meetings scheduled for the morning. He was anxious to get back to Prolabs so he could confer with the Nexapra scientists and find out it anyone was aware of or supported the genetic test idea. He also planned to search Warner’s office and confiscate any evidence of that vulnerability.
He found a small French restaurant called Maximilien’s in Pike Place Market. It had a great view of the harbor, but Rudker was there for the food. He ordered Tournedos Rossini, a beef tenderloin seared with foie gras and served with truffle and Armagnac sauce. He nearly moaned with the pleasure of it. For dessert, he had the souffle au Grand Marnier. It might have been the best meal he’d ever had. Temporarily satiated, he paid with his business card and stepped back out into the night.
The sky had cleared, so Rudker passed on a taxi and set out walking. He’d come to love downtown Seattle during his recent trips to meet with JB executives. The night energy was electric. In Eugene, you could find a little jazz and maybe one restaurant open after nine. In Seattle, you could find just about anything. And in this town, for now, he was still anonymous.
Rudker knew what he needed this evening-an outlet for his pent up frustration-and he knew exactly where to find it. He set off at a brisk pace and twenty minutes later reached the unmarked club. The entrance was located in an alley between Stewart and Powel Streets. There were no signs, no windows, and no outward indication that it was a place of business. In fact, he knew from past experience that the door was locked and that there was no point in knocking.
In the dark alley, he pulled out his cell phone and called a confidential number. Last time he’d been to Seattle, one of JB’s marketers had given him the number after several hours of drinking at Lucky’s. The marketer had insisted Rudker enter the number directly into his phone rather than write it down. The cloak-and-dagger scenario had amused him.
An older man answered after two rings. “Yeah?” Rudker recognized the voice from last time.
“Karl Rudker. I’m at the door.”
He turned to face the light fixture to the left of the door frame, where a small camera was hidden in the mounting. He knew the old guy was looking him over as they talked.
The man grunted. “Okay.”
Rudker heard the locking mechanism click and reached for the handle. He pushed the door open and quickly stepped inside. The brick-lined hallway was barely lit and smelled of moss and cigarette butts. It led up a flight of stairs, where he encountered another solid metal door. He pushed the buzzer and waited. The old guy with bad teeth and a cell phone opened the door and held out his hand. Rudker pressed four fifties into it. They did not speak.
The old guy went back to his table, and Rudker entered the small dark bar. It reeked of cigarette smoke. He’d wished he’d gone back to the hotel and changed. The smoke smell was tough to get out of suits with standard dry cleaning. He approached the counter, and the bartender, a nearly bald guy in his late fifties, looked up and nodded. Two guys near the end of the bar also gave him a quick glance. Rudker gave them a casual head lift in response.
The dozen or so male customers ranged from twenty to seventy. A few were dressed in suits like him, but most were in some variation of jeans and work jackets. There wasn’t much heat in the place.
Rudker stood at the end of the bar and ordered a Jack Daniels and coke. He wasn’t a big drinker-too much alcohol slowed his mind-but some social situations required a drink in hand. He made obligatory chit chat with the bartender about the Mariners’ prospects for a good season, then kept to himself until it was time.
At nine-thirty a door in the back of the bar opened, and the men gathered up their drinks and moved through it. The next room was slightly larger than the bar but equally devoid of windows or features. The brick walls sported a few graffiti scrawls but that was it. A small boxing ring filled the center of the room, and platform with bench seats surrounded the fight area. Rudker was one of the last to enter, and he took a seat near the door. Memories of his first time in the club flooded him, and his breath became shallow with anticipation.
In a few minutes, the fighters entered and passed within a few feet of him. An intoxicating mix of sweat and shampoo hit his nostrils. The girls were both in their early twenties and reasonably attractive-for fist fighters. The blond was outfitted in a skin-tight black workout suit with a white sports bra showing underneath. The other girl, with black spiky hair, wore a red halter top with tight purple shorts. She reminded him of the girl in the airport.
The bartender doubled as the referee and entered the ring. He announced the contenders without much ceremony. “Tonight’s match is between Felicia the Fearless,” he said, pointing at the blond, “And Badass Brenda.”
The dark-haired girl with black eye makeup pivoted in a full circle and waved. The bartender held up a small cow bell, gave it ring, then quickly stepped out of the way.
The girls circled each other for a moment, then Felicia lurched forward and smashed her bare fist into the side of Brenda’s face. The blow glanced off as Brenda pulled away. Rudker’s pulse began to accelerate. After a few wild swings, Brenda connected with Felicia’s nose in an audible smack. Blood trickled down onto the girl’s pale lips. Rudker felt himself get hard.
Then the girls got with it, raining blows on each other with an unexpected ferocity. Brenda went down, and Felicia jumped on her, pummeling her in the face and chest. Rudker realized he’d been holding his breath and gulped for air.
He wanted to be in there, swinging away, fists crashing into tender flesh. Girls, guys, it didn’t matter. It was all about release. But his executive position in a conservative industry didn’t allow him to live that close to the edge. Showing up for work with a black eye and a fat lip could derail his career. He had not fought with anyone in years. The other night in the parking lot didn’t count. That skirmish had been unexpected and accidental.
The fight only had three rounds, each five minutes long. At the end, the audience voted for a winner with applause, and Felicia was the clear favorite. Brenda gave them all the finger and stormed out. Felicia circled the ring twice, arms raised in victory, blood running from her face, then left the room. Rudker wished it had lasted longer, but still, it was the best seventeen minutes he’d spent in a long time.
Chapter 10
Thursday, April 15th, 7:59 am
Sula went through the same routine morning she’d carried out the day before, only today, she felt more panicked. First she called Warner’s extension and got no answer, then she called Steve Peterson, who still had not seen or heard from the doctor. She called Warner’s cell and home numbers. No answer and no room left to leave a message. Something was definitely wrong, and it was time to call the police. Still, she hesitated. Once the cops got involved, it might be impossible to search Warner’s office for the suicide data.
Sula was angry with herself for not doing it yesterday afternoon. She had thought about it obsessively, even formulating several plans. One had involved stealing the master keys to the R amp;D building from Bob Wurtzer, the building maintenance guy. She had immediately rejected the idea as insane. It had occurred to her Marcy had keys to all the offices because she was the one who gave people keys when they were hired. Sula had tried to come up with a workable plan for borrowing Marcy’s keys, but both ideas were so out of character for her mode of thinking and acting that she had become paralyzed with fear.
Now it was too late. Her priority had to be about Warner herself. The doctor was clearly missing. Sula took the elevator up one level to the human resource office on the third floor. She checked her watch: 8:27.
Serena’s first words were, “Have you heard anything about Diane Warner?”
“She’s not in again today. Is Marcy in her office?”
“Yep. Go on in. I think she’s expecting you.”
Marcy was on the phone, so Sula waited in the doorway. Marcy signaled her to sit. The HR director was listening intently to someone on the phone. Her legs were crossed and the one on top swung impatiently. Finally she said, “You will try to reach him, though?”
A pause.
“Thanks. Give him my number please.” Marcy hung up and turned to Sula.
“Diane’s son Jeff works for Doctors without Borders. Right now, he’s in a remote village in Somalia. That was his answering service. They said they would try to track him down and give him my number. I didn’t tell them his
