The Green Trap Read online

  “Cyanobacteria,” Gould mused. Cochrane realized that the man had heard the term before; it wasn’t new to him.

  “Mike was doing research on cyanobacteria,” Cochrane said.

  “What was the basis of your partnership deal?” Sandoval asked.

  Gould smiled coldly at her. “If you don’t know, why should I tell you? I brought you here because I need to know what you know. Not vice versa.”

  Cochrane looked at Sandoval, who had frozen her face into an impassive mask. Then he turned to Gould, who was frowning.

  “We appear to be at an impasse,” Gould said. “Which is not good.”

  “Who murdered my brother?” Cochrane demanded.

  “How should I know?”

  “What was he doing that was worth millions to you?”

  Gould shook his head. “No, it doesn’t work that way, Dr. Cochrane. I’m perfectly willing to exchange information with you, but you seem to have nothing to exchange with me.”

  “Look,” Cochrane said, feeling exasperated, “all I’m interested in is finding Mike’s murderer. I don’t give a damn about whatever it was that he was researching.”

  “I’m afraid you don’t make much of a detective, then,” said Gould. “If you can uncover the details of his latest work, you will undoubtedly find his murderer. The two are inextricably linked, I’m convinced of that.”

  Sandoval said softly, “So we get back to the question of why you were willing to offer Michael Cochrane millions of dollars for a partnership deal.”

  Gould leaned back in his desk chair and thought about that for a few moments. “Yes, that’s exactly where we get to.”

  “Was it about BMAA?” Cochrane asked. “Was Mike working on some new biological weapon?”

  “Hardly that,” Gould replied. “Although, I must admit, if one of the spin-offs from this research is a useful bioweapon, that in itself could be of considerable value.”

  “Suppose,” Sandoval said slowly, “Paul and I agree to work for you and find his brother’s research results—the material you were going to pay him for? What would that be worth to you?”

  “What would I pay you, you mean?”

  “You were willing to pay Paul’s brother millions, you said.”

  “For the results of his research, yes,” said Gould. “An exclusive partnership. Exclusive.”

  “And if we could dig out the results of his research?” she asked. “How much would that be worth to you?”

  “A considerable sum.”

  “Millions?”

  “Millions.”

  “Ten million?”

  Gould pursed his lips. Then he nodded. “Ten million dollars. For the data I want. Payment on receipt of the information.”

  She glanced at Cochrane, then said, “I think we can get the information for you—on those terms.”

  Gould slowly rose to his feet and extracted a stiff white calling card from the pocket of his unbuttoned vest. He handed the card to Sandoval. “That will be good. That will be excellent!”

  CESSNA CITATION VII:

  38,000 FEET ABOVE NEBRASKA

  Kensington sipped on a Diet Coke and stared out at the endless expanse of gray cloud far below. He didn’t like flying; he much preferred to keep his feet solidly on the ground. But he had to admit, if you’ve got to fly, Gould’s personal executive jet was the way to do it. Beats standing in airport lines and jamming your butt into an overcrowded airliner.

  The Citation VII could accommodate eight passengers, but Kensington and Gould were the only two aboard. Up front in the cockpit were the pilot and copilot. No flight attendant. Kensington thought that a cute and willing stewardess would be a fine addition to the luxuries of this flight. These seats are big enough for two, he thought. Especially when you crank them back. Almost as big as a bed.

  Gould was sitting in the facing chair, on the telephone, as usual: a plug in one of his tiny pink ears and a pinmike practically touching his whispering lips. He’s either on the phone or on the computer, Kensington said to himself. I could be screwing two stewardesses right in front of him and he wouldn’t even notice.

  So he was surprised when Gould plucked the plug out of his ear and said to him, “You look unhappy.”

  “Me?” Kensington shrugged his broad shoulders. “I got no complaints.”

  “None whatsoever?” Neither man had to raise his voice. The cabin’s acoustic insulation was so good that the noise of the plane’s twin jet engines was little more than a background purr.

  “None whatsoever,” said Kensington.

  “What do you think of this man Cochrane?”

  “The one with Sandoval?”

  Gould leaned forward in his seat, his cold brown eyes focused intently on Kensington’s face. “Yes, him.”

  “He looks like a wimp, but I think maybe he’s got some guts. He’s smart enough to know when he’s overmatched.”

  “And Sandoval?”

  “She’d make a good hooker.”

  Gould made a sound that might have been a grunt, or perhaps a stifled laugh.

  “You really offered her ten mil to find what you’re looking for?” Kensington asked.

  “If the deceased Dr. Cochrane actually found what he claimed to have found, the results could be worth hundreds of millions,” Gould said fervently. “Thousands of millions. The results could change the entire world!”

  “If the guy really found it—whatever it is.”

  Gould smiled slyly. “Yes. Whatever it is.”

  “You know what it is, don’t you?”

  “I know what the late Dr. Cochrane promised to deliver to me. A breathtaking breakthrough. Absolutely breathtaking.”

  “If it’s real.”

  “Yes.” Gould nodded. “If it’s real.”

  “You think they already know what it is? Sandoval and the stiff’s brother?”

  “No, they appear to be totally ignorant about the man’s research work.”

  Kensington considered that for a moment. “I could find out how much they know. Wouldn’t take more’n a half hour or so.”

  “The way you found out how much Arashi knew?” Gould shook his head hard enough to make his wattle quiver.

  Kensington sank deeper into his seat. “You’re the boss,” he muttered. But he thought about what it would be like to interrogate Sandoval. Could be fun. All sorts of fun.

  TUCSON:

  SUNRISE APARTMENTS

  Sandoval had been absolutely silent while Kensington had driven her and Cochrane back to the apartment block. Nor had Cochrane much to say.

  Now, though, as they stepped through the front door of his apartment, Cochrane asked, “Ten million dollars? On a handshake?”

  She dug her cell phone out of her handbag, then dropped the bag on the slim table by the door. “It must be worth enormously more to Gould,” she said, tapping on the phone’s tiny keyboard.

  “Who’re you calling?”

  “Airline. I’ve got to see Tulius again. He knows more than he’s told us. A lot more.”

  “We’re going back to Palo Alto?”

  “I am. I can get more out of Tulius alone than I can with you along.”

  Cochrane froze in the middle of the living room. Yeah, he said to himself, and I know just how you’d do it.

  He reached out and yanked the phone out of her hand, then tossed it across the room, onto the sofa.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, her eyes going wide.

  “We’ve got to get a few things straight,” he said.

  “Oh, for—”

  “Last night was great. But did it mean anything to you, or was it just your way of keeping me in line?”

  Her mouth clenched into a bitter line. “Don’t go macho on me, Paul.”

  “It’s not machismo. I just need to know where I stand.”

  Shaking her head, “How should I know? We just met a couple of days ago. With all this going on—”

  “With all this going on you went to bed with me last night.” />
  “Yes,” she said, smiling slightly. “That’s right.”

  “And now you’re going off to see Tulius.”

  “Paul, don’t be possessive.”

  “I’m not being possessive,” he said, realizing the truth of it as he spoke. “I’m just trying to figure out if there might come a time when you and I could be serious.”

  “I’m not a whore, if that’s what you mean.”

  “But you’ll go to bed with Tulius if that’s what it takes.”

  “For ten million dollars? Damned right I will!”

  Cochrane turned and walked slowly to the sofa, picked up the cell phone and held it out to her at arm’s length. She stood there by the front door, motionless, her face unreadable.

  “You know Gould’s not going to part with ten million,” he said. “He’ll take whatever we can dig up for him and then let Kensington or some other hired goon kill us. Just like he did to my brother.”

  “I don’t think he killed your brother.”

  “Somebody did. And Gould thinks whatever Mike was doing is worth a lot of money.”

  She seemed to soften, her face relaxing into an uncertain, almost vulnerable expression. Moving to him, Sandoval said, “Paul, I want to find out who killed your brother, too. Whether we like it or not, though, we’re involved in something big. Very big.”

  She took the phone from his hand.

  “Last night was a beginning for us, Paul. But only a beginning. We can’t build any kind of relationship while all this is going on. You can see that, can’t you?”

  He nodded wordlessly. But he thought, You’re an actress, Elena Sandoval. A damned good one, but an actress nevertheless. I was a damned fool to think otherwise, even for a microsecond.

  “I’ll talk to Tulius,” she said, clutching the phone in one hand. “Talk. That’s all. I promise.”

  “And I’ll stay here?”

  “You’ve got to go through those computer files that Mitsuo brought us and pull out every shred of information about your brother’s work. That’s vital, Paul!”

  “Uh-huh. Vital.”

  “I’ll come back here. I’ll move my things from the inn.”

  Cochrane told himself, That’s the deal. She’ll sleep with you as long as you’re useful to her.

  “Okay,” he said reluctantly. “You go talk with Tulius. I’ll wait here for you.”

  She smiled and twined her arms around his neck. “I promise you, Paul. I’ll be back as quickly as I can. If I have to stay overnight I’ll phone you from my hotel.”

  “Yeah.”

  He went to his desk and booted up the computer while she phoned for an airline reservation. He even plugged into the Internet to print her boarding pass and hotel confirmation. Then he drove her to the Arizona Inn, where she checked out and moved her luggage to his apartment.

  They went to a nearby restaurant, Le Bistro, for dinner. Cochrane hardly tasted the food. She was tense, too, knowing that he was on the edge of anger. They finished a bottle of Chablis, but that didn’t help. They drove back to his apartment and went to bed. That did help.

  In the morning, Cochrane drove her to the airport. By the time he got back to his apartment, two uniformed police—a man and a woman—were waiting for him out on the parking lot.

  “You’re Paul Cochrane?” the female officer asked as he got out of his car.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re wanted for questioning in the homicide of some guy named Mitsuo Arashi.”

  White House Calls for

  New Technology as

  Solution to Energy

  Problems

  WASHINGTON—Saying that “this problem did not develop overnight and it’s not going to be solved overnight,” presidential science adviser Maxwell Bishop issued a call for new technological developments to help solve national and global energy problems.

  The president’s science adviser said that nuclear power generation, hybrid automobiles and new types of fuels to replace gasoline must all be pursued to ease the nation’s dependence on oil imported from overseas. He suggested a combination of federal grants, tax breaks and other incentives to stimulate “innovation and invention.”

  “Technology is the ticket,” he said. “It’s time to turn the genius of American scientists and engineers to solving our energy problems.”

  — ARIZONA DAILY STAR

  May 14, 2005

  TUCSON:

  POLICE HEADQUARTERS

  All that Cochrane had ever seen of police stations had been in movies and television shows, where they always looked grungy, hard-used. He imagined they smelled of sweat and fear and urine.

  Tucson police headquarters, though, was clean and modern and new-looking. Even the slats of the window blinds pulled down against the morning sun looked as if they’d recently been thoroughly sponged down. Cochrane smelled coffee perking somewhere. The squad room buzzed quietly with men and women in street clothes talking intently on telephones or leaning across their desks to ask questions of suspects and witnesses.

  The two officers showed Cochrane to what looked more like a small conference room than an interrogation cell: blinds on the windows, an oblong table with molded plastic chairs, a TV screen built into the back wall.

  “Lieutenant Danvers will be with you in a minute, sir,” said the female officer.

  Cochrane looked around as the officers left and closed the door. No one-way mirror, as far as he could tell. No surveillance camera up in the ceiling or anywhere else in view. He pulled up a chair and sat where he could see the door, thinking, Lieutenant Danvers. In Palo Alto it was two sergeants. I’m coming up in the world.

  The door opened and Lieutenant Danvers stepped in. She was a small African-American woman, almost petite except for being obviously overweight. Too many doughnuts, Cochrane found himself thinking. Her skin was the color of dark chocolate. She wore a starched white blouse and a knee-length navy blue skirt. Her hair was iron-gray, but her face looked more like a kindly aunt or youngish grandmother than a police officer.

  “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Dr. Cochrane,” she began, walking past him and taking the chair at the head of the table. She placed a black notebook and a television remote control wand on the tabletop. Cochrane noted that she carried a pistol in a holster tucked into the waistband of her skirt. “We had to set up a videophone connection with the Palo Alto police.”

  Before Cochrane could say anything, the TV screen came to life and Sergeant McLain’s puffy-eyed face stared out at him.

  “Sergeant McLain,” Cochrane said.

  “You’ve got another dead body on your hands,” McLain said, smiling sardonically.

  Lieutenant Danvers said, “We’re here to determine if there’s a connection between the murder of Mitsuo Arashi and”—she glanced down at her notebook—”Dr. Michael Cochrane.”

  She looked up at Cochrane. “Your brother?”

  He nodded.

  “What can you tell us about Mr. Arashi?” Danvers asked.

  “Not much. I didn’t really know him.”

  “We have information that says otherwise.”

  “Information? From who?”

  “You had dinner two nights ago with him and a third person, a woman.”

  McLain jumped in. “Was that the same woman you were with when you talked to Dr. Tulius at the Calvin labs?”

  Cochrane started to answer, then hesitated.

  “You’re not under arrest, Dr. Cochrane,” said Danvers gently. “We would appreciate any help you can give us.”

  “I only met Arashi a few nights ago,” he said. “I had dinner with him.”

  “We already know that,” McLain said.

  “And that’s it.” Cochrane spread his hands, palms up. “That’s all I know about him. He was interested in the research my brother was doing. He asked me what I knew about it and I told him I didn’t know a damned thing. Which is the truth.”

  “Is it?” McLain snapped.

  “Dr. Cochrane,” Danvers asked m
ore reasonably, “do you think there’s a connection between your brother’s murder and Mr. Arashi’s?”

  “They were both beaten to death,” McLain said.

  The picture of Mike’s battered face flashed into Cochrane’s mind again. He shook his head. “I don’t know if there’s a connection,” he said to Danvers.

  “But you said Mr. Arashi asked you about your brother’s work.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  McLain said, “So the chances are that whoever killed your brother offed Arashi, too.”

  “I suppose so.”

  Danvers glanced down at her notebook again. “Now, about this woman who was with you and Mr. Arashi—”

  “I’m sorry,” said Cochrane, “but I don’t want to talk about her.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s personal.”

  “But you can tell us her name, at least.”

  “I’d rather not,” Cochrane said, wondering as he spoke why he was protecting Sandoval. Because she slept with me? That meant as much to her as brushing her teeth, he thought. Still, he balked at bringing her name into the police investigation.

  “We could place you under arrest,” McLain threatened.

  “Then I’d have to get myself a lawyer,” Cochrane countered.

  Danvers sighed. “Dr. Cochrane, we don’t want this to get messy. But there have been two murders and they appear to be connected. We need your help.”

  “I’ve told you what I know.”

  “Not the name of the woman involved in this,” said McLain.

  Cochrane decided that if he wanted to keep Sandoval’s name from them, he’d better stop talking to them altogether. He pushed his plastic chair away from the table; it made a nerve-grating screech on the tile floor.

  “I want to leave now,” he said, getting to his feet.

  Danvers looked disappointed. “Dr. Cochrane, do you think you’re following the wisest course of action here?”

  “They’ve already killed two men.” McLain practically snarled from the TV screen. “You might be next.”

  Cochrane slowly shook his head. “I doubt it. I don’t know anything that they’d be interested in—whoever they are.”

  “Maybe they think otherwise.”