Second Horseman Out of Eden

5

Credit Detective Lieutenant Malachy McCloskey: the gray-haired, scar-faced man might be decidedly sour, insecure, resentful, and even downright bone-headed, but his heart was still alive and in the right place. When I had finished explaining what we were up to and why we were in such a hurry, how Craig Valley had almost certainly been connected to the sample of Amazon rain forest soil found in a letter sent to Santa Claus by a sexually abused child, the man's craggy, pitted face was ashen, his black eyes misty with tears. He had children of his own-seven of them, as well as two grandchildren who were probably around the same age as Vicky Brown.

"Jesus Christ," McCloskey said in a husky voice. "Forget what I said before, about you two messing up the scene and all that; if I'd been in your place, and it had taken the cops forty minutes to get here, I'd probably have torn the whole house apart."

"There's nothing here," I said. "We went through all the paper we could find, but if he wanted to keep the dirt-or anything else-a secret, I doubt he'd have written anything down. Besides, he was just an errand boy."

McCloskey shook his head angrily. "That fucking Kenecky …"

Garth turned to us, shrugged. "What difference does it make whether it's Kenecky or somebody else raping the girl? Whoever it is should have his prick stretched and permanently stapled to his asshole."

"I think it does make a difference," I said, glancing back and forth between Garth and McCloskey, who still looked haunted. "If Kenecky's the abuser, it could mean that Valley's religious and racial nuttiness were more than curious personal traits he shared only with the good reverend; the apocalyptic theology and neo-Nazi shticks could be common threads in the whole operation Kenecky and Valley were a part of. For all we know, Henry Blaisdel himself could be a religious fruitcake, and these biospheres he wants to build could have, at least in his mind, religious overtones. If Kenecky is our man, it means for sure that the powers that be are willing to harbor a fugitive-and those powers are probably scuzzball neo-Nazis with a religious bent, which makes them dangerous. Now maybe we can get the F.B.I, involved. At the very least, Lieutenant, the NYPD might now be persuaded to put a little more than just their good wishes into this case."

McCloskey's black eyes, dry now and once more glinting with more than a hint of paranoia, darted over my face. "Is that supposed to be some kind of criticism, Frederickson?"

"It is not, Lieutenant; the police have been more than helpful-without them, the dirt we found wouldn't have told us anything, and that's the only clue we had to begin with. But now there's more than just a letter to Santa Claus from a sexually abused child; there's a corpse, and a possible tie-in to a federal fugitive. It should warrant a case file."

"I'll talk about it to my superiors, Frederickson," McCloskey said. Suddenly he seemed nervous.

"Are you going to talk to the people at Nuvironment?" I asked.

"About what?"

"About the dirt; we find the dirt and we find the girl. All Garth and I care about is determining the whereabouts of Vicky Brown and notifying the proper authorities if it turns out that she's being sexually abused-which she is."

"You expect me to walk into the offices of one of Henry Blaisdel's corporations and accuse the people there of complicity in the sexual abuse of a child?"

Garth grunted loudly, pushed off the marble mantelpiece, and walked to the opposite end of the room, where he leaned against the archway leading into the outer vestibule. McCloskey's bright eyes, once more hostile and resentful-and, perhaps, slightly fearful-followed him.

"All you have to do is ask some questions, Lieutenant; with what's happened here, and with the background information we've given you, you have the right. You find out where they dumped the dirt, and Garth and I will take care of the social work."

I watched McCloskey think about it; the more he thought about it, the further I could see him slipping away. I realized that he was a man not only worried about his past, but also about his present and-most important-his future. There was a small war being waged inside him, and I could see the casualty figures moving across his face.

"All you've really got is a letter from a kid," he said at last in a low voice as he lowered his gaze and stared at the carpet. "And what's in there could be the product of the girl's imagination."

"Want to read the letter, McCloskey?" Garth asked in a mild tone. I hadn't been sure he'd been listening.

"It doesn't make any difference. It's still just a letter, and there's no proof whatsoever that Nuvironment is involved in anything illegal. I think the captain would want me to have more than a suicide, a kid's letter to Santa Claus, and your word for the way things are before I go and risk stepping on Henry Blaisdel's toes. He pulls a hell of a lot of weight in this country, and particularly in this city, in case you didn't know."

I said, "Why don't you call your captain now, Lieutenant? Tell him what's happened here, and what we've told you. See if he'll okay your going to talk to the people at Nuvironment. Since Garth is the one who tracked down Valley's last telephone call, we'll tag along just to serve as material witnesses, as it were. Get them to tell you where they dumped the dirt, and we're gone."

"I don't need you to tell me how to do my job, Frederickson."

"I understand that. But no decent people would refuse to cooperate in an investigation that could involve the physical and emotional well-being of a child. But some people just don't like to talk to private detectives-and these people definitely won't talk to Garth and me if we're right about them having something to hide. Your presence in your official capacity could, let us say, help them to focus their attention on the seriousness of the matter. If we hurry, we can still get over there for a chat before they close the office for the day."

"It could get tricky, Frederickson," McCloskey said in a very low voice. "It's not something I'm going to rush into."

"For Christ's sake, Lieutenant-!"

"Now you listen to me, Frederickson!" the other man snapped as he abruptly raised his head and glared at me, pointing a thick index finger at my chest. "That big, stony-faced, self-righteous brother of yours standing across the room dumped on me pretty good a few years back. I was wrong, sure; inexperienced. Maybe I got what I deserved, maybe I didn't, but the fact of the matter is that I've had to walk a pretty tight line ever since then. I'm still walking a tight line, and I'm going to be doing it right up until midnight of December thirty-first; that's less than a week and a half away, and that's when I retire. Now you guys got real lucky, and now you've got it all; you're rich, and you're famous. Now, I'm not saying I could have done as well as you or the mighty Garth Frederickson over there, since he teamed up with you-but it didn't help that I had and have a stain on my record that Garth Frederickson put there. For sure, I'm telling you that I'm not about to jeopardize my pension, or a cushy job as head of security that I may have lined up, rushing into muddy waters that the famous Fredericksons have been stirring up. The difference is that you can afford to offend powerful people, or make mistakes; I can't. I'm going to go by the book, on this and every other matter that comes up in the next few days. If you don't like it, that's tough shit. Are you reading me, Frederickson?"

"It sounds to me like you've already retired, Lieutenant," I said, knowing I would probably regret the words, and not caring.

"Fuck you and your smart-assed insults, Frederickson! I'm not personally responsible for that kid; if I felt I was personally responsible in every case like the thing you're working on, I'd have gone crazy years ago. I said I'd talk to my superiors, and I will!"

I was trying to come up with an even better insult when Garth, uncharacteristically, ended up acting as mediator. "McCloskey," he said, speaking to the vestibule, "are Mongo and I free to go?"

"I need a statement signed by the two of you."

"Sure," I said. "Uh, do we have to come with you to the station right now? There's something else Garth and I would like to do this afternoon, and we're a bit pressed for time."

McCloskey wouldn't look at me. "I guess tomorrow morning is all right," he mumbled. "First thing."

"First thing."

It seemed we were excused. Garth and I went out onto the street, hurried to the corner to hail a cab.

"I could have used a little assistance back there, brother," I said. "Having a police detective along with us could make things a whole lot easier where we're going."

Garth shook his head. "I knew you were wasting your time. McCloskey's as dead as Valley, and there's no sense in trying to get help from a corpse."

The Blaisdel Building on Fifth Avenue was an imposing edifice indeed, a great tower of pink marble, steel, and smoked glass with an archway entrance three stories high at its apogee. The first few floors were filled with chic boutiques where you'd pay at least two hundred dollars more for any item than you would anyplace else. According to reports in various publications, the top three floors comprised Henry

Blaisdel's penthouse-"a fantastic adventure in interior design incorporating all that is best in the world," as Architectural Digest had put it. But the writer had confessed that her description was speculative, since she hadn't been allowed up there; nobody-excepting, I assumed, family members, servants, and top executives-was allowed up in the penthouse. Blaisdel himself hadn't been seen in public for more than a decade; what he needed was brought to him, and when his presence was required somewhere else he went by helicopter, parked by a very special permit atop his building, to his private jet to. . wherever. By contrast, Howard Hughes had been a party animal.

We entered the cavernous lobby, looked around until we found a directory on the wall to our right. Nuvironment was listed simply as a single word with the indication that its offices occupied all of the ninth floor, just above the tree-filled atrium and shops. The shopping floors had their own elevator system, and when we went to the bank of elevators serving the rest of the building we found no buttons for the penthouse or the ninth floor. Nuvironment was obviously not a company that encouraged drop-in business. Or drop-in anything, for that matter.

"You want to look for some stairs?" Garth asked tersely.

"No," I said, glancing at my watch. No New York City cabdriver had been willing to pick up an odd couple like Garth and me with our bloodstained clothes, and we'd ended up having to jog back to our brownstone to change. It was now 4:45. I had no idea what time Nuvironment closed up shop, but I wanted to get there before it did. While it was true that tomorrow was another day, it was also true that every hour that went by was another hour of potential pain and degradation for Vicky Brown, who could be somewhere close by, perhaps only a short cab ride away. "It looks like we're going to have to make an appointment after all."

"They're not going to agree to talk to us now, Mongo-if they agree to talk to us at all. A phone call will just put them on their guard."

"What choice do we have? Stairs aren't going to get us in there; if they don't have an elevator stop, the door on the fire stairs will most certainly be locked from the inside. Obviously, they have their own private way of getting in and out." I searched in my pockets until I found a quarter, started walking toward a bank of pay phones near the entrance, stopped when I realized that I was suddenly alone. I turned, saw that my brother was walking rapidly in the opposite direction, toward an archway that led to the boutiques on the first floor. "Garth?!"

"I'll see you later, Mongo!" he called over his shoulder.

"Hey! Don't you want to hear what these people have to say, even if it's only over the phone?!"

Garth hesitated, then abruptly stopped, turned around, and walked back to me. His face was pale, and his mouth was set in a grim line. "You talk to them," he said curtly. "You're a better talker than I am. I'm telling you right now that they aren't going to help you."

"How do you know?"

Garth put a finger to the side of his nose. "This tells me. There's evil here; I can smell it."

"You've got a nose for evil? For Christ's sake, Garth, that's all I need to hear-more wacko talk. Maybe we'll luck out. Maybe they'll be as anxious as we are to investigate a matter of child abuse-especially since it's their company's good name that could conceivably be damaged."

"That's precisely why they're not going to cooperate with you, Mongo; that, and because they have other things to hide. If they do talk to you over the phone, or even if they let you go up, they're just going to jerk you around. You're wasting your time."

"Garth, will you tell me what other choice we have?!"

"You go ahead and waste your time, Mongo. I'll see you back at the house."

Feeling slightly resentful, I shook my head as I watched Garth walk away. I pushed my way through a stream of people heading for the exit, made my way to the pay phones, went into a booth designed for wheelchair users. There was no phone directory, but Information had a number for Nuvironment. I dialed it.

A woman with a pleasant voice answered-the same one I'd heard Garth speaking with over Valley's cordless telephone. "Nuvironment. Happy holidays. How may I help you?"

"You people are kind of hard to get to."

"Excuse me, sir?"

"My name is Dr. Robert Frederickson, and I'm in a big hurry to talk to somebody with authority up there. Can you tell me what elevator to take to get up to you?"

"We're not open to the public, Dr. Frederickson. I'm sorry."

"I'm not the public. I have urgent business to discuss with your boss, and it has to be right now."

"Oh?"

"How do I get up there, lady?"

"But sir," the woman said in a voice that had become decidedly less cordial, "if you have a scheduled appointment, then surely you were told-"

"I don't have an appointment. I want one."

"With whom, Dr. Frederickson?"

"Henry Blaisdel."

There was a prolonged silence, then a decidedly frosty: "Is this some kind of joke, sir? I really don't have time-"

"This is decidedly not a joke, ma'am," I said, trying to keep my tone even. I was rapidly losing confidence in my ability to get past this keeper of the gate, and I could feel anger building. "It's a matter of great importance; Mr. Blaisdel will agree, I assure you. I need to see him now. I'll only take a few minutes of his time, but it will be the best few minutes he's ever spent. Don't tell me he's not in, because he almost never goes out."

"Sir, if this is not a joke, then you're seriously misinformed."

"Misinformed about what?"

"Mr. Blaisdel never sees anyone."

"He'll see me when he finds out what business I have with him."

"And what business might that be, sir?"

"I want to see Mr. Blaisdel about a very serious public relations problem he could have," I said carefully. I hadn't wanted to get into a heavy conversation over the phone, especially not with a receptionist, but it seemed clear I had no choice if I wanted to get into Nuvironment to see someone, anyone. "This problem involves one of Mr. Blaisdel's favorite holdings-your company, and the biospheres you're attempting to design and build. This is serious, lady, so I hope you're listening very carefully. Somebody up there-I'm sure without Mr. Blaisdel's knowledge, and certainly without his authorization-illegally imported a hundred tons of some very special soil. I also have very good reason to believe that Nuvironment's reputation is being endangered by its involvement with loony members of the religious far right. In short, there are a lot of things going on down here at street level that the man who lives on the top three floors should know about and take steps to stop if he doesn't want to see your company's name roughed up in the newspapers. I'm not a blackmailer, and my only interest in all this is getting certain information from you people that will help me find a young girl who's being badly sexually abused. I want to talk to Mr. Blaisdel now, because I want the girl safe tonight. Now, have you got all that, lady, or do you want me to repeat it?"

"Please wait a moment, sir," the woman said nervously.

There was a click, and a tinny-sounding version of "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" started playing. Mercifully, the music didn't last longer than one chorus. There was a second soft click, and the woman's voice-now sounding even more nervous-came back on. "Dr. Frederickson?"

"I'm still here."

"Just where are you, sir?"

"Down in the lobby."

"Please wait there, Dr. Frederickson. Somebody will be coming right down to meet you. How will he recognize you?"

"Tell him I'm the short guy. He can't miss me."

"Yes, sir."

I hung up, stepped out of the phone booth and waited. Less than a minute later an eager, boyish-faced man who was probably in his early to mid-thirties emerged from a knot of homeward-bound workers, peered around, saw me, and broke into a wide grin that looked to me to have more than a trace of nervousness in it. He was all yuppie, with a finely tailored gray pin-striped suit, rep tie, highly polished black shoes, pale pink shirt. I'd have bet he was wearing suspenders. He had a bright face with a midwestern look about it; blue eyes; a full head of brown hair, which was cut short. His height was no more than five feet five or six. He hurried across the lobby to me, delicate hand extended.

"Dr. Frederickson," the man gushed in a voice that was at once pleasant and yet somehow unformed, like a boy's. However, up close I could clearly see from the lines in his face that he was closer to forty-five than thirty-five, and he had a tic in his left cheek; his was one of those faces that don't stand up well under close inspection. "It's so good to meet you! It's so embarrassing that our receptionist didn't recognize your name, and so amusing for you to tell her you're the short guy in the lobby. As you can see, I'm not so tall myself. My name is Peter Patton."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Patton," I said, studying his curious face with its tic that wrinkled the flesh under his left eye every few seconds. Something about the man in the gray suit brought to mind Dorian Gray, and the blue eyes were dull, belying the bright prattle that flowed from his mouth. "I take it Mr. Blaisdel has agreed to meet with me?"

The pasted-on smile that had never reached his eyes faded. "Oh dear. I thought the receptionist explained to you that Mr. Blaisdel never makes appointments to see anyone."

"And I thought I'd made clear to the receptionist that what I have to say to him is important enough for him to make an exception."

"That's impossible. However, I understand that your business involves Nuvironment. I'm the executive director of Nuvironment, and I'm sure I'll be able to address your concerns satisfactorily.''

"I certainly hope so, Mr. Patton," I said, and deliberately pulled back the cuff of my jacket to look at my watch. "There's only one thing I want to know, and that's-"

"Please, Dr. Frederickson," Patton said, reaching out and touching me lightly-but all too familiarly-on the shoulder, "this is no place to talk. Come up to my office where we can be more comfortable."

I didn't care where he answered my one question as long as he answered it, and so I dutifully followed him as he ran interference against the crush of traffic coming through the lobby in the opposite direction. We went past the two banks of elevators, then down a corridor to a door at the end that looked as if it might be a utility closet. Patton removed an elegant silver key chain from his pocket, selected a key, opened the door. It led to a small vestibule with a single elevator that had no call button. My escort unlocked a small wooden cabinet on the wall to the right, pushed a button inside. The elevator door sighed open.

"Why the private elevator?" I asked as I followed him in, watched him push a gray button-the only button-to the left of the door, which sighed shut.

"We're not a commercial enterprise in any sense of the word, Dr. Frederickson. We don't sell anything. We're strictly a research and development corporation."

"And, from what I hear, a whopping tax write-off." He gave me a quick, furtive look. "You seem to know-or think you know-quite a lot about Nuvironment, Dr. Frederickson. We have absolutely no need to interface with the public; the private elevator is merely a convenience for our staff, as is the fact that we have our offices in Manhattan. Outsiders who do have occasion to talk with us are met in the lobby and brought up, as you are. It gives it all so much more of a personal touch, if you know what I mean."

I didn't have the slightest idea what he meant, and since he wasn't likely to be keeping a hundred tons of dirt on the premises, I didn't care. The door opened, and I followed him out into a gold-carpeted, walnut-lined reception area. He pushed open a door of heavy smoked glass, held it for me, then led me through the first door on the left. I found myself in a spacious corner office with a wrap-around arrangement of picture windows that looked out over Fifth Avenue toward Central Park. On one wall was a large painting that might have been the company logo-a brightly glowing, transparent sphere containing lakes, forests, and people suspended in the coldness of space.

"Let me get right to the point," I said, closing the door behind me and ignoring his gesture indicating that I should sit in one of the two thickly cushioned, leather chairs set up in front of his steel and glass desk. "I need to know where you dumped your hundred tons of Amazon rain forest soil."

Patton, who had moved behind his desk but remained standing, merely stared at me, the tic in his left cheek the only punctuation on a face that was otherwise virtually blank.

"I'm not interested in any laws that may have been broken, Patton," I continued. "My concern is strictly private, and it has to do with the physical and psychological welfare of a child who I have good reason to believe is being sexually molested. I'm sure you'd share my concern if you knew the details, but I don't want to take any more of your time than I have to. I give you my word that I'm not interested in doing anything that will jeopardize the reputation or interests of Nuvironment. All I want to do is find the kid and make sure she's going to be all right. If I can find the dirt you people brought into this country, then I'll find the kid. Tell me where to look, and I'm long gone."

"Please sit down, Dr. Frederickson," Peter Patton said quietly.

"No thanks. I'm in a hurry."

"Would you like a cup of coffee?"

"I told you what I wanted."

Peter Patton, moving very deliberately in a manner that reminded me of a marionette, slowly eased himself down into his leather swivel chair, folded his hands on the glass desk top, then looked up at me. "I don't know what to say, Dr. Frederickson," he said at last, his voice still very soft. "You're obviously very upset, and I can understand why. I'm also upset at the thought of a child being sexually abused. However, I really don't know what you're talking about."

"No? Ever heard of a man named William Kenecky?"

"Of course. He's a televangelist-a rather strident one, I'm told-who's been indicted on charges of tax evasion."

"Are you people hiding him?"

He stiffened in his chair, frowned. "Good heavens, no. What on earth would make you think such a thing?"

Things weren't going well. I'd been plain enough in explaining what I wanted to know, and why, and had gone out of my way to reassure Patton that my interest had nothing to do with any criminal investigation. Then I'd tried to turn up the pressure by pointing out that Nuvironment could be accused of harboring a fugitive from justice. Zip. One of two things was true: either Patton and Nuvironment really weren't involved at all in the importation of the rain forest soil, a possibility I gave absolutely no credence to, or Patton was going to stonewall me totally, regardless of what was being done to Vicky Brown, rather than risk jeopardizing whatever else besides dirt the company was trying to keep secret. Suddenly I felt foolish standing there in front of the man with the tic in his cheek. It was enough to give me newfound respect for Garth's nose.

"Are you denying that your company arranged for the importation of special soil from the Amazon basin?"

"Of course I'm denying it. It isn't true."

I said nothing.

"You don't believe me?"

Now I sat down-if only to indicate to Patton that I fully intended to take as much time with him as necessary. If I couldn't get him to tell me the truth, I intended to make it very clear to him that I knew he was lying-and that I'd keep digging and digging, burrowing just as deep as I had to.

"Nuvironment very much wanted a load of that soil not too long ago, right?"

Patton's delicate hands clenched and unclenched almost imperceptibly, but his gaze remained steady, and his voice even. "You've come into possession of some very sensitive information. I don't know how you got it; there are such things as company secrets that are perfectly legitimate, you know."

"Do you deny that you tried in the past to get the soil?"

"No. As a matter of fact, we tried twice. After we were first discouraged by the Customs Service, we appealed; we were given an even more negative reaction the second time, if that's possible. That was the end of the matter."

"Why was it the end of the matter? From what I understand, you need the stuff."

"The 'stuff,' as you call it, is very high in microbial count and activity, and would indeed have proved useful in our experiments. But the Customs Service disapproved our request, and that was that. This is a very important company, Dr. Frederickson, and if you'd checked you'd have discovered that we have an impeccable reputation. It just so happens that there are sterilization and injection methods-legal ones-we can employ to approximate those soil conditions, so we didn't-don't-need the actual soil."

"But I assume it would be expensive and time-consuming to produce a hundred tons of artificial rain forest soil."

Patton shrugged his frail shoulders. " 'Artificial' isn't quite the right word for it-but yes, what you say is true. However, at this stage we are not particularly concerned with time or expense."

"That's hard to believe, Mr. Patton."

"Nevertheless, it's true. The construction of even a prototype biosphere is years-maybe decades-away, and there are still many other avenues of research besides soil types to explore. We don't really need that soil-not now-as much as you seem to think we do."

If Mr. Peter Patton, with his Dorian Gray face and the tic in his left cheek, was a bald-faced liar, he was a very good one; there was nothing but sweet reasonableness and sincerity in his oddly unripe voice. I suppressed a sigh. "What other people or companies are into this biosphere business?"

"Oh, thousands of concerns do related research-every earth science is involved, after all. But nobody that I know of would actually try to build a biosphere on a scale suitable for long-term human habitation; it would take the resources of a government-or Blaisdel Industries-to do it. Since the expenditures involved are considerable, the government is quite willing to let us proceed on our own. Blaisdel Industries gets grants and tax write-offs in return, certainly, but this whole operation is much more a labor of love on Mr. Blaisdel's part than you can imagine. It's his testament to his belief in the future of the human race. The day will come, he believes, when Nuvironment biospheres will provide the means for the human species to colonize the other planets of our solar system. In the meantime, discoveries are constantly being made; certain patenting procedures which must be observed are the reason we're so 'secretive,' if that's what you think we are. Licensing those patented processes is the only payoff we have, for now."

"Maybe somebody's trying to steal a march on you, Patton; maybe some other corporation is just as interested in biospheres as you are, is farther along, and you don't even know about it."

"Then perhaps you should investigate that possibility, Dr. Frederickson," Patton replied evenly. "Frankly, I doubt it's possible."

"So do I, for a number of reasons," I said, watching his face carefully. "One of those reasons is a man by the name of Dr. Craig Valley. You know him?"

"You needn't try to trap me, Dr. Frederickson," Patton said irritably as he put a hand to his left cheek; it was the first time I had seen him take notice of his tic. "Of course I know him-and I assume he's the man who's been serving as your source of information. As you must know, Dr. Valley once worked for us as a consultant. We stopped using him at about the same time he was discharged by the New York Botanical Garden, and for the same reasons. He was showing signs of serious mental instability and proving increasingly unreliable."

"Rain forest soil was definitely imported into this country, and Craig Valley was definitely involved in smuggling it in."

"If you say so," Patton replied tersely. "I wouldn't know. If he did do such a thing, he certainly didn't do it on our behalf."

"Maybe some of your people here are doing things behind your back."

Patton snorted. "Impossible, Dr. Frederickson. I most certainly do not have a 'laid-back' management style, I assure you. Nothing here happens without my knowledge."

I waited a few seconds before saying quietly: "Then why don't you tell me where the soil is stored, Patton? I don't care if you've got a ton of heroin hidden under it, along with William Kenecky and a hundred other fugitives, crazy or otherwise; all I want to do is find the kid."

He waited a few seconds before answering me, and when he spoke his voice was even softer than mine. "I can't help you, Dr. Frederickson."

"What about William Kenecky, Patton?" I asked, leaning back in the leather chair as I continued to study his face.

"What about him?"

"Would you describe him as a religious zealot?"

"I suppose so," Patton said, taking his hand away from his twitching cheek long enough to glance at his watch. "What's your point?"

"What about Craig Valley? Was he a religious zealot?"

"I really don't know much about Dr. Valley's personal life."

"Well, let me assure you that he was a religious zealot-a really loony one, right out of the same fruitcake mold as William Kenecky. One of the traits shared by people like that is that they think they can do just about anything they want, including buggering little girls, because they enjoy special favor with God; that's their excuse for everything. I've seen it again and again. Now, I hear you talking, and you sound very sincere, but I can't help but wonder if you're a good liar because you're one of that gang. What about it, Patton? Are you a religious zealot who thinks God wants you to protect a child molester?"

"That's a most offensive question, Frederickson!" the executive director of Nuvironment snapped as he rose from his chair, drew himself up to his full five feet five inches, and tugged at the bottom of his tie. "Now, I think I've given you more than a generous amount of my time, and I'd thank you to-!"

"A little more than an hour ago Craig Valley, your man at the Botanical Garden, killed himself, Patton. He did it by punching holes in his carotid arteries using double-edged razor blades which he held in his bare hands. He made a phone call before he died; as a matter of fact, he didn't even bother to hang up before he offed himself. The last person he talked to works here at Nuvironment. Isn't that a son-of-a-bitch?"

That sat Peter Patton back down. He looked like a man who had been punched in the stomach; his blue eyes were wide with shock as he stared at me in disbelief; his mouth hung open, and his breathing was rapid and shallow. Oddly enough, his tic had stopped. I casually crossed my legs and stared back at him, raising my eyebrows slightly.

He finally managed to say, "Dr. Valley is. . dead?"

I lowered my eyebrows to a squint, just to let him know I remained more than a bit skeptical about anything and everything he had to say, regardless of the histrionics that went with the words. "You didn't know?"

He tugged at his tie again, then loosened it and undid the top button of his shirt, took a deep breath. "How would I know?"

"The police didn't call you?"

Patton shook his head, and it occurred to me that he could be telling the truth about that, at least. Lieutenant Malachy Seamus McCloskey was evidently still talking to his superiors, and maybe a few other people, making sure that his about-to-retire ass was well armored before he started mucking about and asking questions in a company, and a favored one at that, owned by Henry Blaisdel.

"Was it you he called, Patton?" I continued. "Were you the person he was talking to when he slit his throat?"

"How could you know?" Patton asked the wall behind me. His face had gone very pale. He abruptly shifted his gaze to my face. "I mean, how could you know who he called if he committed suicide while he was making the call?"

"The wonders of modern technology, Patton," I said evenly. "He called here."

Peter Patton wiped a thin film of perspiration from his forehead with a linen handkerchief. He carefully refolded the handkerchief and put it back in his jacket pocket, put his hands back on the glass desk top, palms down, and sighed heavily. "As a matter of fact, I was the one he called," he said softly, licking his lips. "My lord, you say he killed himself afterward?"

"Not afterward, Patton; during."

Something moved in the depths of Patton's eyes, and he narrowed them slightly. "If you were there while he was making the call, why couldn't you have stopped him from killing himself?"

Not being quite ready to go on the defensive with the skilled liar sitting across from me, I ignored his question. "What the fuck did you say to him that caused him to slit his throat?"

"This is terrible," Patton said hoarsely, apparently deciding that turnabout was fair play as he proceeded to ignore my question. "If this gets into the newspapers. . Mr. Blaisdel detests any kind of publicity about himself or his companies, even when it's good publicity."

"Your concern for Craig Valley is touching, Patton. But don't worry about me leaking anything to the media. I really don't give a damn why Valley called you, or what you talked about. Like I keep saying, the only thing I care about is finding the child I mentioned. To do that, I need to know where you're storing that dirt."

His tic had started up again, this time with a vengeance, and Patton pressed the tips of the index and middle fingers of his left hand tightly against it. "Please believe me, Dr. Frederickson. I can't help you. I don't know anything about the soil you're searching for. As far as the call from Dr. Valley is concerned, I can't even tell you what we talked about, because we didn't really talk about anything. He was incoherent; babbling, really. The few things I could make sense of sounded very abusive, to tell you the truth, and I took it that he was blaming me-or Nuvironment-for all of his personal difficulties. I think he blamed us for getting him fired from the Botanical Garden, but it wasn't true. I swear to you that I simply put him on hold almost immediately after he started to become abusive."

"On hold? Why didn't you hang up on him?"

Patton again shrugged, and smiled almost shyly. "I suppose I should have. But, after all, he was obviously very distressed. I guess maybe I was hoping he would calm down and that I'd be able to talk some sense to him. When I came back on the line, he wasn't there; I assumed he'd hung up. Now, to find out that he killed himself. . it's just very shocking, and I'm afraid that now I'm going to feel at least partly responsible for his death. Who knows? Maybe I could have saved him."

"I want to talk to your boss, Patton."

The other man blinked, frowned, shook his head slightly. "What?"

"You said you can't help me-or won't."

The frown deepened until it was pretty close to a scowl. "You're a very persistent man, Dr. Frederickson."

"That's only one of my many faults. One of my few virtues is that I can be very closemouthed, when it suits me, and I keep my word. I told you that I won't involve Nuvironment in any scandal, and I won't-if you tell me what I want to know. Now, another one of my faults is that I have this real nasty streak in me that comes out when I get disappointed. In this case, I just might take it into my head to talk to the newspapers about. . whatever. I know Blaisdel wouldn't want me to do that, so I figure maybe I'd better talk to him about the dirt, William Kenecky, and the little girl. You just put me in touch with him on the phone; I'll do the talking."

Patton snatched his hands off the top of the desk and stiffened in his chair. "You may carry out your threat, Dr. Frederickson, and it's possible that you could ruin my career-but it won't get you what you demand. It won't get you an appointment with Mr. Blaisdel, because he never sees anyone, and it won't get you the information you seek, since Nuvironment had nothing to do with any importation of soil. We've done nothing wrong, absolutely nothing, and if you try to make it appear that we have. . well, that will be on your conscience." He paused, touched the side of his nose. "Also, of course, there are libel laws."

Peter Patton himself was nothing if not persistent-so persistent, and adamant in his denials, that I was almost tempted to believe him. But if I did believe him-if Nuvironment had nothing to do with the importation of the rain forest soil, and if Craig Valley really had called Patton just to vent his spleen hysterically before slitting his throat-it meant that Garth and I would have to start all over again, from scratch, without the vaguest notion where scratch might be. That being the case, naturally, I decided not to believe a word he was saying-although it wasn't clear where that was going to get me, either.

"This business about the child bothers me a great deal, Frederickson," Patton continued.

"Yeah; I can see that."

"There could be one other explanation-and that bothers me a great deal, too."

"What would that explanation be?"

"The explanation would be that we have competition that I'm not aware of; such a competitor wouldn't be interested in long-range goals, but only in reaping the benefits of certain research findings. It now occurs to me that we may have a spy here, skimming off the cream of our research."

"Oh," I said, unable to think of anything else to say. Suddenly I felt very depressed.

"If that were the case," Patton said as he leaned forward slightly in his chair, "we would certainly want that person exposed." He paused for a few moments, continued carefully, "I certainly wish you were working for us, Dr. Frederickson."

"Jesus Christ, Patton, are you offering me a job?"

"Yes. And why not? I happen to know that you and your brother now deal almost exclusively with corporate clients. I understand that your fees are high, and Nuvironment would be more than willing to pay for the two of you to investigate the possibility of industrial espionage in our company. You could begin after New Year's."

It was an interesting proposition, inasmuch as it seemed to imply that Peter Patton was willing to give us the run of the place to search records and investigate personnel as we saw fit; that wouldn't seem to make much sense for the head of a company that was trying to hide something in addition to a hundred tons of dirt. The problem, of course, was that it was Patton who had come up with the idea; if he thought it was a good one, then it was difficult to see what Garth and I would gain. And we weren't about to put off our search until after New Year's.

"We already have a client who's taking up all our time," I said distantly, still pondering his offer and wondering why he had made it. "Vicky Brown; the child. Remember her?"

"Yes," the pale-eyed man with the tic replied evenly. "But you believe that I'm denying to you information that could lead you to her; in effect, you're accusing me and my company of abetting the sexual abuse of this child. I deeply resent that, Dr. Frederickson. If allowing you to investigate our operations will assuage your suspicions, I'm willing to pay you to do it."

"Then you really don't believe there's a competitor trying to steal your secrets?"

"It's always good to have a thorough security check once in a while."

"But you don't believe you have a spy."

"No."

"Then how would you explain the soil?"

"I think you've made a mistake; the people who analyzed the soil for you made a mistake. Or, some other concern-perhaps an agricultural lab at some university-brought in a small sample of the soil for their own purposes. I happen to like children very much, Frederickson, and I would do nothing to cause one to be harmed. I'm as interested in the welfare of this Vicky Brown as you are."

"And you're willing to give Garth and me complete access to all your operations here?"

"Not only here, but at any of our research facilities around the world."

"How many of those are there?"

"Sixteen. You won't find any rain forest soil in any of them, I assure you. As I said, you can begin January second."

"Why not right now?"

Patton again glanced at his watch. "I'll be happy to give you a tour of our facilities right now, if you'd like, but it won't do you much good. So much of our work is highly technical that you'd really need the appropriate personnel here to explain to you what they're doing and give you access to their computer files."

"Why can't you do that?"

"I'm a manager, Frederickson, not a scientist. Besides, I'm not sure you'd believe anything I told you, anyway. Just about everyone has gone home now, and the offices will be closed through New Year's. In fact, I'm scheduled to leave tomorrow morning for a European ski vacation. If you like, I'll postpone it."

"I don't need your personnel to search your computer files. I'll bring in my own experts."

Patton shook his head. "I'm afraid I couldn't authorize that; and, if I could, I doubt your people would be successful in interpreting all the data that's stored here. Please, Dr. Frederickson; I'm trying to be cooperative, and responsible."

And he was certainly putting on a good show. On the other hand, I could search computer files for a year and still miss what I was looking for. Rummaging through the offices of Nuvironment-now or after New Year's-wasn't the answer to the problem of finding Vicky Brown. Somebody had to tell me what I needed to know. In effect, Patton was offering me nothing except a show.

"I'd still like to talk to Blaisdel."

Patton rested his hands in his lap, sighed deeply. "I will submit a memo to that effect, Dr. Frederickson; that's all I can do. The memo will be ignored."

"Why don't you just pick up the telephone and call him?"

"Because-"

As if in response to my suggestion, the phone on his desk rang, startling both of us. Patton frowned and stared at the phone as it continued to ring-five, six times. He obviously hadn't been expecting any phone calls.

On the seventh ring Patton grunted with annoyance, reached out and punched a button on a speaker-intercom console connected to the phone. "What is it?" he snapped. "I thought I left instructions that there were to be no-''

"I'm sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Patton," a strong, authoritative male voice said. It was a distinctive voice, vaguely familiar; I was certain I knew the voice, but couldn't recall where I had heard it. "If you're on the intercom, please pick up the telephone receiver."

Patton punched another button, snatched the telephone receiver out of its cradle, and held it to his ear. "What's the problem?" he said curtly. He listened for a few moments, and his pale face darkened. "Just bring him in here," he said at last, and slammed down the phone.

I had a pretty good idea who "him" was even before the office door opened and Garth, blood streaming from a gash on one cheek and the other cheek rapidly swelling, and with both arms twisted up behind his back, was roughly ushered into the room by two burly men whose suit jackets weren't sufficiently well tailored to hide the bulge of guns in shoulder holsters. It looked, not surprisingly, as if Garth had given as well as he'd got; the shirts of both men were ripped and spattered with blood, their hair was tousled, and the left eye of the man on Garth's right was almost swollen shut.

Now I realized where I had heard the voice on the intercom before-on national television, broadcasting various baseball "games of the week" for a year or two. The name of the man twisting Garth's right arm was Hector Velazian, and he had once been a twenty-five-game winner in the majors before drugs and booze had melted the muscle in his mind and arm. He'd been rehabilitated, but had never gotten back his form. He'd retired, landed a job as a broadcaster, then lost that when his old demons had caught up with him. That had been at least five years before. The last I'd heard of him, he'd been identified by some stringer for UPI after languishing for a week in a Mexican drunk tank. He'd looked positively ghastly in the news photo that had appeared at the time, but now-except for the black eye Garth had given him-he appeared fit and trim. And mean, with his dark, Latin features twisted in frustration and anger.

The man attending to Garth's left arm was Billy Dale Rokan, another retired major league baseball player who'd fallen afoul of various illegal substances, along with a well-publicized statutory rape charge. It appeared that Peter Patton was a baseball buff; but instead of collecting cards, he collected former players. However, the men's jobs certainly seemed to agree with them; Billy Dale Rokan, like Hector Velazian, looked fit enough to trot out on the field again.

"Hello, brother," Garth said easily, with just the faintest trace of a smile. "How's your meeting going?"

"I thought I told you to wait in the car."

"We didn't bring the car."

"I thought you were going to wait there anyway."

"I figured we'd better check with you before we called the police, Mr. Patton," Hector Velazian intoned in his deep, resonant, announcer's voice. "We checked his identification, and it turns out he's a private investigator with this outfit called Frederickson and Frederickson. I've heard of him; he's a heavy." The Latin paused, nodded in my direction. "Him, too. That's his brother."

The lighter of the Fredericksons said, "Why don't you guys let go of my brother before I start throwing around office furniture?"

"Mr. Patton?" Billy Dale Rokan said.

"Let him go," Patton said tersely.

"But Mr. Patton-!"

"I told you to let him go!"

The two ex-ballplayers released Garth's arms, but then moved in to flank him tightly, their shoulders between him and the slight man sitting behind the desk. Garth rubbed his shoulders, then shoved his hands into his pockets, looked up at the ceiling, and yawned.

"We caught him down in the third-level basement, Mr. Patton," Rokan said as he wiped blood from the corner of his mouth. "He tripped off a couple of alarms. When we found him, he was trying to pick the lock on the freight elevator. He had no business being down there."

"Indeed," Patton replied mildly as he looked at my brother. "Just what is it you were doing down there, Mr. Frederickson?"

"I was trying to find a way to get up to Blaisdel's penthouse," Garth replied matter-of-factly as he looked at me. "What the fuck do you think I was doing down there?"

"Why would you want to do that?"

"I just thought Henry might like some company. I hear he's a virtual shut-in."

Patton pressed his fingers against his tic and rocked back and forth in his chair for a few moments. Finally he stopped rocking and nodded curtly to Velazian and Rokan. "Leave us."

"But-"

"It's all right, Hector. Both of you can leave. And close the door."

The two guards looked at each other, shot hostile glances at Garth and me, then backed out of the office, with Rokan closing the door behind them.

Garth, who looked-to me-dangerously calm and unperturbed by his tussle with the guards, didn't even glance at Patton. He asked me, "Did he tell you where we can find the girl?"

"Uh, not exactly."

"I told you nobody here would cooperate, Mongo. There's something very funny going on here, and it has to do with a lot more than a lousy load of dirt. I told you I could smell the evil here. You're trying to cut a deal with some very freaky people, and you're wasting your time."

Peter Patton cleared his throat loudly. "Please sit down, Mr. Frederickson," he said evenly. "You seem overwrought. I'm sorry my people had to be so rough with you, but Nuvironment provides security for the entire building, and you were in an area that's closed to the public."

Now Garth slowly turned to face the man behind the desk. "I'm not overwrought, pal," he said very quietly. "I just get more than a trifle impatient with anybody who'd protect a maniac who gets his rocks off by tearing up the vagina and rectum-and mind-of a child. You know what I mean?"

Patton flushed and leaned forward in his chair. "That is an absolutely outrageous accusation, Frederickson. As I was saying to your brother, I'll sue you for everything you've got if you dare to repeat it to anyone."

"Mr. Patton denies that he or his company had anything to do with bringing in the dirt, Garth," I said in a flat voice, watching Patton's tic-ravaged face. "Indeed, he's raised the possibility of a competitor stealing Nuvironment's research findings, and he's offered us a retainer to look into the matter. He claims to be as concerned about Vicky Brown's welfare as we are. He's even offered to open up the Nuvironment offices for our inspection. You should have been here during our discussion; he really seems quite sincere."

"So?" my brother said without much apparent interest. He was staring hard at Patton. "Did you accept the retainer?"

"I was about to tell him that I couldn't possibly commit to such an arrangement before consulting with my partner."

"You know, this man's a liar. He's jerking you around."

Patton started to rise out of his chair; he apparently had second thoughts, because he immediately sat back down. "You have no right to talk to me like that, Frederickson," he said tightly, in a dry voice that cracked. "I deeply resent it. I have a good mind to press charges for trespassing."

"Mongo, listen to me," Garth said without taking his eyes off Patton's face. "If this joker really wants to hire us, it's only to put us off the track. This son-of-a-bitch really is ready to sacrifice the kid in order to protect Kenecky and cover up whatever it is they're really trying to do. I don't want to rush you through this important meeting, of course, but I thought you might like to join me for steaks and whiskey sours."

"Yeah, you're right," I said with a sigh. "I am kind of hungry, and we're running into so much resistance trying to get certain people to give this kid a break that we have to take pains to keep our strength up." I got to my feet, smiled thinly at the ashen-faced executive sitting behind the glass and steel desk. "Well, Mr. Patton, what can I say? My brother informs me that you're a liar-which means that you prefer protecting a child molester to giving us just one simple piece of information. Frankly, I don't understand it. I just hope Henry Blaisdel and you people in Nuvironment don't have second thoughts about all of this when we do find your lousy pile of dirt-which we are most definitely going to do. You might even think about preparing a letter of resignation, because, as of now, all bets are off on Garth and me keeping whatever it is we find to ourselves."

As I turned and started toward my brother and the door, Peter Patton, now red-faced, leaped up from his chair and came stalking around his desk. "Wait a minute!" he shouted in a squeaky voice. "Just who the hell do you two think you are?! One of you is a trespasser, and both of you are slanderers! I can bring charges! The Frederickson brothers aren't going to be so high and mighty if they get their private investigator licenses revoked, will they?! As a matter of fact, I think I definitely will-!"

The executive director of Nuvironment abruptly stopped speaking when his air supply was cut off-the result of Garth's grabbing him by the tie and collar and lifting him up on his toes. Patton's eyes went wide, and his mouth opened and closed as he struggled to breathe.

"You've got a lot more to worry about than causing trouble for the Fredericksons in various city agencies, Mr. Patton," Garth said in a perfectly mild, conversational tone of voice that somehow reminded me of the sound of a sharp knife cutting through silk. "We don't need licenses to search for the child. When we find her, and we most certainly will, I'm going to make a judgment about her condition. With your cooperation, Mongo and I could probably have found her this evening; now it's going to take longer. If I decide that this unnecessary delay has resulted in additional damage to her mind and body, more than she's already suffered, this Frederickson brother is going to come back here and kill you. Now, there's a very serious threat from one of us that you can add to your charges of slander and trespassing. Have I made myself clear, Mr. Patton?"

Garth casually cocked his head to one side and raised his eyebrows slightly, as if waiting for a response from Patton, whose face was now turning a dark purple.

I said, "Uh, Garth, I think it might be a good idea for you to set Mr. Patton back down on his feet. He seems to be having a bit of difficulty breathing, and it could be difficult for us to go on about our business if you're arrested on a murder charge."

"You're a mealy-mouthed fuck," Garth said to Peter Patton in the same mild tone as he released his grip and the other man staggered backward, gasping for breath, and finally collapsed over the top of his desk.

"Come on, Garth," I said tersely as I quickly opened the door and tugged at my brother's sleeve. "I think it's time we went back to corporate headquarters for a strategy conference."

Garth stood staring at the gasping Patton for a few moments, then abruptly turned and stalked past me out the door. I left the office, slamming the door shut behind me, and hurried after Garth as he headed toward the private elevator.