Splicer (A Thriller) Page 3

  He wanted to yell out in righteous indignation. Isn't there anyone else's life you can screw up? You've done mine already! But he had to play it out. Was there any point in making a scene? He had tried that once before and it hadn't really changed anything.

  He remembered the TV news footage from the previous week. He saw a brief flash of Jeff Ludd's face on the tube. He was alive then, red-cheeked, cocky. The blood hadn't flown from his brain yet, hadn't made his jowls go slack and puffy. Ludd was always playing the unassuming young millionaire, the genius who looked more like a computer nerd University student than a ruthless businessman. They had found him murdered in his electric car on Wednesday night.

  As soon as Rusty had heard about the death on the radio the next morning - something cold and quivery had unfolded in his midsection. He couldn't deny that he hadn't thought about how good it might feel to be rid of Ludd. He may have even said it out loud at some point, to a close friend, his ex-wife, his roommate or even an odd co-worker. But hearing that Ludd was finally gone, finally faded from Rusty's littered career path, well, it didn't feel good or healthy at all. It felt sick and dangerous.

  Ludd had molded himself into a media favorite. His death was a double blow against capitalism and the modern wonders of science. In the early nineties, he had formed a startup biotech company called GeneFab, with an old school buddy by the name of Rosenblatt.

  Two years ago they had demonstrated a prototype of a machine that modified DNA and cloned cells in minutes. The machine was white, sculpted in stainless steel and graphite - and loaded with new techno baubles. With a few swipes on the touch screen, the right voice commands, they claimed a user would be able to build a brand new gene. The Splicer, they called it, had the potential to become the microwave of the biology industry.

  Last year, GeneFab grossed over two billion dollars in international sales. This year they would have broken ten, and may still. Without actually producing a single machine yet.

  Rusty and the company's head programmer, Malcolm Grieves, were a handful of the first employees to join the company. They were supposed to be participating in juicy stock dividends right now, laying on a beach somewhere fantasizing about their next big software project. Instead, Grieves had spent almost two years in prison for theft of company secrets, and Rusty was sitting in a smelly holding cell.

  Last time Rusty paid a visit to the cop shop his roomies were just small time crooks- pickpockets and bicycle thieves. This time it would be the big time. Murderers row. Rusty shivered.

  He began to drift off when the door banged open.

  "Call from your lawyer," said a young detective in a blue sports coat. "I'll bring it in." He dragged a battered black phone in with a long cord, handed it to Rusty and pulled the door closed behind him. They had confiscated his cell phone during the arrest.

  Rusty put the phone to his ear, which smelled of Old Spice and tobacco. He said hello, then felt his heart rate increase.

  The voice on the other end wasn't his lawyer. It was David Quinn.

  CHAPTER 8

  An area known as MaRS, the Medical and Related Sciences Discovery District, encompassed several blocks of prime real estate near Queen’s Park in downtown Toronto which included Discovery Tower, a state-of-the-art wet lab housing dozens of small biotech start-ups. GeneFab’s impressive new headquarters formed the other cornerstone of the park, an eight story titanium and electrochromic glass structure that Ludd obsessed over for years

  The building was so advanced that portions of the plaza floor were made from self-healing concrete. Ludd would explain to visitors that the concrete had embedded clay that contained dormant bacteria and a food source. When a crack appeared in the concrete, water would seep in and activate the bacteria. When they awoke, the bacteria would eat their stored lunch and then conveniently excrete chalk, which would fill the crack. Another modern biotech wonder.

  The plaza alone cost ten million dollars to build.

  The main floor of GeneFab’s head-office housed Marketing; the next four floors peopled by some of the most impressive bio and science credentials on the planet - Nobel Prize winners, internationally recognized researchers. Among their team they currently held over 50 patents on DNA and genetic research.

  Rosenblatt ran the business from a relatively unassuming office, a twin to Ludd’s next door, which was currently cordoned off with yellow police tape. Jeff loved to spend money to impress shareholders, but he refused to pamper himself or his key execs. Rosenblatt hated his partner’s cheapness - the crappy cars, the bad clothes, the cheap glasses he bought online from some Chinese company for twenty-dollars. He never understood the point.

  Rosenblatt’s smart phone vibrated on his desk, so he tapped the speaker key. Security had two members of the Toronto police downstairs who would like to speak to him. Rosenblatt fidgeted and then told them to send them up to the top floor.

  When Rosenblatt arrived at reception, the police officers who had spoken to him a few days before, were waiting for him. Looks of impatience were written on their faces. They shook hands. "Mr. Rosenblatt? Inspector Kozak! And you'll remember Detective Otter. Have you got a few moments?"

  Rosenblatt led them down a hallway lined with abstract art, into a massive boardroom. He slid the wide glass door closed behind them.

  "This will only take a few minutes," offered Kozak. "We've arrested a suspect and wanted to ask you a few more questions."

  Rosenblatt hesitated, still standing.

  "We picked him up this morning," offered Otter.

  "Who?"

  "Angus ‘Rusty’ Redfield," said the cop, opening a small notebook.

  Rosenblatt knew they were watching his reaction. He could hardly act shocked.

  "I've got to tell you ... this ... surprises me," stammered Rosenblatt.

  "What surprises you, Mr. Rosenblatt?" asked Otter.

  The partner looked from one cop to the other. "That he could do something like that. Something that brutal. I knew he was planning something. Espionage. Start a fire. Maybe try planting a virus," added Rosenblatt. "But I never imagined murder. Never thought he was that desperate. "

  "How about Ludd? Did he ever argue with this guy? Any fights?" asked Kozak stonily.

  "He didn't like Redfield. After all, the guy tried to steal corporate secrets from us once. They had words. Never in front of the staff, though."

  Kozak gave him a patronizing smile. "Did he ever express any fears? Were there threats?"

  Rosenblatt looked to see if his fly was done up and smoothed the front of his shirt. "He would never admit to being afraid. It wouldn't fit his public image." He shook his head, hoping that was enough. Both cops were silent, staring ahead.

  "How did Redfield leave GeneFab?"

  "He just walked out," answered Rosenblatt, his voice a little higher, his words clipped.

  "Redfield had stated that both yourself and Mr. Ludd would have done anything to stop him from leaving and competing with you. You said in your testimony at last year’s fraud trial that you were afraid that he and Malcolm Grieves might seriously hurt your business. Might damage it 'beyond repair', as you said."

  "That was what we thought. We might have over-reacted. But if we hadn't ... clipped Grieves and Redfield, this company might be in real trouble" Rosenblatt was feeling warm. As if GeneFab’s not in trouble now.

  Otter read from his notes. "The evidence suggests that Redfield invited Ludd to the President’s Club. Ludd picked him up in his car. Theoretically Redfield then killed Ludd in the parking garage."

  Rosenblatt grimaced. "How?"

  Otter looked at Kozak who sat like a tired vulture, his eyes hooded and red. Kozak rubbed his eyes with hands that seemed to tremble slightly. "The murder weapon was unique. It will help us in our investigation if we don't make it public yet."

  "Oh," was all that Rosenblatt could muster.

  "It's going to be asked sooner or later then why Ludd would invite Redfield into his car if they were such enemies?" asked Otter.


  Rosenblatt looked puzzled. "You think so? If Redfield called me and said, listen, we've had our problems, but can we talk. I’d consider it. Even though he tried to punch me in front of the courthouse once.“ He didn't like the way that sounded, but he had thought about the logic behind Jeff meeting Rusty and it didn't totally make sense to him either.

  "As busy and important as Ludd was, he would put aside an evening to have a dinner meeting with someone he hated?" asked Kozak.

  "I don't think Jeff actually told me he was going to meet Redfield for dinner. You probably have that in your notes. But it says that in his meeting calendar on his desktop ... in fact, you've seen it."

  "Not admissible in court. Too easy to fake,” said Koz, pulling out his puffer and taking a hit.

  “But Rusty did meet Ludd at the President’s Club. Right?"

  Otter said flatly, looking through the glass at the modern office space, so unlike the one he worked in. "We have very little evidence of that. We have no fingerprints, no eye witnesses, nobody saw them together ... "

  "And you’re absolutely certain that Ludd never mentioned meeting Redfield for dinner?" asked Kozak, his voice raw from too much smoke.

  "No, I'm not certain," answered Rosenblatt.

  "What did he say?"

  "He mentioned Redfield at one point. We got on to the trade show he was preparing for in Las Vegas that Redfield used to always put together. He was excited and worried at the same time. But he was definitely concerned about how he would organize the Las Vegas show without Redfield’s technical help."

  "Do you remember anything else? Did he talk about his plans for the day?"

  "He had some sort of communication with Rusty Redfield that day. Or the day before. I don't know if it was by phone or email, but it worried him. That's pretty much it."

  "So, what happens to GeneFab now?"

  Rosenblatt swallowed loudly. "Jeff was the scientist, I'm just the operations manager. Our board may decide to hire a new CEO. "

  "Why?"

  "We need to replace Jeff. This is a very complex field."

  "Would you consider selling?"

  "If it was the right match."

  "And how much would you stand to make if GeneFab sold?"

  Rosenblatt hesitated. He wasn’t expecting the question. "That's kind of a personal question, isn't it?"

  "Not to the courts. Not to us. A Million?"

  Rosenblatt fidgeted. His color had risen and his cheeks were flushed. "A lot more."

  "Five? Ten?"

  Rosenblatt was thinking that these guys were really out to lunch when it came to evaluating a hot technology firm.

  "As a guess, I would say 500 hundred million." Rosenblatt was purposefully guessing low. But then, the way things were going, with the stock value dropping, anything was possible.

  The two cops couldn’t hide their surprise. "What about Ludd? Did he want to sell?"

  "We talked about it. Not that often, but we had conversations."

  Otter read from his police notes. "Ludd was quoted in some issue of Science and Technology. I got this from one of the technicians - saying he would never sell his shares in GeneFab, that these other companies were only interested in raping his technology."

  "That was Jeff. Always quotable. The fact is - if the price is right, you sell."

  "I hope the jury sees it that way."

  "What do you mean?" asked Rosenblatt.

  "I'm saying killing Ludd has only earned our friend Rusty Redfield a chance for free room and board for 25 years. In your case, and Mrs. Ludd's ... well, you both come out looking more like candidates for the next episode of the Secret Lives of the Rich and Famous. I would call that motive."

  CHAPTER 9

  "They took you upstairs again?" Rusty’s lawyer asked. Rusty didn't answer right away. He still couldn’t believe he was in jail again.

  "Koz thinks that sending me into lockup with a bunch of hard cases will soften me up. Told me they would clean my fucking clock quote, un-quote. He's a sweetheart."

  "His tune hasn't changed." Jayne pushed her hair over her right ear. "You OK?" she asked simply, opening her leather folder. She was wearing a silky-looking dark green blouse and faded jeans. It was a question she might ask any one of dozens of her criminal clients.

  "I'm scared. I'm pissed off." Rusty checked these thoughts off with his fingers, as if he was going through inventory. "I'm working my way through disbelief and into depression...”

  "You look like you're holding up." There was no smile, just the guarded look of a big sister - or a parole officer.

  "I cover up well. It's an old sales trick I learned." He ran his fingers through his hair and sat up. "I almost hate to say this, but I missed you".

  "Why do you hate to say it?" She had her hand in her brief case, eyes down.

  "Because with you, the only way I get to see you is when I’m arrested."

  She shook her head, her eyes dark. "Rusty, this is no date. And this is definitely not going to be a walk-in-the-park." She rubbed the back of her neck. "People are calling this an assassination. As if a head of state was murdered. Last time you sidestepped the machinery - this time it’s on course and tracking. And if you haven't noticed already, this is one of those cases that are getting everyone's juices flowing. I've already fielded two calls from international news services. GeneFab is big internationally. A lot of political interest. This just may be the media feeding frenzy of the decade."

  Rusty didn't remember her being this serious before.

  "I really hope you have an alibi for where you were on Wednesday night so we can keep this short and sweet," Jayne said. Rusty flinched. Jayne paused. "What about your wife? She with you?" Jayne didn't like the look she was getting. A frown passed over her features.

  Rusty hesitated. "Shay and I have been separated ... I hate that word. Sounds like something you do to a dairy product. We've been apart for about a year. And I guess if you're apart for a year, that's as good as being unattached, right?" Jayne still looked unconvinced. "We don't live together anymore."

  "Sorry."

  "That's O.K! Another decade or so and I'll be over it. By the way, Quinn sends his regards."

  Jayne raised an eyebrow, wrinkling an all but perfect forehead.

  "Quinn?"

  "He called me this morning. Wanted to know if I was all right. Whether I needed anything. Like a gun to shoot myself." Quinn used to be Jayne's boss, head partner of the biggest criminal law firm in the country.

  "How did he find out about...?"

  "Shay. My ex. Quinn's the other side of that split equation I was trying to avoid, if you haven't guessed already."

  Jayne waited, not comprehending.

  "My ex-wife and Quinn are an item, as they say in the gossip columns." Jayne whistled softly. "We're very adult about it though. Nobody is suing anybody or threatening anyone. I've conceded to the little guy. Like that's a big surprise."

  She shook her head. "You're not kidding, are you? You know that I no longer work for Quinn?" Something was worrying her.

  "Of course. You left his firm right near the end of my first trial. It's got nothing to do with the case. In fact, it has nothing to do with lawyers. She has expensive tastes. She tires quickly of macaroni and cheese. That’s all it is. Impoverished defendants don't fit into her lifestyle."

  "You're trying to make light of this. You're not bitter?"

  "Is that a motive?" Rusty sat back and crossed his legs. "Sorry. Not funny. I'm nearly recovered on the subject of Shay. See? I can say her name without weeping. It’s just Quinn that bothers me. Why did he call me? Does he feel guilty?"

  Jayne thought for a moment. "Quinn's Quinn. Has a huge practice, partners coming out of the woodwork. Imported monkey wood by the way is about a six hundred dollars a two by four." Quinn had a thing for monkey wood. His office reeked of it.

  "Are we talking about the same guy? Jayne, I wish him all the best of luck in his legal career. I just wish he'd stop rubbing himself in my face
every couple of weeks."

  Rusty slapped the table in frustration and looked across the room. Jayne jumped slightly. Several tables over a longhaired youth was arguing with a fat attorney who turned to look in Rusty's direction. "Sorry. Just wanted to see if this was a bad dream. Looks like it's not." He picked up and rubbed his hand. "So how are things at Osgood & McEwan?"

  "You mean McEwan & Osgood. Very busy. In fact, I'm far too busy to take your case and do it justice."

  Rusty's mouth fell open slightly. "No pun intended. Maybe you should consider Quinn. He likes the limelight." She smiled apologetically and tapped her fingernails on the worn arborite table top, noting the scrawled graffiti on the desk, some of it there since the 70's. "But I'll help you now with your bail hearing. Get you out of this place before you start to make friends." She was looking for a reaction from him, any kind of reaction that told her he couldn't possibly have done it. This shouldn't normally matter, but in this case, it might. She looked into his eyes, which he held without turning.

  "Rusty," she started carefully, "they're saying that this was the worst possible time for Ludd to die. He was about to launch something at an industry trade show that would be the biggest thing since the personal computer. It would create thousands of jobs. Make everyone, including the government, billions." Rusty glared at her. She noted again that there was nothing special about his looks, but she was struck by what some might call his plain Irish determination. Despite his unruly hair and disheveled appearance there was strength there. He wasn't going to make this any easier for her.

  "They want this thing to be over. Your case. And fast. As you know, fast isn't good."

  Rusty shook his head. "Fast sounds perfect. But I don't believe it. I've seen this cranky justice thing in motion and it's not pretty. We'll still be strategizing about this case three years from now."