Coldwater Revenge by James Ross (best e reader for android .txt) 📕

cluttered desk. Joe produced a blown-up copy of a New York State driver’s license, and Willow leaned forward to look at it. “That’s him,” he said. “No question.”

“The guy you found rummaging in your mail room?”

“I don’t know that he was rummaging. He was just there where he shouldn’t be.”

“When was that?”

“About three weeks ago. I’d just come back from a speaking engagement in Chicago and I stopped here on my way home to pick up some mail.”

“What time?”

“About midnight.”

“Do you come here often at that hour?”

“No, thank God. When I’m traveling, I usually have my mail sent to my condo so I can read it when I get back. But our part-time mail room person was out sick that week, so I stopped on my way in from the airport to pick up my mail.”

Joe tapped the blown-up photo. “What did this guy say when you walked in on him?”

“Nothing at first. I asked him who he was and what he was doing, of course. He told me to ask my partner.”

“And who is that?”

“Was. A man named Michael Sharp. He’s no longer with the company.”

Joe made a note in his pad. “And this intruder was looking for him?”

“I don’t know that for sure,” said Willow. “He just said to talk to my partner, as if that’s all the explanation I needed. So I told him just what I told you, that I no longer have a partner.”

“Then what?”

“Then he left.”

“And you didn’t report the break-in?”

“I wasn’t sure there’d been one. He didn’t seem to be doing anything. He was just there. And he did mention my partner.”

“How can I get hold of this partner of yours?”

“Former partner.” Willow took an embossed business card from his wallet and slid it across the top of the desk. “I wrote his new address and phone number on the back.”

“You call him yet?”

“I called him the day after I found that man here.” Willow pointed to the photocopied license.

“And what did he say?”

“That he didn’t know anything about it and had no idea who he was or what he might have been doing.”

“Anything else?”

Willow paused. “Some business loose ends. Nothing about the man in that photo.”

“Have you spoken to your former partner since you saw the picture in today’s Gazette?”

“I assumed you wouldn’t want me to.”

Tom interrupted. “He said check with your partner. Did he use his name?”

Joe frowned at the interruption.

“No, he didn’t,” said Willow.

Joe opened the leather-covered notebook, looked at some notes and made a few. Willow watched and waited for him to resume, which Tom understood was the point. I’m in charge here. My brother’s along to keep his ears open, not his mouth.

Joe closed the notebook. “It might be helpful if you give me some background on this company of yours. What it does for example. No offense, but I thought Neutrogena was a women’s face cream.”

Willow forced a chuckle. “NeuroGene, Sheriff. We do gene research, primarily as it relates to brain chemistry.”

“Anything I might have heard of?”

Willow smiled. So did Tom. Asking an entrepreneur about his company was like asking a mother about her children. This wasn’t going to be short.

“We’re not a household name yet,” said Willow. “But I believe our research will get us there, eventually. What we do is attempt to unlock the genetic determinants of human behavior: why people smoke tobacco for example, or drink alcohol even though they know it to be harmful. We try to identify the specific brain chemistry at work in making the body want what the brain knows to be toxic or reject what it knows to be beneficial. Then we try to come up with things that enhance or block those impulses.” He went on to give several examples.

“So you’re a drug company?” Joe asked.

“No. We’re a research company with a focus on brain chemistry. Drugs, or ideas for drugs, come from that research.”

Tom interrupted again. “So where does the money come from?”

Joe folded his Popeye forearms and stared at the ceiling.

“Ah, money.” Willow templed his fingers as if in prayer, and rested his chin on the tips. “Basically NeuroGene survives by patenting the ideas that come out of our research and by licensing the patents to the major drug companies. There’s considerable interest among the large pharmaceutical manufacturers in what we do. But they can be tight with their cash until there’s a demonstrated commercial demand.”

“So you’re broke?” Tom pushed.

Willow stiffened. “We’ve been through a few dry patches now and then. Nothing atypical for this line of business. We’re fine at the moment.”

Tom had heard that wishful line before. “Are you the sole owner?” Willow’s answer would tell him if NeuroGene was still limping along on founder money, or if the corporate vultures had already started to tear off the digestible pieces in exchange for short-term cash. Willow’s slow, drawn-out ‘yes’ seemed to pass through several filters of weighed consequences before he let it out.

Joe took back the lead. “So where do you keep the brainiacs that do all this research? This place looks kind of sleepy to me.”

“It’s late, Sheriff. I’m sure most of the staff have gone home.”

“And that would be how many?” asked Tom, wondering why the receptionist would be there if everyone else had gone.

Willow paused again before answering. “At the moment, I employ three researchers. In addition to myself. We should be staffing up again soon.”

Joe tapped the photo on the desk. “So this guy didn’t steal anything?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Or threaten to?”

“No.”

“And aside from mentioning your partner, there’s no connection between him and your company? He wasn’t a customer? Or here to pick up or deliver something for one?

Tom watched Willow’s eyes move up and to the left, as if the answer might be somewhere at the top of a flimsy shelf jammed with photos and corporate trinkets.

“He didn’t say anything like that when I asked,” Willow answered.

Joe closed his notebook. “Now that you’ve had a few weeks to think about it, what do you think he was doing