Box Nine

Chapter Twenty-One

The new office park next to the old abandoned airport is a small ghost town. Rows of cookie-cutter office condos reveal white-washed windows as the headlights of Peirce’s Honda move across them. She expects to see plasticized sagebrush blow across the parking lot as she pulls up to the boxy guard shack where the rent-a-cop is watching the Celtics on a portable black-and-white TV.

She shows her badge, and rather than leave the shack, the guard grabs the keys to the Synaboost office and tosses them to her.

In five minutes she’s inside the lab and talking into the recorder.

It’s quarter to nine at night, Victor. You’re saying, “Doesn’t this girl ever go home?” No, you’re not. You’re not thinking of me. You’re in the middle of a City Council meeting, hoping the cable TV cameras pick up your good side. Which side is that, boss? [Pause] Sorry, I’m just feeling a little tired. And I am about to head home. Once again I’ve pretty much come up with zero. Sorry, again. I’m sitting in a brand-new teal-blue leather swivel chair in the ridiculous offices of Synaboost Inc. up at the about-to-go-bust airport industrial park and ghost town. Flashed the badge and had one of the security guys let me in. Whatever happened to those old donut-eating, heavy-eyelid guys with beer bellies and walkie-talkies? Or was that just how they always showed security guards — night watchmen, right? — in the movies? I judge everything by the movies. Have you noticed that, Victor? This guy, this guard, he could have been a surfer out in Malibu. Probably about twenty-two with these magazine biceps just about ripping in two the gold insignia on his shirt sleeve. Am I making you jealous, Victor? I didn’t think so. The truth is, the guy had ordinary arms and I think he was stoned. [Pause] I guess I’m officially off duty, Mr. Mayor. I hope so, ’cause I’m sipping the Swarms’ B&B out of the Swanns’ Waterford crystal, listening to the Swanns’ Bang & Olufsen stereo. That new local talk-show guy is on, the one who thinks there’s someone hiding under everyone’s bed. Maybe he’s right, huh? Let me tell you, Victor, he has not had kind words for you. Words like puppet, tool, and pawn. He won’t come clean on who supposedly holds your strings, though. [Pause] Thought I’d take a swing by here before calling it a day. You should see this place, boss. Synaboost Inc. What kind of a name is that? Did they try to picture what it would look like in tiny print in the back of The Wall Street Journal? I don’t like it. I don’t know why. Did you take a look at the report on this place, Victor? Or better, did you see any photos? Good old Leo and Inez. Not exactly misers, you know what I’m saying? The office is sandwiched between two larger businesses. Steinmetz Neon Sign & Sculpture and Martinez Operations Research Inc. I think they’ve got the smallest square footage in the place. But they made up for it. There’s a reception area outfitted like they made the Fortune 500 last year. Then, behind that, a huge shared office for the loving couple. Get this, they used a partners desk — like one desk with both sides equipped for use. I’m guessing the teal chair, the one I’m swiveling in this very moment, belonged to Leo. Inez’s looks antique with this cream brocade back to it. Weird. They’ve each got a personal computer and they look brand-new. Oh, and I found a little private bar. Looks like the Swanns had a weakness for champagne and brandy. There are these little weird touches, like they made this attempt to put their own stamp on the place and it went all wrong. If you ask me anyway. There are these weird microscopes all over the place. All different sizes. They look like they’re antiques. Where the hell does someone buy antique microscopes? But they’re using them for decoration, I guess. Like sculpture, maybe. Okay, behind the office and running to the back of the building is the lab and it’s just what you’d think. Bright overhead fluorescent lights, long white worktables. Tons of beakers and test tubes and all this mad-scientist crap that I couldn’t put a name to in a million years. Plus a back wall full of technical books. The killer is that the place had been opened less than a month. What a waste. [Pause] Maybe you think I’m wasting time, Victor. I know this isn’t how you do things, but I always find that sooner or later, whether I’m cleaning out my refrigerator or setting up a sting in Bangkok, I’ve got to just stop and step back and look everything over. So, while you trade lame insults with Councilor Searle, I’ll sit here in Leo’s new chair and see what we’ve got. Okay, the brilliant and rich and beautiful Swann couple work long and hard on a new drug treatment for “language delayed” individuals. In the process, their shining personalities piss a lot of folks off and they bounce from a government operation in New Mexico to the Institute for Experimental Biochemistry to their own profit-motivated lab called Synaboost Inc. It looks like they made some break-throughs, but they’re so secretive and closemouthed about everything it’s hard to say. By accident one night, the Swanns are spotted swilling pasta with Mr. Mafia himself, Don Gennaro Pecci, sometimes local banker for those suffering from bad credit or some wild business-venture ideas. Next thing you know, the Swanns are found smacked in their Windsor Hills mansion in a style known to be employed by certain international drug cartels, i.e., their tongues are missing from their heads. And because of the tongueless corpses, the big shots like yourself and Lehmann throw a media blanket over the whole mess and call it a murder-suicide of the domestic violence variety. Meanwhile, a search of the crime scene finally reveals a weird little red pill in the shape of the letter Q and you call in a consultant to do a little unauthorized testing out at the Spooner resort for our favorite sociopaths. We find out two things about the Q-drug, now called Lingo. First, the language skills of recipients shoot off the scale. To the point of no control. And second, all of the pleasure centers are massaged, you end up like a cat in heat, and there’s a major adrenaline rush. And third, if you pop too much, there’s the little side effect of absolute, homicidal rage. So we’re left with a pretty huge problem — the possibility that the Swarms were able to set up production before the cat got their tongue. Sorry, must be the B&B. Now, the Fed report I read says that the lab here was wiped clean. No trace of anything. Not even a stray Swann fingerprint. To me, that says some work was done in here that no one wants us to see. But I’m a pessimist at heart. Look at the men I date, she said. I can’t help it, Victor. You didn’t know what a weapon this little Panasonic would be when you gave it to me. Better be more careful when you pick out my Christmas gift, you know? Let’s say Leo and Inez cooked up a couple of batches of Lingo before they got smacked. It follows that whoever’s holding the stuff wiped out the whiz kids. Big-M time. Motive. [Pause] I say business partner of some kind. Silent or otherwise. The most visible suspect, again, is the Pecci family as financial backers of a new product with big Bangkok market potential. But I vote “no.” Here’s the thing: We know the big immigrant wave has grabbed massive chunks of Pecci’s Bangkok power over the past five years. And Pecci has pretty much let it go. He’s got a nice, long-standing arrangement with the city fathers, no offense, boss, and Bangkok is more of a sewer every week. Pecci is ready to turn the whole place over to the Jamaicans and Cambodians and every other refugee party off the boat. He’s diversifying into real estate, buying up hotels and waiting for the day the Commonwealth legalizes gambling. I say thumbs down to Pecci. That leaves a clean slate for investors. Okay, we have to consider Mr. Bangkok himself. Mr. Colombia. Cortez. It’s a possibility, but he’s normally a retailer, a distributor. Could be branching out, stretching his arms farther up and down the ladder. Let’s leave him a possibility. Could be there’s a new player in town, someone who saw this as a perfect way to make a name, really explode on the scene, get a rep. I’ve spent a little time on the new Narc-Linc base we’ve bought into for the department computer. I can imagine what I’ll have to do for that little appropriation. Anyway, there’s sort of this after-hours electronic bulletin board that narc squads around the country use casually, sort of a hobby thing. You input tips and street talk and narc gossip, stuff like that. Lately, I’ve punched up rumors about a Honduran named Arnello who was coming in to test the water. But remember, information like that is never very reliable. There was also talk about a Cuban hotshot headed north named, I think, Fante. And there was a trio of Hawaiians, all brothers supposedly, sweeping east with some impressive display cases, but, again, supposedly, they’re strictly icemen. I could go on for weeks with this kind of thing and we wouldn’t get very far. Now, if you want to look at the problem in terms of the Swarms’ connections, rather than the product’s likely connections, you hit a brick wall almost immediately. No family, no friends. No one but each other. There were people at the Institute, names like Blonsky and Iser and Daleski. Older men and women. Seems like a real long shot. Then there’s Woo, the consultant. More likely, but still … [Pause] Then, of course, we have to turn the tables on ourselves and take at least one hard look. This is a rule of mine. In the middle of a case, turn a hundred and eighty degrees and see what’s there. Question, Victor: Is it possible that the missing tongues and the Lingo-in-the-garlic-salt are just ways of focusing our attention in the wrong direction? [Pause] No, I didn’t think so either. I’m almost out of possibilities. Except for the unspoken one. The most unpleasant one of all. [Pause] Why do I have this recorder, Victor? Huh? What’s the real deal with the tape recorder? With my little investigation within the investigation? What is it you know or think you know that you won’t tell your mistress? I hate that word, Victor. Mayor Welby. Sir. I hate the fucking word mistress. Let’s say instead — the narc you’re screwing behind Mrs. Mayor’s back. [Pause] I’m a problem to you, Vic, old friend. And the sad part is, I wouldn’t have to be. But it’s situations like this that just start me thinking and then the more I think, the more pissed off I get. ’Cause if I’m worthy enough to sleep with, Victor, then I’m worthy enough to share your miserable suspicions with. [Yelling] Especially when they concern my goddamn department. [Long pause] You’ve got information I don’t, right, Victor? And you want to add to your information through my efforts. Without sharing what you’ve already got. With me. Without talking to me. [Pause] You think someone’s dirty. And by that I mean over the top. I mean filthy. I mean more than an occasional look-the-other-way. I hope you’ve got something hard to back up your suspicions. [Pause] Okay, let’s give it a rundown. I’ll eliminate myself, since even if you think I’m a suspect, I know otherwise. Unless I’m a multiple-personality case. And if that’s true, I want to know, do you date us all? Do any of us know about each other? [Pause] Might as well finish off poor Leo’s bottle. Don’t worry, it was almost empty to begin with. Let’s see, now, who can we smear tonight? I think I’ll kick free Detective Shaw. She’s the new kid on the block. Not that that gives her clearance, but she’s still learning the alphabet, you know. I don’t think she’d know who to extort from yet, or on what days of the week. Richmond is a more likely choice. But where’s his motivation? I mean, sorry, but I don’t think this guy’s ambitious enough to work both sides of the street. He’s an old bachelor waiting on his pension and not exactly a scholar, if you follow me. Lieutenant Miskewitz? Interesting. I’ve never quite known how to read the guy. He’s never made himself clear to me. Is he brass or still a street cop at heart? Depends on what time of the day you talk to him. He’s changeable. I’ve always felt he was in over his head, got a few promotions he didn’t really expect and feels uneasy about it. But the big point is, if Miskewitz is in on anything, it’s got to be with a lot of help. He’s an office man. He’s only down in Bangkok when The Spy is shooting a cover photo. A lot like you, Mayor Welby. So if Miskewitz is involved he’s got a partner. Then there’s Zarelli and, believe me, it’s a distinct possibility. Wouldn’t surprise me in the least. This guy could justify anything. “What, the Nazis? A little loud, a little flashy, but not bad guys at heart”—that’s Zarelli. I’ve got no facts here, but I know the guy’s heart. And I’m pretty sure it can be bought. And that brings us to Detective Thomas. Lenore. The woman who showed me the ropes. [Pause] Lenore is unique. I don’t know what to say about Lenore. The words don’t come. She’s complicated. I don’t know anyone like her. The thing is, she’s been down in the Park for a long time. She’s made friends. She’s got her nails deep into some informants. One problem is that the Park’s a different world. Everything’s painted even subtler shades of gray than the outside. All the words and numbers take on different meanings. I think it’s very easy to get confused. At least it would be for me. I just don’t know about Lenore. It’s almost impossible to read her. I’ve never felt close to her, for all the time we’ve spent together. I don’t think anyone has. Richmond tried to tell me he thought something was up between her and Zarelli, but that’s more than ridiculous. Lenore would eat a guy like Zarelli for a midday snack. She’d break him in two. She’d leave him shaking in the men’s room. The thing is, you could give this quick portrait of her, okay? You could use words like isolated and precise and cold and willful. You could go on. But that’s absolutely surface. And I don’t know what’s underneath. I’ve always thought of Lenore as one of these people who end up doing something shocking with their lives. Something unbelievably good or bad. Like they disappear into Calcutta one day to care for lepers. Or they walk into a Burger Bonanza and wipe out everyone inside with an Uzi. Then afterward, the reporters go to all the neighbors and friends and they say, “I just don’t know, she was very quiet, I had no idea.” I think that everything Lenore Thomas is, she carries around inside herself. Sealed. Impregnable. So does that mean she could be filthy or not? [Pause] I don’t know. You tell me. Victor. [Pause] I think it’s time to go home.