The Boswell Hotel was one of those ritzy, downtown glamour hotels with a lobby big enough to fit Colby's entire apartment with room to walk around the edges. The windows that let out onto the street weren't just two stories tall, but three. The chandelier alone looked to be the size of a moderately sized elephant. This year's décor had decided upon gold, with a hint of red to indicate wealth above and beyond the grasp of mere mortals. The tile on the floor of the lobby was beige with gold flecks, the furniture was upholstered in gold velvet, and even the help was required to wear gold-colored jackets to suggest that they were part of the hotel furnishings. Colby idly wondered if they got paid enough to work in this place. He suspected so; paying decent wages led to good people getting hired, the type who made the effort and gave this dump its good name for putting up with the shenanigans of the people who stayed here. In fact, Colby thought uncomfortably, the hired help here probably earned as much as he himself did. Maybe more, after tips. Definitely more, after failing to report those tips to the IRS.
Not what he was here for, and neither was David Sinclair. His fellow agent was trailing him by some three feet, eyes peeled for anyone who looked like the man in Ian Edgerton's photo. That same image was burning a hole in Colby's pocket. The person that they were looking for was a male Caucasian, forty to fifty years old, dark brown hair with a hint of gray at the temples, and a smooth and unlined face. Ian had added that the dude was some six feet tall, give or take an inch or two. There were some half a dozen people in the lobby who met the description—this was, after all, L.A., where people routinely came in good-looking sizes, shapes, and colors—but none looked like the face in the photo.
Colby approached the desk, pulling out his identification. "Granger, FBI," he introduced himself quietly. No need to advertise the fact that the FBI was on the premises—not yet, anyway.
The hotel concierge lifted one supercilious eyebrow. "How may I help you, sir?" he inquired.
Colby extracted the photo. "Have you seen this man before?"
The concierge didn't need to look at the photo. "No, sir."
Colby dropped his voice by half an octave. "Look, guy, I'm not here to make trouble for you or this place that you work for or for the paying customers who can't decide whether they want peace and quiet or the publicity that comes with raising a ruckus. All I want to know is where this dude is. You give me that, and I go away quietly. Your patrons and your bosses stay happy," he added. "Capish?" He proffered the photo once more. "Ever seen this guy before? Remember, you're talkin' to the FBI, not just LAPD."
The concierge's eyes widened for just an instant, and Colby knew the answer.
He didn't push. Not yet.
The concierge sighed heavily. "It is the policy of the Boswell Hotel that we do not discuss the affairs of our patrons," he intoned, "not even when they reside in room 1217, and especially when we are aware that they are out for the day, conducting whatever business they are in town to conduct. Nor may I inform you that a single cab belonging to the Sunny Skies Taxi Service was outside at the curb, waiting for customers, at the time that many, many of our patrons were exiting the hotel."
Colby pocketed the photo. "I understand completely," he said, pulling back as much sarcasm as he could manage. "Thank you for your time. It's too bad that you didn't have any information for me," he couldn't help but add.
"I quite agree, sir. And I hope that, some time in the future, you will be able to spend some of your leisure time with us."
Colby took his leave, David trailing him. "At these prices? Not in this lifetime."
They withdrew to the far corner of the massive lobby to regroup. "What do you think?" Colby asked under his breath. "You want to try getting into his room?"
"On what pretense?" David asked. "No judge in the world is going to issue a warrant for a search, not without a stronger line connecting the dots. The hotel management—and I'm not talking our friend over there in the gold jacket—is going to demand some serious legal paper if we go that route and by then we might as well hold up a sign saying, 'paging the murderer of Barry Goldwasser'. And that's assuming that we could make the case that he's the murderer, which is a long stretch to begin with, Colby."
"You're right," Colby was forced to admit. "You want to try a stake out, put somebody in the lobby to watch for the guy?"
"Not the worst idea I've heard," David thought. "Maybe we can see if there's a rookie somewhere? I don't think we could persuade anyone else to spend all day here."
Colby disagreed. "Anna Maria would. You know how star-crazy she is. She'd enjoy a chance to sit here, watching for celebs along with our suspect."
David snickered. "You got it." He pulled out his cell. "One Anna Maria DiFilippo, celeb-watcher, coming up."
This was a pleasure, Don decided. He was actually dealing with someone helpful, for a change, and he commanded his inclination to bark to settle down and take a back seat.
He and Ian were at the Sunny Skies Taxi dispatch office with the dispatcher slash owner of the small business, and the man was honestly trying to figure out which of his dozen employees had picked up a fare at approximately ten in the morning at the Boswell Hotel a few days ago.
"Nope, not Frankie, and not Rashid or Heather," he muttered to himself, tugging on the tiny goatee that hadn't truly decided if it was going to cooperate by growing in fully. "They worked nights. Heather doesn't usually, but she had an audition the day before, and switched. It could have been Tulip."
"Tulip?" Ian was amused by the name.
"Yeah. He's got some other name that nobody can pronounce, so we just call him Tulip. When we're not calling him other names," the dispatcher muttered darkly. "Yo, FlowerPot! Come in. You got a fare?"
There was a burst of static, which the dispatcher understood and Don and Ian did not.
"Right. Listen, you pick up a fare at the Boswell, like two-three days ago around ten AM?"
Another burst.
"Yeah, that's the one. Listen, I got some FBI guys here, need to talk to you. You finish your fare and come on in, hear?"
Another short round of static, this time distinctly unhappy.
Don correctly interpreted this one. "Tell 'im I'll give him a twenty for being a good citizen."
The dispatcher nodded gratefully, and passed on the message. "Thanks, guy. Every minute they're not hauling, they're losing money and some of these guys are living on the edge to begin with. He ain't no citizen, neither. He's one of them immigrants, got a green card and everything. I checked; I'm an upstanding employer. I play by the rules, don't want no trouble here." He glanced at the dog-eared map tacked to the wall; a far cry from the maps for which Charlie would use the office projector to set up his demonstrations to Don's team. "Tulip'll get here in about twenty. Make yourselves comfortable, guys. I ain't got no coffee here, but there's a Starbuck's across the street if you wanna get."
"Thanks," Don told him, withdrawing to let the dispatcher get back to work. They waited until their potential witness rolled in through the garage and parked his cab.
'Tulip' turned out to be one of the biggest men that Don had ever come across. He looked to be close to seven feet tall, and Don was willing to concede that the vast majority of two hundred fifty pounds was muscle. The man was huge!
He was also not happy. He was nervous, and it showed.
"I have rights," he told the pair upon entering the small antechamber where Don and Ian were waiting for him. His voice was cultured, bearing a hint of the Queen's English. Africa, Don decided, was where this man had been born, one of the former English colonies, and where the man had left to try to make a better life for himself. He was probably sending money home for relatives, to keep them from starving, Don thought. This was not a man who was a career criminal.
The man also refused to sit. "I have done nothing wrong, and I have the right to an attorney."
"Hey, slow down," Don protested. "Listen, we're not here to hassle you. All we want is some information about a fare you picked up a couple days ago at the Boswell. You remember anything like that?"
"I will take my test to become a United States citizen in two days." Tulip wasn't finished, and he was having a hard time letting go of his fear.
"That's a good thing," Ian told him, "and you're doing another good thing by talking to us. We're after a murderer, and we think you may have picked him up at the Boswell. What can you tell us?"
"You're not going to deport me?"
"You're here legally, right?" Don leaned back in his chair and looked up at him.
"That is correct. My papers are in order."
"And you're studying to become a U.S. citizen."
"That is also correct. I take my examination in two days. I can recite the Preamble, the First Amendment which is the right to free speech—"
"I got it," Don interrupted hastily. "Let's move on to this fare that you picked up." He slid the twenty from his wallet across the coffee table toward Tulip, to try to steer the conversation back to the matter at hand as well as convince the witness that the two FBI agents had no intention of hauling his large and well-muscled ass over to Immigration. "Sit down and talk, guy. Ever seen this man?" he asked, pushing the photo over to sit beside the twenty.
"Yes, sir, I have." There was no doubt in Tulip's tone. "I was waiting at the Boswell Hotel for the next fare to come out. The line of cabs was short, and many people were taking cabs that morning. I moved up to first in line. This man came out, and the doorman ushered him to my cab, as I was the next in line and it was my turn to receive a fare."
"Where did you take him?" Ian asked. Only Don could sense the tension in the sniper. Not a muscle was out of place, but Don could feel the excitement rising.
"I took him to 1415 West Hanover," Tulip announced. "I took him by a direct route. I did not overcharge him. I did not take detours in order to make more money."
"West Hanover? You're sure?"
"I am sure," Tulip avowed. "He gave me a good tip."
Don explored it further. "Did he say anything during the drive? Make any phone calls?"
Tulip frowned. This was not part of his carefully remembered script. "I…"
"Think," Don urged. "You'd look back in the mirror every now and again. Did he maybe pull out his wallet?"
The eyebrows furrowed. "I believe…I believe that he spoke on his cell phone. Yes, I am sure of it. His cell phone."
"Why did he say?"
"I did not listen to a private conversation," Tulip informed him virtuously.
Not buying it. "Didn't hear any words at all? Not one?"
"Well…" There was some wrestling with a certain conscience. "Perhaps I heard the word: detonation."
And after that, Tulip didn't listen to anything else. Right. Don leaned forward. "What other words?"
It was like pulling teeth. Slowly, Don and Ian pieced the tale together from the bits that Tulip remembered.
Tulip's passenger had received the call some half way through the drive. The discussion had been centered around some project in development, something that went boom. Tulip's impression was that his passenger was facilitating the deployment of personnel to build the thing, and that there were a number of high level flunkies who were very excited over its possibilities. Tulip had deposited his passenger at 1415 West Hanover, and that had been the end of it as far as Tulip was concerned.
Ian looked at Don. "I think we've got our next target, Eppes."
Don nodded. "What say we research this place a little before we go busting in? I'd like to know what's behind door number two."
Tulip couldn't stand the suspense. "Am I in trouble?" he wanted to know. "Can I still take my citizenship exam?"
Don pulled a business card out of his pocket, scribbling something on the back. "Guy, you take that exam proudly. You've earned it." He stood up. "C'mon, Ian. We're finished with this gentleman." He led the way out.
Tulip looked at the card: Don Eppes, Special Agent, Federal Bureau of Investigation. On the back, Don had written: I heartily endorse this man for citizenship in the United States of America.
It was going to be a small group left behind, Charlie thought to himself, watching as the limousines carted away the unneeded geniuses. More than a dozen had packed their bags after a single day of cerebral effort, their contributions not needed for this project. A single day or two weeks, and the paycheck remained the same. They would be returning to their homes, still unaware of the exact location of the lodge. Most had been flown via private jet to a local airport, and would be restored to their homes via the same vehicle; it was only Charlie who had figured out exactly where they were. Even Bob DeNatale, the mechanical engineer who lived south of L.A. and had likewise been ferried in by limo, hadn't figured it out. Charlie wasn't about to enlighten them; there was no question but that it would upset his temporary employers. It wasn't worth the trouble.
Charlie wasn't certain if he envied his departing compatriots or not. Sure, it was flattering to have his project picked for further development by this AutoDyne corporation, but his Cognitive Emergence work was calling and there was a certain hypothesis that was wiggling itself to the forefront of his brain. Writing it down just wasn't good enough. Charlie really wanted to get back to his office and his own laptop to see if that mini hypothesis had a chance of making it into the final version.
On the other hand, this was important work. Supporting the troops overseas, designing a weapon that would take out enemy bombs without killing either American soldiers or innocent civilians was certainly valuable and would have a major impact on the war on terrorism. It was nothing to be cast aside lightly. Two weeks spent designing the tool in the presence of some of the most gifted minds of the century was an extremely small price to pay.
There were already contracts ready for Drs. Jeter and Whimsey, and Charlie realized that Tanvey had been busy setting up the new jobs overnight. That didn't surprise him—military research and development companies were noted for their ability to swiftly go after what they needed—but what did cause him to wonder was that Tanvey hadn't offered any additional inducements to the holdouts: Professors Husinger and McKenzie, as well as Charlie himself. The negotiations for continued services had been perfunctory and almost ham-handed, compared to what Charlie was used to. Who was this 'AutoDyne' company that Tanvey worked for? Don would know, and Charlie resolved to ask his brother once he got home.
Didn't really matter at the moment. Charlie was once again ready to work: he'd done his usual morning run, the same security man/bell hop trailing behind, and had joined the rest of his colleagues in a buffet breakfast that was far heavier than his usual slapdash gotta-get-moving early morning food fest. His morning jog had made up for it; the place was still beautiful, and the crisp mountain air always cleaned out his lungs from the Los Angeles smog that Charlie routinely inhaled. He'd been once again turned away from the longer route, the guard warning him of potential mud slides, but that didn't bother Charlie. The slope was beautiful.
The remaining five researchers met once more in the conference room, the same computers available for use. All five laptops had been hard-wired together so that each could easily transmit data back and forth as they worked to design the finished project. Charlie idly turned on his own, waiting for the innards to go through their electronic dance before being ready to work.
"This stuff is being recorded elsewhere," Dr. Jeter announced to the air.
Husinger looked up. "Yes?"
"Neat little program," she told them all. "Actually, I had a hand in designing it a few years ago. You slide it in, and it copies every keystroke and sends it to another computer somewhere. The CIA liked it, and I think a few other intelligence agencies are using it. Private industry wanted it, but I don't think they've been allowed to have it yet. At least, I didn't think so until now. I may be wrong."
"It suggests that this might be a cover for the military instead of a private tech company," Charlie said, thoughts flying. "I've never heard of AutoDyne. Anybody else?"
"Not me," McKenzie said.
Whimsey had, and said so. "They've done work for the military, so I'll assume that they have access to some military toys. It would only make sense." He paused. "No, wait, that was another company with a similar name. I think…I really can't remember names, and such. That doesn't change the point; if this company has done work for the military, they have a chance at accessing some of the better tech toys. I would think that they would get your program, Amelia, if they could demonstrate a reasonable need."
Amelia Jeter frowned. "You think? I don't. The military tends to be pretty tight with things like that. If you haven't designed it yourself, you're not likely to get it. At least, not in my experience."
"So what's going on?" Husinger asked, keeping his voice down. "Who are these 'AutoDyne' folks? Should we be asking a few more questions?"
"Wouldn't hurt," was McKenzie's opinion.
Dr. Jeter agreed. "I think I'm going to hold off signing any contract until I have a chance to do a little more checking," she decided. "Certainly with my attorney, if not with some of my Washington contacts. You, Whimsey?"
Whimsey offered a tight smile. "The job offer for my son-in-law is tempting, but not that tempting. Indeed, more research is in order." He gestured at the laptop in front of him. "Of both types. Shall we continue?"
"I've got a better idea," Jeter jumped in. "We're working on some cutting edge stuff here. What say we put it under our own lock and key? I can do some encryption that will scramble their recordings." She smiled crookedly. "And I'll bet Professor Eppes here can build us a cipher that will prevent them from unlocking it, even if they do manage to decrypt it."
McKenzie nodded slowly. "Do that. Just to be on the safe side," he added. "Professor Eppes?"
"A five-sided cipher," Charlie told them. "It should be almost impossible to break. There'll be a public key, and we'll each of us have our own private key. Without all of us, the rest of the keys will be useless. That should protect this work as much as anything can." He grinned. "This won't take long. Everyone, think of a word that means something to you and none of the rest of us would know. I'll develop the individual keys, and then you can insert the trigger." He looked out the window at the bright morning sun shining through the trees. "This will keep us all safe."
