker. The more I dealt with Lavercan, the broker I got. Back when I’d had a little extra cash, I’d decided to dabble in the stock market. Lavercan had guided me through a series of mind-numbing investments, which had since dried up like old hookers. The shares I owned were now about as valuable as Monopoly money. I figured that the least Lavercan could do was help me find a lead on Genetic Research Systems.
I called Kimbell, Kimbeel, & Schwartz and was told that Lavercan wouldn’t be in the office for awhile. I wondered briefly if I’d underestimated Lavercan. Maybe he’d fleeced me and his other clients and was sunning his round, white belly on a secluded Mexican beach. No way. He was an inept, financial moron, but he wasn’t a swindler. If all his other investments had fared like mine, he was probably browsing through pawnshops, looking for an inexpensive handgun.
Luckily, in the loosest sense of the word, Lavercan’s brother Lemmer, as opposed to his wide-eyed sibling, looked like someone who would not only scam your life savings, but have someone steal the drive cell out of your speeder while you were sitting in his office. Fortunately, I had no intentions of doing anything requiring an exchange of money. I told Lemmer that I was looking for a company called Genetic Research Systems and asked if he could check his computer listings for any information about it.
Lemmer seemed a little put off, but said he’d take a look before putting me on hold for several minutes. When he returned, he said that there was no listing for a company by that name, which meant the company was privately owned.
I asked if he had any pointers on how I could locate GRS. He rolled his eyes, then told me to contact the state Department of Commerce, since all businesses were required to register there. Lemmer’s curt inflections let me know that I was wasting his time, so I thanked him for his help and ended the call.
It seemed logical to start with the Department of Commerce. If that didn’t pan out, I’d be forced to start a more systematic search, and I had a feeling that GRS would end up being harder to find than a smoking section in downtown Los Angeles.
I looked up the number for the DOC, punched it in, and was soon face to face with a tired-looking state employee. I told him what I was looking for and asked if they had any information that would help me. The government worker said they did, indeed, have the information I needed, but that it was strictly off-limits to the public. I was about to ask him how he felt about perpetuating a stereotype when he suggested that I visit my local library and check out a publication by the name of Dun & Bradstreet. He went on to say that Dun & Bradstreet provided credit information on almost every company, public or private, and that it would also furnish phone numbers and addresses. I expressed my heartfelt gratitude and hung up.
I collected the books I’d checked out the night before and flew to the library. Since I had to consult Dun & Bradstreet anyway, I figured I ought to take back the books. If I put it off for more than a coulpe days, I’d totally forget about them and eventually end up with an overdue fine bigger than my annual bar tab.
Once I got to the library, it didn’t take long to find the Dun & Bradstreet reference book.
Sure enough, Genetic Research Systems was listed. The first thing I did was jot down the phone number and address. The business was located in Sacramento. Then, out of curiosity, I read the company bio. GRS was one of six subsidiary companies belonging to Western States Pharmaceuticals. As to what the company did, Dun & Bradstreet’s blurb hedged around the subject like an intelligent but unprepared college student’s term paper.
I wanted to find out as much about GRS as I could before making any kind of move. Its parent company, Western States Pharmaceuticals, sounded vaguely familiar. I ran through the alphabetical listings to W and read the bio. Somewhat to my surprise, I saw that the parent company was an affiliate of another corporation-one I knew about: Lowell Percival Enterprises. My stroll down the paper trail had suddenly gotten very interesting.
I left the library and, as I flew home, tried to make sense of this new information.
Genetic Research Systems was essentially part of Lowell Percival Enterprises. Was it purely coincindental that the sealed envelope from GRS was sitting on Alaynah’s desk just before the bombing? All my instincts said the two things were connected. But how?
The personal ads in the Bay City Mirror clearly implied that someone inside GRS was in contact with the Colonel. From what I’d learned earlier, I concluded that this person was probably the CAPRICORN mole Paul Dubois had told me about. Why had CAPRICORN felt it necessary to infiltrate GRS? What was going on at GRS? I decided it was worth checking out and set course for Sacramento.
It was a short flight. I’d never felt any urgency to visit Sacramento, so this was virgin territory for me. After stopping to ask for directions three times, I finally ended up in an industrial section of the city. The buildings were old, prewar structures, and most appeared to be abandoned and/or condemned. Here and there, I saw barely thriving, unhappy businesses. From what I could see, the city had expanded to the north, leaving this part of town eerily isolated and empty.
When I reached the address I’d copied from Dun & Bradstreet, my first impression was not good. The building, a large rectangular block of cement, looked like it was just half a notch above a bomb shelter and appeared to be completely abandoned. All the surrounding buildings were in various stages of decay. I walked to the front door and saw the words Genetic Research Systems stenciled cheaply on the steel door. The lock on the door was bolted shut. I walked around the side, past seven or eight blacked-out windows, and continued on to the back end of the building. There was a rear entrance, but it was sealed as tightly as the front door. A quick check of the other side of the building confirmed that there were only two entrances.
It was times like this that nicotine often came to the rescue. Enjoying a smoke not only gave me something to do, but also seemed to inspire me, elevating my pedestrian thought processes into the realm of the sublime. I took a long drag and surveyed the building from top to bottom and end to end. I inhaled again and waited for the brain power to accelerate.
By the time I took the last hit off the Lucky Strike, I’d formulated a plan. I discarded the butt and searched the ground for a goodsized rock. Finding one, I walked up to one of the windows and threw it against the window as hard as I could. The rock bounced harmlessly off.
OK, I needed a Plan B. Maybe there was an entrance on the roof. I backed away and looked up. The roof was flat, and it had plenty of surface area. I returned to my speeder.
A minute later, I set down on the gravely top of the building. I hopped out and spied what appeared to be a trap door. The red metal lid had a rusted padlock on it. I returned to the speeder and retrieved my trusty hammer from the trunk. After five minutes of banging and twisting, the padlock broke. I traded my hammer for my flashlight, opened the trap door, and climbed down into the black hole.
When I reached the bottom of the ladder, I turned on the flashlight and looked around.
Locating a light switch nearby, I flipped it but nothing happened. I moved my light around the room. It appeared to be some sort of storage area. There were rows of metal shelves, piled high with boxes and crates. Most of the boxes were marked and contained everything from test tubes to chemicals to computer supplies.