First of all, before Austin Hunter died, he admitted to Lien-hua that he’d started the first fourteen fires but not the one on Monday night. OK, so that solved one mystery, but left us with another. The geographic distribution of the fires supported the premise that the same person had chosen all the fire locations, so I typed, “Why didn’t Austin start Monday’s fire? Who did?” I thought for a moment and then added, “Does John Doe’s death have anything to do with the previous fires?”
I gazed across the beach. A distant dog-walker. Two children looking for shells, trailing behind their mother. An older couple walking hand in hand. The ocean lay beyond them, gentle ripples on the surface, dark currents underneath. High above the world’s only ocean, a circle of patient clouds held up the sky, while on the eastern tip of Coronado Island, smoke from the remains of Building B-14 sloped southward, bent by the morning breeze.
Building B-14.
Cassandra’s abductors wanted that building burned down-why?
I added three more questions to my list: “What is their connection to Building B-14? What device were the kidnappers after? Where is it now?”
Nearby, a pair of anxious gulls greeted the morning with their screaking chatter, reminding me again of Tessa’s comment Monday night about squeals in slaughterhouses. Reminding me once again of Sylvia Padilla’s wet screams…
Of Cassandra Lillo’s silent ones…
Of Austin Hunter’s desperate struggle to save her life.
What else had Austin told Lien-hua last night?
Oh yes. That he hadn’t killed the people. But which people? Who killed them? Where were the bodies? When were they killed?
Too many questions. I sighed, but entered the growing list of mysteries into my document.
My mind sifted through the facts of the case, rotating them, holding the investigation’s complex prism up to the light. An enigma with many intersecting angles.
Cassandra Lillo, shark researcher…
Austin Hunter, arsonist…
John Doe, transient…
Victor Drake, billionaire…
Shade, unknown kidnapper who somehow knew my name…
What did they all have in common? What tied them together?
As I looked over the list, I realized there was at least one rabbit hole I hadn’t yet peered down.
I pulled up my Internet browser and cruised to the Drake Enterprises website, and a moment later found the person Terry had mentioned to me, Dr. Rigel Osbourne. I looked over his vita: BS in genetic engineering from UCLA, MS in microbiology from Biola, and two PhDs, one in neuropathology from Yale and the other in neuromorphic engineering from the University of Texas. Having jumped through graduate-level academic hoops myself-night classes, distance learning, independent studies, thesis, dissertation, all while still working in law enforcement-I knew how hard it can be to stick it out for an advanced degree, so I was impressed with Osbourne’s academic achievements. But since I’d never heard of neuromorphic engineering, I was also confused.
A couple clicks later I found an online scientific encyclopedia and discovered that neuromorphic engineers attempt to use computers to mimic biological processes. The last paragraph of the article read: Since its development in the 1980s, neuromorphic engineering has primarily been used in artificial intelligence research and in the development of advanced robotics systems. However, even though historically neuromorphic engineers have focused on ways to reverse engineer biological nervous systems to create artificial neural pathways, since 2003 the biotech world has been exploring many other uses for this quickly emerging field.
Many other uses, huh?
I went back to my Word document and typed, “What about killer ray guns?”
Then I checked my email and found a note from Terry telling me that he hadn’t uncovered anything more about the grant Cassandra was working on or DARPA’s contract with Drake Enterprises.
Angela Knight had also emailed to let me know that the cybercrime division hadn’t been able to get a GPS location on the caller who referred to himself as Shade. I wasn’t surprised. I had a feeling Shade was no amateur.
Finally, I made a list of three goals for the day: (1) talk with Dr.
Rigel Osbourne; (2) find out what really went on in Building B-14; (3) follow up with Aina about the radioactive isotopes found at Austin’s apartment.
Honestly, I didn’t feel like an investigator who’d just hours ago helped save a woman’s life and apprehend a suspect. Despite our progress on this case, despite the apparent closure, I felt more like a rat in a maze in which someone was opening and closing portions of the wall. Leading me steadily into a corner.
And I had a feeling I knew who it was.
Shade.
I entered one last question: “Who is Shade?”
I was poring over the notes on my computer, thinking about how much the gulls were really starting to annoy me, when Ralph showed up wearing the same set of clothes he’d had on yesterday.
“No suitcases, huh?”
He plopped down beside me. “On their way to Miami. Can you believe it? Miami!” Then he let out a deep sigh and provided me with a colorful description of what the airline baggage handlers ought to do to themselves with his retractable-handle fold-over garment bag. I wasn’t sure it was anatomically possible to do what he recommended, but it certainly brought an interesting picture to mind. “Plus,” he added, “I tried making coffee in my room this morning. I’m telling you, Pat, avoid anything with ‘o-matic’ in the title. I don’t care if it’s a toaster-o-matic, a pizza- o-matic, a jambalaya-o-matic, or a urinal-o-matic. Doesn’t matter. If they couldn’t come up with a better name than that, their product stinks.
You can be sure of that.”
I wasn’t really in the mood to talk about urinal-o-matics. “Well, here.” I offered him a cup of Peruvian coffee. “This is pretty good, except I think they might have used a roaster-o-matic.” After he’d swallowed a Ralph-sized gulp, I asked him if he’d heard how Cassandra was doing.
“Talked to the docs. She’s stable, but they told me one-third of the people who survive a near-drowning like that end up with nervous system problems, or lung and heart complications, so they want to keep her at the hospital today. Monitor her progress.”
“Maybe I’ll head over there before she leaves,” I said. “See if she can help untangle some of my questions about this case.”
“Better hurry. Docs say she’s not too excited about being there.” Ralph took another draught of coffee, finishing off the cup. “A couple more tests scheduled for this morning, then she’ll probably take off.”
The way he phrased that, “probably take off,” reminded me of our theory that she and Austin might have been trying to get out of town quickly yesterday morning. “Ralph, do you know if anyone has told her about Austin’s death yet?”
“I asked the hospital the same thing, but since Austin didn’t have any ID on him last night, they said they’re waiting until his body can be positively identified before telling her. It’s just a formality, but it’s enough to hold things up-and after what Cassandra went through yesterday, they don’t really want to make her do it. I think they’re trying to contact a family member somewhere in Arkansas.
Hey, did you eat already?”
“Just some oatmeal.”
“I need some flapjacks.”
And before I knew it, I was in line behind Ralph to get a second breakfast.
Ralph’s mention of the search for Austin’s family member brought to mind a question I’d wanted to ask him, but I waited until we had our plates stacked high with pancakes smothered in maple syrup and were on our way back to the veranda. Then I said, “Ralph, you’ve been a parent almost ten years longer than I have.
How do you know how much freedom to give Tony?”
“Oh. So Tessa did something stupid.”
“Snuck off to get a tattoo. Does that count?” We found our seats.
“I just don’t think I can trust her to be here in San Diego without supervision. She’s at a tough age. She asks
