Little Girl Gone (8 page)

Afton's eyebrows shot up. “Huh? Sure. What's up?” He was clearly going
somewhere.
Somewhere important?

“I'm heading over to Novamed, Darden's old employer. See if they're in the mood to dish a little dirt on him. Anyway, long story short, Dillon's not feeling up to snuff. I suspect it was the tamales
du jour
that he wolfed down for lunch at Taste of Salvador. That place is always high on the health inspector's naughty list, but Dillon keeps hoping for the best.”

“I'd like to go,” Afton said, buoyed by the fact that he'd actually invited her along. “But I've been grounded by Uncle Thacker.”

“That's old news, because I just cleared it with him,” Max said. When she started to say something, he said, “Hey, cheer up. Your sentence has been commuted. You've paid the price for your heinous crime.”

M
AX
insisted they take his car, since he'd just been out driving and the car's engine and heater were still tepidly warm. So Afton found herself scrunched into the passenger seat of his Hyundai Sonata, amid a clutter of Red Bull cans, McDonald's wrappers, and assorted tube socks. A hockey puck was half wedged between her seat and the seat back, so she dug it out and tossed it behind her, where it clunked against a trio of hockey sticks.

“Hockey season,” Max said as he shot past the new Vikings stadium and slid down an icy freeway ramp. He punched his defroster button, which had the reverse effect of clouding the interior of his windows with a thin skim of ice.

Afton grabbed a plastic ice scraper and attacked the windows, as Max, a notorious speeder, hurtled north on 35W at seventy-five miles an hour. He passed traffic and wove in and out of lanes like he was lounging at home in his sweatpants playing
Grand Theft Auto
. Afton felt a different kind of worry creeping up on her. The kind where you feared you might end up in a ditch waiting six hours for a tow truck to arrive.

“If you're going to survive in Minnesota,” Max said as he hammered down on the accelerator. “You have to have seat warmers. In fact, you have to have—at a minimum—front-wheel drive and seat warmers.”

The car exited 35, looped around an on-ramp, and swerved onto 694 West. When they finally slowed behind a line of cars that were clogging the left lane, Afton let out her breath slowly. A thermometer on a sign read 15 below.

“Legally, the guys at Novamed may not be able to say much,” Max said. “Even if Darden really did steal their company secrets and jump ship.”

“Do we know that for a fact?” Afton asked as tiny ice pellets began to beat fiercely against the windshield.

Max turned on the wipers, swore when the entire windshield smeared horribly, and then cut over into the right lane. His defrosters sputtered and the interior was starting to ice up again. “Scrape off that gunk right in front of me, will you?”

Afton scraped.

“Good,” Max said as ice chips flew. “Thanks. Anyway, Darden as traitor. That's been the party line so far at Novamed.” He shrugged, the shoulders of his parka rising and making a swishing sound. “We'll see if they've changed their tune.”

They turned off at the 129th Street exit, and then wove their way down Larch Lane. After slip-sliding for a mile or so, they passed a stand of birch trees that was too perfectly geometric to be natural, then turned at a large silver sign that said N
OVAMED
, and into a driveway that was surprisingly clear of snow. In fact, Novamed's entire parking lot had been scraped clean. There was barely a glimmer of any snow or ice at all, which probably accounted for the two large piles of snow, pushed to the side of the lot and towering almost twenty feet high.

Novamed's large ochre-colored building was built in the form of an immense letter U. Though invisible now, the grounds were spectacular in summer—a large pond buttressed against a cobblestone patio, crab trees that flamed pink and red in spring. Large silver placards on the side of the building listed the various entrances: V
ISITOR
E
NTRANCE
, D
ELIVER
IES
, E
MPLOYEES
O
NLY
. It looked to Afton that one entire wing was designated as offices, while the other wing consisted mainly of laboratories. Probably for R&D, research and development.

They parked and, ducking their heads into the wind, headed for the front door. Once inside, it was like entering a pristine art gallery of some sort. White marble floors, white walls, a white modular seating arrangement—not really couches, not really chairs—and a wall of windows that looked out over the grounds. No artwork, no area rugs, nothing but a large white front desk staffed by two young men in dark suits. Everything sterile, cool, and clinical.

Max flipped out his badge to show the two receptionists, who might, or might not, double as a security detail. “Max Montgomery and Afton Tangler,” he said. “We have a three thirty appointment with your CEO, Bruce Cutler.”

One of the men glanced at his computer screen and said, “Yes, we have you here. And you're right on time.” He seemed pleased at their punctuality. The other man slid a black leather book across the counter and asked them to sign in and note the exact time of day. Then he gave each of them a plastic visitor ID badge to clip on to their clothing.

The computer screen guy said, “Andrew will show you to your meeting.”

“Thank you,” Afton said.

They followed Andrew down a hallway, where he badged them through a set of sturdy-looking security doors.

“As you might have guessed,” Andrew said, “we're in a secured area now, with this hallway running past our outer ring of bio-labs. Clean rooms, as they're more familiarly known to the public.”

They stepped along and passed a row of rooms that were white, brilliantly lit, and filled with complex-looking instrumentation. Inside, workers moved about purposefully. All were clothed in Tyvek jumpsuits, latex gloves, booties, and head coverings.

Afton wondered how anyone could work that way. The starkness of everything was intimidating and put her on edge. It was like staring into an impossibly brilliant void. If there had been a cold metal table with an alien autopsy going on, it wouldn't have surprised her.

“All our clean rooms are Class one hundred,” Andrew said. “That means we allow only one hundred particles—point five microns or larger—per cubic foot of air.”

“That's good?” Max asked.

“Compare that to a typical office space that has between five hundred thousand to a million particles per cubic foot of air,” Andrew said.

“In other words, no dust,” Afton said.

Andrew smiled faintly. “No dust.”

“And you manufacture what?” Afton asked.

“Medical test kits,” Andrew said.

“So you do animal testing?” Afton asked.

Andrew ignored her question.

“Human testing?” Max asked.

Andrew led them through another set of doors. “Almost there.”

Underfoot, the hard marble floor changed to carpet and they suddenly found themselves in the executive wing. But unlike the lavish wood-paneled offices typical of law firms or Fortune 500 companies, this was still relatively Spartan. All white with a modular reception desk at the center of what was a hub of offices and meeting rooms.

“And this is our conference room,” Andrew said, stopping abruptly in front of an elegant beech wood door.

“Take notes,” Max whispered to Afton. “I'll do most of the talking, but you pipe in wherever.”

Andrew pushed on the conference room door and it opened with a slight
whoosh
. Three men in expensive suits with equally expensive haircuts were already seated around a bare, glass-topped conference table. No coffee, tea, bottles of water, or elegant French pastries awaited them. It was fairly clear that Novamed wanted this meeting to be over and done with as quickly as possible.

“Good afternoon,” Max said, striding in with confidence. With his height and bulk, he loomed over the seated men. “I'm Detective Max Montgomery, and this is my assistant, Ms. Tangler. He tossed one of his business cards onto the table. “We're here to ask some questions.”

The man sitting nearest to him popped up quickly and stretched out a hand. “Bruce Cutler, CEO.” Cutler was tall and trim with short gray hair and piercing blue-green eyes. He radiated a subtle vibrancy and looked as
if he'd be equally at home in a boardroom, crewing on a sailboat, or swanning around a black-tie charity function. Afton could see why Cutler had made it to the ranks of CEO. He just
looked
the part.

With the minimum daily requirement of mumbled pleasantries, the other two Novamed executives introduced themselves as well.

Shou Vang, the chief financial officer, was a wiry-looking Asian man with a placid expression. Afton figured a CFO probably needed to have a good poker face. Edmund Nader, a rotund man with florid cheeks and nervous, slightly damp hands, was their chief information officer.

Max and Afton took seats across from the men, and Max began. “So you know we're here on a fact-finding mission concerning Richard Darden. We're investigating the recent kidnapping of his young daughter.”

Vang gave a sympathetic nod. “We've been following the news.” He looked pointedly at Afton and she wondered if he'd caught her on TV last night with the dog. From his disapproving expression, she guessed he probably had.

“Our hearts go out to Richard and Susan,” Cutler said. “They were part of the Novamed family for a number of years.”

“I admire your collegiality,” Max said in a slightly sarcastic tone. “Yet you have a major lawsuit pending against him.”

Cutler's jaw tightened. “That's correct.” It was clear he didn't want to talk about it.

Max frowned. “If I'm to believe the news stories, you accused Richard Darden of reneging on his confidentiality agreement and walking away with trade secrets. It would help if you'd elaborate on that.”

“I'm afraid our hands are tied,” Nader cut in. “Anything that deals with the lawsuit is proprietary information. You'd have to clear it through our attorneys.”

Max glanced at Afton.

“And those attorneys would be . . .” Afton asked, her pen poised to write.

Cutler blanched. “We retain the firm of Baden, Barton, and Kronlach. They handle all our legal matters.”

Afton jotted it down, thinking that Baden, Barton, and Kronlach sounded like a steamer trunk falling noisily down a flight of stairs.

Max leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “But this isn't exactly legal business that I'm asking about. I'm simply trying to get a bead on Richard Darden. How long did he work here, was he well liked, that sort of thing.” He offered a thin smile. “It's much more comfortable to talk here than in a stuffy interview room downtown.”

Cutler sighed and tapped a manicured index finger against the glass table. “I suppose,” he said.

Max proceeded to ask questions for the better part of ten minutes. While the Novamed execs were hesitant and sometimes bordered on snappy, he never lost his cool. Afton sat there, jotting the occasional note, fascinated by Max's low-key interrogation, because, surely, that's exactly what he was doing.

When everyone seemed to relax, when they sensed that the meeting was coming to a logical conclusion, Max gave a slow, reptilian blink and asked, “Did Darden have any enemies?”

Cutler tensed. “If you're asking if someone here might have wished ill of him or his family, I would have to say no.”

“Nobody was unhappy because Darden hopscotched them on his way up the corporate ladder?” Max asked. “Or because his departmental budget was larger than theirs? Or because someone on his staff got canned?”

The three men looked at one another, then Cutler steepled his fingers. “Not that I can think of,” he said.

“Richard was well respected,” Vang said.

“He was beloved by everyone?” Max asked. “Because that would probably rank as a major first when it came to interoffice politics.”

Nader, the information guy, cleared his throat. “There was the issue of Bob Binger last year.”

“Do tell,” Max said.

Nader looked across the table at Cutler, seemed to get the go-ahead, and then proceeded. “Richard Darden was unhappy with Binger's job performance. With his research methodology.”

“And how was the issue resolved?” Max asked.

“Binger was fired,” Cutler said.

“By Darden himself or someone else?”

“Obviously HR handled it, but everyone knew it was Darden's decision,” Vang said.

“Is this Bob Binger still in town?” Afton asked. She'd been scribbling notes like mad.

“As far as we know,” Cutler said.

“I'm assuming your HR people can give us some basic information on Binger,” Afton said.

Cutler waved a hand dismissively. “I'm sure there's nothing your department can't find on its own.”

“But you could probably do it a lot faster,” Max said. “Faster than you can say subpoena anyway.”

“Fine,” Cutler said. “We'll provide you with that information.” He stood up and the two others followed suit. “If you'll wait here for a few minutes, I'll have someone pull Binger's records.”

“Thank you,” Max said.

When the last footfall was heard on the carpet outside the closed door, Max turned to Afton and said, “I wonder if Darden is still employed here.”

“What?” He'd caught her completely off guard.

“Novamed wouldn't be the first company to try to sneak a skunk into the woodpile.”

“Corporate espionage? Interesting theory.”

“Ain't it?”

“If you're right,” Afton said, “then how does the kidnapping fit in?”

“I don't know,” Max said. “Not yet anyway. Or maybe it doesn't at all. Maybe it's two different things.”

Time was ticking away and Afton could hear a hint of desperation edging into Max's voice. She was feeling it herself. “We have to huddle with those FBI guys,” she said. “Keith Sunder and Harvey Bagin. They were the ones who interviewed the execs at Synthotech, Darden's new employer.”

Max glanced at his watch. “Yeah, we gotta do that.” He pulled out his phone and punched in numbers. But it wasn't the FBI he was calling; it
turned out to be his home. “Everybody okay?” he asked. “Roof's still on the place?” The answer must have been yes, because he chuckled then winked at Afton. “Okay, looks like I'm gonna be late again. Think you can handle that, maybe order out for a pizza?”

While Max talked, Afton decided she'd better make that same call herself. But just as she pulled out her phone, a blond woman in a black skirt suit entered the room. She smiled at Afton, carefully set a sheet of paper down on the table, and said, “I believe this is the information Mr. Cutler promised you.”