“Samplice didn’t steal your research, Dr. Walcott. Neither did the bank.”
“Then who…”
“I have no evidence. But I’d like to see both you and Dr. Herlinger here tomorrow at 8:00 A.M. And in the meantime—this is important—don’t write anything down. Anywhere.”
“I understand.”
She said, not knowing she was going to speak until the words were out, “Making Sleepers into Sleepless…”
“Yes,” he said, “well.” And he turned away from her face to stare across her otherwise utilitarian office at the exotic flowers, riotous with color or pale as moonlight, planted under artificial light in their specially-built corner bed.
“They’re all legitimate,” Kevin said. He came into Leisha’s study from his own, hard-copy in hand. She looked up from her brief for Simpson v. Offshore Fishing. The flowers that Alice insisted on sending daily sat on her desk: sunflowers and daisies and genemod alumbines. The things never wilted before the next shipment arrived. Even in winter the apartment was filled with California blooms Leisha didn’t really like but couldn’t bring herself to throw away.
Lamplight glowed on Kevin’s glossy brown hair, strong smooth face. He looked younger than 47, younger in fact than Leisha, although he was four years older. Blanker, Alice had said to Leisha, but she had only said it once.
“All legitimate?”
“The whole file drawer,” he said. “Walcott was State University of New York at Potsdam and Deflores University, not distinguished but acceptable. Middling student. Two minor publications, clean police record, sits square with the IRS. Two teaching posts, two research, no official acrimony when he left either of them, so maybe he’s just a restless type. Herlinger is different. He’s only twenty-five, this is his first job. Berkeley and U.C. Irvine in biochemistry, graduated in the top five percent of his class, promising future. But just before his Ph.D. was granted he was arrested, tried, and convicted for gene-altering controlled substances. He got a suspended sentence, but that’s enough to make problematical a job anywhere better than Samplice. At least for a while. No tax problems, but then no income yet either to speak of.”
“Which controlled substance?”
“Luna snow, altered for electrical storms in the limbic. Makes you think you’re a religious prophet. Trial records show Herlinger saying he had no other way to make med school tuition. He appears very bitter; maybe you want to call up the records for yourself.”
Leisha said, “I will. Does it feel to you like a young man’s temporary bitterness over a bad break? Or a part of his character?”
Kevin shrugged. She should have known better; that was not the kind of determination Kevin would make. Consequences interested him; motivations didn’t. Leisha said, “Only two minor publications for Walcott, and mediocre school performance, yet he’s capable of a breakthrough like this?”
Kevin smiled. “You always were an intellectual snob, my darling.”
“As are we all. All right, researchers get lucky. Or maybe Herlinger did the real DNA work, not Walcott; maybe Herlinger’s very capable intellectually but either is an exploitable innocent or just can’t follow rules. What about Samplice?”
“Legitimate, struggling company, mediocre earnings profile, ROA less than 3 percent last year, which is low for a high-tech organization that made no major capital investments. I give them another year, two at the most. It’s badly managed; the director, Lawrence Lee, has the job solely because of his name. His father was Stanton Lee.”
“Nobel Prize in physics?”
“Yes. And Director Lee claims descent from General Robert E. as well, although that claim’s bogus. But it looks good in publicity releases. Walcott told you the truth; record-keeping at Samplice is a mess. I doubt they can find things in their own electronic files. There’s no leadership. And Lee has a board of directors’ reprimand for mismanagement of funds.”
“And First National Bank?”
“Absolutely square. All the records for that safe-deposit box are complete and accurate. Of course, that doesn’t mean that they weren’t tampered with from the outside, both electronically and in hard-copy. But I’d be really surprised if the bank is involved.”
“I never thought it was,” Leisha said grimly. “It’s got strong security?”
“The best. We designed it.”
She hadn’t known that. “Then there are only two groups that can manage that kind of electronic wizardry, and your company’s one of them.”
Kevin said gently, “That may not be true. There are Sleepers who are good deck rats…”
“Not that good.”
Kevin didn’t repeat his statement about her intellectual snobbery. Instead he said quietly, “If Walcott’s research is accurate, this could change the world, Leisha. Again.”
“I know.” She found herself staring at him, and wondered what emotions had been on her face. “Want a glass of wine, Kevin?”
“I can’t, Leisha. I’ve got all this work to finish.”
“Actually, so do I. You’re right.”
He went back to his study. Leisha picked up her notes for Simpson v. Offshore Fishing. She had trouble concentrating. How long had it been since she and Kevin had made love? Three weeks? Four?
There was so much work to do. Events were happening so fast. Maybe she could see him before she left again in the morning. No—he was taking the other plane to Bonn. Well then, later in the week. If they were in the same city, if they both had time. She felt no sense of urgency about sex with Kevin. But, then, she never had.
A memory twisted in her: Richard’s hands on her breasts.
She leaned closer to the terminal, widening her search for legal precedents in marine law.
Leisha said levelly, “You stole Adam Walcott’s research papers from a safe-deposit box in the First National Bank in Chicago.”
Jennifer Sharifi raised her eyes to Leisha’s. The two women stood at opposite ends of Jennifer’s living room in Sanctuary. Behind the glossy mound of Jennifer’s bound hair, the portrait of Tony Indivino blinked and smiled.
“Yes,” Jennifer said. “I did.”
“Jennifer!” Richard cried, in anguish.
Leisha turned slowly toward him. It seemed to her that the anguish was not for the deed, but for the admitting of it. Richard knew.
He stood on the balls of his feet, his head with the bushy eyebrows lowered. He looked just the same as he had at seventeen, the day she’d gone to meet him in the small suburban house in Evanston. Almost thirty years ago. Richard had found something in Sanctuary, something he needed, some sense of community—maybe he had always needed it. And Sanctuary was, always had been, Jennifer. Jennifer and Tony. Nonetheless, to be part of this criminal theft, Richard must have changed. To be a part of this, he must have changed beyond her knowing.
He said thickly, “Jennifer will say nothing without her lawyer present.”
Leisha said acidly, “Well, that shouldn’t be too difficult. How many lawyers has Sanctuary captured by now? Candace Holt. Will Sandaleros. Jonathan Cocchiara. How many others?”
Jennifer sat down on the sofa, drawing the folds of her abbaya around her. Today the glass wall was opaqued; soft blue-green patterns played over it. Jennifer, Leisha remembered suddenly, had never liked cloudy days.
Jennifer said, “If you’re bringing legal charges, Leisha, deliver the warrant.”
“You know I’m not a prosecutor. I represent Dr. Walcott.”