about the NGF project, but there was nothing.
The most satisfying decision involved the question of whether Victor wanted to press charges against Sharon Carver.
He told Colleen to let the parties know that he was willing to drop charges if the groundless sex- discrimination suit was also dropped.
The final item that Victor requested Colleen to do was to schedule a meeting with Ronald so that he could confront the man about the problems associated with the NGF work. If that didn’t turn up anything, which he didn’t expect it would, he would schedule a meeting with Hurst. Hurst had to be the culprit; in fact, Victor prayed as much. More than anything else he wanted to uncover some hard evidence that he could lay in front of Marsha and say: “VJ had nothing to do with this.”
Marsha found work intolerable. As much as she tried, she couldn’t maintain the degree of attention that was required for her therapy sessions. With no explanation, she suddenly told Jean to cancel the rest of the day’s appointments. Jean agreed but was clearly not pleased.
As soon as Marsha finished with the patients already there, she slipped out the back entrance and went down to her car. She took 495 to 93 and turned toward Boston. But she didn’t stop in Boston. She continued on the South East Expressway to Neponset, then on to Mattapan.
With the address slip unfolded on the seat next to her, Marsha searched for Martinez Enterprises. The neighborhood was not good. The buildings were mostly decaying wood-frame three-deckers with occasional burnt- out hulks.
The address for Martinez Enterprises turned out to be an old warehouse with no windows. Undaunted, Marsha pulled over to the curb and got out of her car. There was no bell of any kind. Marsha knocked, timidly at first, but when there was no response, she pounded harder. Still there was no response.
Marsha stepped back, eyeing the building’s door, then the facade. She jumped when she realized that at the left-hand corner of the building a man in a dark suit and white tie was watching her. He was leaning against the building with a slightly amused expression. A cigarette was tucked between his first and second fingers. When he noticed that Marsha had spotted him, he spoke to her in Spanish.
“I don’t speak Spanish,” Marsha said.
“What do you want?” the man asked with a heavy accent.
“I want to talk with Orlando Martinez.”
At first the man didn’t respond. He smoked his cigarette, then tossed it into the gutter. “Come with me,” he said and disappeared from sight.
Marsha walked to the edge of the building and glanced down a litter-filled alleyway. She hesitated while her better judgment told her to go back and get into her car, but she wanted to see this through. She followed the man. Halfway down the alley was another door. This one was ajar.
The inside of the building looked the same as the outside.
The major difference was the interior had a damp, moldy smell. The walls were unpainted concrete. Bare light bulbs were held in ceramic ceiling fixtures. Near the back of the cavernous room was a desk surrounded by a group of mismatched, threadbare couches. There were about ten men in the room, all in various states of repose, all dressed in dark suits like the man who had brought Marsha inside. The only man dressed differently was the man at the desk. He had on a lacy white shirt that was worn outside his pants.
“What do you want?” asked the man at the desk. He also had a Spanish accent, but not nearly as heavy as the others’.
“I’m looking for Orlando Martinez,” Marsha said. She walked directly up to the desk.
“What for?” the man asked.
“I’m concerned about my child,” Marsha said. “His name is VJ, and I’d been told that he has some association with Orlando Martinez of Mattapan.”
Marsha became aware of a stir of conversation among the men on the couches. She shot a look at them, then back to the man at the desk.
“Are you Orlando Martinez?” Marsha asked.
“I could be,” the man said.
Marsha looked more closely at the man. He was in his forties, with dark skin, dark eyes, and almost black hair. He was festooned with all manner of gold jewelry and wore diamond cuff links. “I wanted to ask you what business you have with my son.”
“Lady, I think I should give you some advice. If I were you, I’d go home and enjoy life. Don’t interfere in what you don’t understand. It will cause trouble for everyone.” Then he raised his hand and pointed at one of the other men.
“Jose, show this lady out before she gets herself hurt.”
Jose came forward and gently pulled Marsha toward the door. She kept staring at Orlando, trying to think of what else she could say. But it seemed useless. Turning her head, she happened to catch a glimpse of a dark man on one of the couches with one eyelid drooping over his eye. Marsha recognized him. She’d seen him in VJ’s lab when Victor took her there.
Jose didn’t say anything. He accompanied Marsha to the door, then closed it in her face. Marsha stood facing the blank door, not sure if she should be thankful or irritated.
Returning to the street, she got into her car and started it up. She got halfway down the block when she saw a policeman. Pulling to the curb, Marsha rolled her window down.
“Excuse me,” she said, then pointed back to the warehouse.
“Do you have any idea what those people do in that building?”
The policeman stepped off the curb and bent down to see exactly where Marsha was pointing. “Oh, there,” he said. He straightened. “I don’t know for sure, but I was told a group of Colombians are setting up some kind of furniture business.”
As soon as Victor had the opportunity, he phoned Chad Newhouse, the director of security and safety. Victor asked the man about Ramirez.
“Sure, he’s a member of the force,” Chad said. “He’s been on the payroll for a number of years. Is there a problem?”
“Was he hired through normal channels?” Victor inquired.
Chad laughed. “Are you trying to pull my leg, Dr. Frank?
You hired Ramirez along with the rest of that special industrial espionage team. He’s responsible directly to you.”
Victor hung up the phone. He would have to talk with VJ
about Ramirez.
After the administrative work was done and the meeting with Ronald scheduled for eleven-fifteen, Victor left for VJ’s lab. Before he got to the clock tower building, he stepped into the shadow of one of the other deserted buildings and made certain he was not being observed. Only then did he run across the street into the clock tower building.
One knock brought up the trapdoor. Victor scampered down.
Several of the guards in the Chimera uniforms were sitting around, entertaining themselves with cards and magazines. VJ
came into the room through the door that Victor had tried to enter on his last visit, wiping his hands on a towel. His eyes had a more intense look than usual.
“Did you come here to the lab last night?” VJ demanded.
“I did—” Victor said.
“I don’t want you to do that,” VJ interrupted sternly.
“Not unless I authorize it. Understand? I need a little respect and privacy.”
Victor regarded his son. For a moment he was speechless.
Victor had planned on being angry about the episode, but suddenly he was on the defensive. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean any harm. I was curious about what other facilities you had down here.”
“You’ll see them soon enough,” VJ said, his voice softening. “First I want you to see the new lab.”
