figured there wasn’t much to be gained since Sergeant Cristobel and SWAT had already investigated the scene. It wasn’t likely SWAT missed anything.
Of all the available evidence, he considered the crumpled-up note the most remarkable. There was something distinctly outof-place about it. Also intriguing was the debacle that became of the exit strategy that resulted in the murder of an innocent man. Reynolds was correct; this case had every appearance of being a well-planned, professional operation. They would be lucky to find a shred of evidence to trace to these guys. But killing Frank Santos was a big mistake, and would lead to their undoing. Morris relished the challenge of leading the investigation. There’s a pattern here…I can’t see it yet, but it’s here. The more complex the crime, the more opportunity for error.
Morris followed Sergeant Reynolds to the roof. As he suspected, there wasn’t anything new apart from what the primary investigators had already reported. He called Hawkley.
“IC, Morris,” he radioed downstairs. He looked down at the Stanford campus. Flashing lights from myriad EMS vehicles continued to saturate the area, magnifying shadows and casting surreal images across the landscape. Morris couldn’t help but feel saddened by the thought of the dead guard. He wondered if the man had a family that would soon learn the tragic news of his death. He was thankful he wasn’t the department chaplain, who would notify the family of the loss. What a waste, he thought.
“IC…report,” replied Hawkley from the incident command center. “Have you completed investigating the physical evidence?”
“Affirmative. I’m just leaving the roof. We’ve got a couple solid leads you’ll find interesting,” he said. “We may be able to piece something together.”
“I hope you’re right, Lieutenant,” Hawkley stated. “I haven’t seen squat so far. Get down here as soon as possible.”
“Ten-four.”
With that final transmission, Morris’s radio fell silent. He walked to the stairwell, wondering where this strange and confusing story would end. He remembered what his first partner had taught him: Don’t predetermine anything. It never ends up the way you first imagine.
FIVE
Stanford University
A distant bell rang disturbingly, waking Jarrod Conrad from his slumber. At first he was disoriented, having fallen into an intoxicated sleep; it took several seconds to realize that the phone beckoned a response. His head throbbed painfully as he glanced at the clock. It was after 3:00 a.m. Then he recalled the three glasses of wine he imbibed after leaving the lab. He cursed the caller for interrupting his sleep. He couldn’t imagine who might be calling at this ungodly hour, but they would get a double-barreled blast of his unmitigated wrath.
Jarrod figured it was probably Millicent, the kiss-ass graduate student he was forced to mentor. She had no sense of propriety, calling about every mundane thing that happened in his absence. Her undisciplined behavior was exactly why Jarrod Conrad had resisted the dean’s request to work with graduate students. In the end, however, he was given an ultimatum: Mentor a handful of students like every other professor in the astrophysics program, or lose tenure at the university. He hated the dean for blackmailing him this way.
“Conrad,” he answered ill-temperedly, summoning his most disagreeable voice. “This better be important.”
“Dr. Jarrod Conrad, from Quantum Dimensions?” the caller asked.
“Yes, this is Dr. Conrad. Please identify yourself and why you’ve awakened me. Do you realize the time? It’s bad manners to call people after midnight, you know,” he said rapidly, never pausing to allow the caller to respond.
“I do apologize for interrupting your sleep, Dr. Conrad. This is Lieutenant David Morris, from the Palo Alto Police. Would it be possible for you to return to your office, sir?”
“This better not be a practical joke, mister. Where are you calling from?” Jarrod hotly asked.
“Unfortunately, this is a very serious matter, Dr. Conrad,” Morris replied, not surprised Conrad wanted verification. “I’m standing in your office, looking at photos of the Forty-Niners. Your lab was broken into. We’re trying to determine the extent of the burglary,” he said authoritatively. “Is that enough validation…or shall I have a patrolman pick you up?”
“No, no, that won’t be necessary, Officer,” Jarrod replied, now ashamed he had treated the caller so disrespectfully. “Please excuse my manner…it’s very early. I was in a deep sleep. I thought one of my pain-in-the- ass graduate students was playing a practical joke. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“Thanks for your understanding, Dr. Conrad,” Morris replied. “We’ll be expecting you.”
Jarrod Conrad used every modicum of restraint to keep from slamming down the phone. His research was a closely guarded secret. Only a handful of select associates knew about his research on the super unified theorem. Great…just great, he thought. Someone knows about the gravity research. That fucking Penburton!
He took a quick shower to help sober up, dressed in casual clothes, and left his home for the six-minute trip to the Quantum Building. His heart sank as he approached the back entrance. There was a kaleidoscope of flashing lights cascading over the building. Then he saw the paramedic’s vehicle and an ambulance. Why would paramedics be called to a burglary?
His apprehension mounted after running into a gauntlet of police officers questioning his arrival. To make matters worse, he witnessed the paramedics wheeling someone out draped in a white cloth, obviously dead. What in God’s name happened here? he wondered, approaching the lobby elevator.
Exiting the elevator on the fifth floor did not assuage his mounting anxiety. As soon as he entered the hallway, yet another plain-clothes officer approached to verify his identification. He was then escorted to his office, which was occupied by three men he had never before seen.
“I’m Jarrod Conrad. Who’s in charge here?” he immediately asked.
“Dr. Conrad, I’m Lieutenant Morris from the Palo Alto Police Department, Special Investigations Unit,” he said, extending his hand to the professor. “I called you earlier. Again, I apologize for the intrusion, but as you can see…we have a serious situation in your office.” Morris could tell from the pale, crestfallen look on Conrad’s face that he was overwhelmed.
“Yes, yes, nice to meet you, Officer,” Jarrod replied distractedly, shaking Morris’s hand while staring at the man working at his computer terminal. “Can you tell me what happened? And what’s he doing?”
“Certainly. That is Detective Sal Palatino, the department’s expert on computer espionage.” Sal was busily working at the twenty-four-inch monitor alongside the professor’s large walnut desk. “He’ll need your help with a few things. But, first, let me explain what’s occurred here this evening, Doctor,” Morris said, guiding him toward the opening in the large picture window.
For the next several minutes, Morris explained in painstaking detail what the police had discovered. Because it didn’t look like anything was physically missing, he speculated that whoever had breached the office was after something on the computer-hence the need for a programmer. Lastly, he questioned Dr. Conrad about the note that was found. He asked about the company on the logo, and if this was something he had inadvertently left behind.
“Well, that son-of-a-bitch,” Conrad fumed when Detective Reynolds showed him the note from Levitation Solutions, Inc. “My cousin, Ryan Marshall, owns this company. And no…this is not a note I dropped in my office,” he said, pacing like a caged animal. “I do, however, recognize his handwriting. I can’t believe the asshole was actually in my office. I know exactly what the bastard was looking for.” He walked furiously over to the desk. “Get out of my way!”
“Okay, let’s just settle down, Dr. Conrad,” Morris replied, blocking his path toward Detective Palatino. “The fact that the note’s on stationary from your cousin’s company and the handwriting looks like his doesn’t prove anything. I admit, it looks suspicious…but let’s not jump to conclusions. Now that we know about your cousin’s possible involvement, we’ll pick him up for questioning-as soon as we can dispatch an officer in New Mexico to check him out.”
“Don’t placate me, Lieutenant. You don’t have a clue about my cousin, or our history together. We’ve been
