Glenn pulled the side legs off his next crab and said, “You still haven’t told me why you’re representing Marisa Dupree. Think she had nothing to do with the leaks? Benton Dynamics seems to have a solid case.”
“Gut feeling about her, I suppose. But there’s more.”
He waved his dirty crab mallet, urging me on to explain my thoughts.
I said, “Marisa got fired. Her former employer is suing her. Her boss ended up dead in the Chesapeake Bay, not too far from here. The medical examiner believes that someone murdered Kostas with cyanide, which doesn’t happen too often here in Chester County. And you know what?”
“What?” Glenn asked.
“Marisa is still here.”
Glenn finished the last swallow of his lager.
I continued, “She’s going to trial and face this. If she’d been stealing confidential files, leaking them to someone, and then felt a noose tightening around her neck, well, how would’ve most people reacted? Her boss is in a morgue locker in Baltimore. What would you have done?”
“I’d have been long gone,” he replied.
“Exactly. Yet Marisa is still right here in Bridgeford.”
Glenn nodded and then stretched his arms. “I see where you’re coming from. Man, I couldn’t stuff another one down, and I’m completely wiped out. Not looking forward to that long ride back across the Bay Bridge.”
“No doubt,” I replied. “I got the check, if you’re ready to head back.”
“Thanks, dude. About those two Iranian students that the FBI arrested near Benton Dynamics …”
“Consider them forgotten. I’d never compromise you. But all the stuff you downloaded off Project Transparrior … that’s really going to help me. Thanks.”
“You got it. And keep me updated on your case, okay?”
“Yeah, sure. It’s all coming to a head Wednesday.”
Glenn stood up and shook my hand, which was a little gross after a crab feast. “Good racquetball games. Let’s swat the ball around again soon. Call me if you need anything else.”
I said, “Sounds good. I’ll do that. See you, Glenn.”
After he left Gertrude’s Crab House, I dropped some cash on the table and went to the men’s room to wash my hands with that runny pink soap that smelled like plastic raspberries. Back in the bar, I plunked down on a stool. Tyrell set up a tab for me and placed a pint of copper-colored ale on a cardboard coaster. The IPA was bursting with hops. The lone guitarist sang a slow reggae ballad as I sipped the beer and wondered how I had gotten myself into all this.
A tall man entered Gertrude’s Crab House followed by a winsome blonde in a blue velvet dress. The man appeared agitated and started to argue with the woman. He turned and left the restaurant. The woman strolled past the hostess, sat two barstools down from me, and composed herself as if nothing had just happened. She ordered a hurricane, and Tyrell mixed the cocktail before moving on to customers at the far end of the bar.
The statuesque woman was perhaps thirty years old. We struck up a conversation by the time she was halfway through her ruby-red drink. Her name was Jennifer Rybak, an independent Canadian journalist traveling with her cameraman to scout stories on the Maryland Eastern Shore. Her eyes were blue-green and reflective like the clear water of a glacial lake.
The barstool between us was empty; neither of us slid over to occupy it first. She gradually leaned toward me. We chatted about our jobs and what passed for tourist sites nearby.
She excused herself and walked toward the restroom. I grabbed my phone and ran her name through a search engine. The spelling of her name was a challenge, but eventually I found a Jennifer Rybak who had written travel articles and made videos for an online publication out of Toronto. I checked out the video page on the search engine. There were some clips of her introducing famous tourist sites in North America and Europe. Her claim of being a journalist was legitimate, and no one with this kind of public presence would likely be involved with the Benton Dynamics matter. That was a relief.
When Jennifer returned, the barstool next to me was still empty. She said she couldn’t hear me well over the guitarist and sat next to me. As she moved in closer, her perfume smelled like a morning breeze across a field of jasmine.
As the evening passed, I eventually offered to show Jennifer around the area and even take her on a client’s speedboat tomorrow afternoon, if she was interested. She agreed and then jotted down her cell number on a bar napkin, finished her hurricane, and softly said goodbye. I supposed that I had made a date.
15
Early Sunday morning, the sky smoldered in scarlet and orange across the eastern horizon. Jennifer and I would go boating in a few hours, so I had some time to evaluate the shards of evidence collected so far in the Dupree case. With a mug of hot coffee in hand, I sat on my porch and read the article that Glenn had found about the Remora Shadow.
The printout showed the publication date beneath the headline. Project Transparrior revealed the existence of the underwater drone only two weeks ago, long after Richard Kostas started visiting Turner Creek Sporting Clays. According to the complaint, Kostas had illegally downloaded computer files for six weeks before the anti-secrecy website published this exposé. Now with a few clicks on a keyboard, anyone could read this article and learn about the weapon that Benton Dynamics developed behind the black windows of its headquarters.
Of course, Marisa Dupree had worked there the entire time. More questions arose than answers as I considered the various possibilities.
On Friday, a dark van registered to the Russian embassy followed me and tried to run my car off the road. Last week, FBI counterintelligence arrested two Iranian students near Benton Dynamics. The Iranian man and woman were probably spies using well-worn covers, but I would not learn any more about them
