Shadow Game Page 4

  “This must be urgent for you to be here,” Reddic said.

  “It is,” Jenkins replied. “Your season is too long. I almost had to go with someone else.”

  “I suppose you’re glad we didn’t make the playoffs.”

  “I am. But there’s always next year,” she quickly added.

  “So, what’s this all about?” Reddic asked.

  “What do you know about alternative energy?”

  “I’m definitely not an expert, but I am familiar with basic alternative proposals like nuclear, hydrogen, solar, and natural gas. Anything beyond that gets murky.”

  “My sources tell me that a couple scientists from Stanford University are on the verge of creating an alternative energy source unlike anything presently in existence. Two professors, doctors Feldman and Hansen, were scheduled to unveil a theoretical breakdown of their research at a conference in Seattle over the weekend. Unfortunately, there was a slight complication.”

  “Bad weather,” Reddic deadpanned.

  “No. Feldman was killed minutes before their presentation.”

  “Any leads?”

  “Seattle PD is investigating, but they’ve reached a dead end. My sources tell me it was a professional. Clean knife wound to the neck and abdomen. No prints, no witnesses, no surveillance.”

  “Why would a professional target a professor?”

  “That’s the million-dollar question,” Jenkins said. “The windbags in DC are perking up. Rumors of an energy breakthrough surfaced not long ago. Both political parties are posturing for credit, investors are lining up, and most troubling, the president is very tight-lipped. He has no idea that I’m out here. I brought this to his attention two days ago and he told me that he had people looking into it and that I should let it go.”

  “Sounds like politics as usual,” Reddic said.

  “That’s exactly what it is. Hansen is the key, Reddic. I fear that she will be the next target. Somebody clearly doesn’t want that research to hit the market. I smell something foul. This is not some impractical theory. Feldman and Hansen’s research has national security ramifications. If it truly is groundbreaking our country could free itself from fossil fuel dependency that our allies, and I use the term loosely, in the Middle East enjoy. We would be the sole purveyor of a new energy source.”

  They were nearing the arena exit where the team bus was parked outside. Jenkins stopped and faced Reddic.

  “I want you to find Hansen and discover who or what is trying to eliminate her and the research.”

  “I’ll need to fly home and make a quick stop by my place to retrieve some items,” Reddic said.

  “Everything you’ll need is already waiting for you in your hotel. Hansen works at Stanford and lives near campus. A car is gassed and ready to go in the hotel parking lot. You need to leave immediately.”

  Reddic pulled his phone out of his backpack and checked the time. He opened a map application and punched in the coordinates to Palo Alto, California.

  “Looks like it’s less than thirty miles from Oakland to Palo Alto. Let me take a shower and…” Reddic’s voice trailed off as he looked up and realized he was standing alone.

  Madison Jenkins had vanished.

  A smirk creased on Reddic’s mouth as he started toward the bus. This was not the first time she had done that to him.

  6

  The drive from Oakland took longer than Reddic had expected, but it was of little surprise. California traffic was uncooperative at best, especially after a professional sporting event. Apart from the congested interstate, the drive was relatively pleasant. The sleek Audi that Jenkins had provided was comfortable and handled well. He only wished he could open up the engine a little.

  Rays of sun filtered into the car from the west. Reddic estimated he had about two or three hours of good daylight left. It enabled him to take in the surroundings as he entered Palo Alto proper. Hills, trees, and water abounded where the urban sprawl either tapered off or was not permitted to expand. The result was a breathtaking blend of natural and man-made beauty. There were few places in the country that rivaled its splendor.

  Reddic glanced at the duffle bag on the passenger seat. As Jenkins promised, it contained everything that he would need for this type of assignment—a 9mm with extra ammunition magazines, a sound suppressor, five thousand dollars in cash, a prepaid cell phone, and a briefing on Hansen.

  He had already memorized the briefing while back at his hotel. Her full name was Marjorie Hansen. She received an undergraduate degree from Caltech, a PhD in physics from Stanford, and did a post-graduate fellowship at Oxford. She had very little social life. She had no dog, no siblings, no husband, no boyfriend, no known hobbies, and besides Feldman, almost no close associates. She engulfed herself in her work. Reddic surmised that she was probably a little socially backward, a conclusion drawn by the omission of any current photograph in her file. Perhaps she suffered from scopophobia, a fear of being looked at by others. He had known many driven intellectuals that were eccentric and had difficulty relating to areas outside of their field of study. He was willing to bet that Hansen possessed a similar personality.

  Hansen’s list of accomplishments was impressive. She already had more publications than any other faculty member in her department at Stanford and earned tenure in only two years. She received the National Early Career Development Award, the Boltzmann Award for groundbreaking research, and the LeRoy Apker Award. All that was missing was a Nobel Prize, a deed some of her colleagues believed she aspired.

  The briefing stated that Hansen was present when Feldman was murdered. There was no telling how she was taking it. Death had a way of changing people. Some sought for revenge, some emotionally shut down, and, worst of all, some became terrified. It was that type that concerned Reddic the most. They were the unpredictable ones. Fear replaced trust. Irrationality supplanted sound judgment.

  Reddic’s priority was to find her. He would worry about her emotional state later. The problem was where to start looking. Her address was not on record. Stanford subsidized her mortgage, so the title was technically in the institution’s name. The permanent address for all her bills, journal subscriptions, magazines, and personal mail was her office on campus. This did not surprise Reddic in the slightest. The woman probably spent more time in her office or lab than at her home. Naturally, it would be the first place he was going to look.

  The next task was locating her building. Driving through Stanford’s campus was like driving through a small town. It was the second largest contiguous campus in the world, covering over eight-thousand acres. Other than a few distinct landmarks, such as the Stanford Memorial Church, the Hoover Tower, and The Dish, most of the buildings carried a similar look; a Romanesque rectangular stone design constructed in the Spanish-colonial style. Red tile roofs and sandstone masonry dominated the collegiate landscape.

  On the north side of campus Reddic pulled into a small parking lot behind the physics building. He reached for his bag and gripped the pistol stock but balked at removing it. The gun-free school zone act of 1995 prohibited the possession of all firearms while on campus, and Palo Alto was notorious for harshly prosecuting offenders. Since this was a low-risk reconnaissance excursion, he decided to leave the gun.

  Stepping out of the Audi, he quickly took inventory of the makes and models of the other vehicles parked there before entering through the rear entrance. He emerged from the stairwell on the third floor and found his way to the faculty offices bunched together in the southwest corner of the building.

  The layout was simple. Inside a compact foyer was an elevated reception desk common to medical clinics. Two hallways intersected the foyer, each housing faculty offices. Hansen’s office was 324, located at the far end of the right-hand hall. That was Reddic’s destination. There was only one obstacle. A middle-aged administrative assistant was stationed at the reception desk and was staring directly at him. She wore short, ear-length hair and had a plain face. She most certainly was n
ot an alumnus, Reddic assumed. Stanford graduates would look down upon positions like this, but having grown up in a small town, he had great admiration for those that worked lower profile jobs.

  “You look lost, may I help you?” the woman asked with feigned concern. Her attempt at professional niceties did little to mask her noticeable annoyance that another outsider stepped foot into the holy sanctuary of Stanford’s physics department. She was dripping with disdain for her surroundings. Reddic took note of it instantly. She was obviously having a rough day.

  “You may be able to,” Reddic said. “I’m looking for Dr. Hansen. I have an appointment with her today.”

  “She left for a conference last week and has not returned. I’m afraid you’re out of luck. It should be safe to assume that your appointment is probably canceled.”

  “It certainly appears that way. Would you happen to have a number where I could reach her at to reschedule?”

  “I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?” Her glare suddenly hardened. Reddic knew it would be a bad idea to push this woman.

  “Robert Morris,” he replied simply.

  “Well, Mr. Morris, we have no address or personal contact numbers on file. But make no mistake. Even if we did, we would not give them out so casually.”

  Reddic took the hint. He had worn out his short welcome.

  “Well then, I suppose I’ll have to leave a message on her office number or send her an email sometime. Thank you for your help.” Reddic was outside the reception area before she could mutter anything further.

  Reddic’s phone was instantly in his hand. He needed to get into Hansen’s office, but the only way that would happen was if the administrative assistant were occupied somewhere else. Confronting the woman the way he did revealed much. First, according to a placard on the desk, her name was Emma Peterson and her uncooperative manner demonstrated an obvious detest of her job. A simple deduction concluded that people tended to hate their jobs if they in turn hated their employer. This was the angle Reddic decided to exploit.

  The faculty directory mounted to the wall indicated that Dr. James Anderson was the dean. The dean was synonymous with another four-letter word—boss. Reddic found the department’s main number on his web browser and dialed. After two rings she answered.

  “Physics department,” she said curtly.

  “Ms. Peterson,” Reddic responded in a haughty, impatient voice. “This is Dr. Anderson. I am down in the parking lot with two boxes of files that need to be taken to my office. I expect you to be down here to help me carry them. Thank you.” Reddic ended the call and ducked into the men’s restroom to the right of where the woman sat.

  From the restroom Reddic watched as Peterson stormed out of the reception area and disappeared into the stairwell. He slipped out of the bathroom and briskly walked into the faculty offices. He knew he had less than ten minutes to get in and out unnoticed.

  He sat behind the receptionist desk and pulled open the top right-hand drawer. Inside were three keys on a Cardinal-emblazoned ring. Reddic scooped them up and headed to Hansen’s office. He inserted each key until he found the one that fit this lock. He had no doubt that it would open the door. Nearly every office place had a set of master keys in case an employee lost or forgot their issued key. It was standard organizational behavior.

  Hansen’s door lock turned in virtual silence. Reddic nudged it open and stepped inside, quietly closing the door behind him. The office space was compact. Directly in front of him was a window looking over a small courtyard. On both sides of the window against the walls were two standard desks with shelving mounted above them. Built into the nearside wall were bookshelves filled with journals and books. There was only one chair in the entire room, a detail that was consistent with Hansen’s profile.

  The space was sterile. There appeared to be no dust anywhere. Everything seemed to be in meticulous order. It all pointed toward a potential obsessive-compulsive condition. Reddic glanced at a computer terminal on the desk to his left but made no move to power it on. Anybody on the verge of creating a groundbreaking theory would not risk leaving valuable information stored on an office computer. If it were him, he would keep everything on a flash drive and backed up on an external hard drive somewhere else.

  A stack of letters on the corner of the opposite desk caught his attention. Reddic shuffled through them until he came across an envelope from the Department of Motor Vehicles. Like the others, it was unopened. He would have to break the seal to view its contents. Considering where he was standing and how he got there, it would be the least of his offenses.

  Using his car key, Reddic sliced the top of the envelope across the crease and pulled out its contents. Inside was a driver’s license renewal application. Reddic scanned the page until his eyes settled on the current address verification section. Typed into the space was an address in Palo Alto. Reddic punched the coordinates into his phone. It mapped out a route only five miles from Stanford.

  He was confident he had found her address.

  Reddic folded the slip of paper back into the envelope and placed it in the middle of the stack of letters. He grabbed the door and started to pull it open. A voice floating down the hall made him freeze. Peterson had returned, but she wasn’t alone. She was talking to another person.

  Reddic kept the door cracked open to make visual contact. Peterson’s unadorned face appeared first. She no longer had the appearance of a mistreated employee. She now looked frightened. Right behind her was a man standing about six feet in height. His shoulders were broad, and his neck was thick. He wore his dark hair short and had very sharp facial features, including a crooked nose. He looked like he was from Eastern European descent. But it was his eyes that made Reddic shrink back. This man was not an employee of the university.

  He had the look of a professional killer.

  The secretary walked behind her desk and pulled open the same right-hand drawer that Reddic had opened only minutes earlier. She moved a few objects to the side before closing the drawer and looking up with an uncomfortable smile. She proceeded to methodically search each of the remaining desk drawers, one by one.

  “I seem to have misplaced my keys,” she said at last, coming to the near side of the desk. “I don’t know what to tell you.” Peterson seemed to be gaining confidence as she spoke.

  The unknown man stared at her for a moment without speaking. Suddenly, his arm shot up from his side and struck her in the face. The blow was lightning fast, sending the defenseless woman tumbling to the floor, unconscious. The man grasped the woman by the armpits and dragged her behind the desk.

  Reddic silently closed the door and ducked back into the office. There was no question where this man was heading next. Reddic quickly searched for a place to hide. To his left was a small coat closet tucked into the corner of the office at the far end of one of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. He swiftly moved over and squeezed inside where he could still maintain a partial view of the office.

  Within seconds he heard someone picking at the door lock. Reddic tensed up, wondering who this man could be. With the way he treated the secretary he wasn’t a government agent, at least not from the United States. Was he a hitman for hire, a mercenary, or foreign operative? Either way, he knew he was in a precarious situation.

  The lock clicked and the door opened slowly. The man entered the office and surveyed his surroundings. He seemed to be looking for any cameras while getting a feel for the simple layout of the office. Reddic took a closer look at him. The man was well built. He wore a simple pair of jeans and a brown jacket. There was a slight bulge beneath his left arm. Most people would not have noticed it, but a trained eye knew it was a gun. A two-inch scar ran down his neck just behind his left ear. One thing was clear, this was not the man’s first rodeo.

  He began rummaging through both desks along the walls. His search stopped when he saw the stack of letters resting on the desktop. His eyes were immediately drawn to the opened letter from the DMV. He scann
ed the contents and replaced the letter to the envelope. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. He brought it to his ear and began speaking a language that Reddic immediately recognized. The language of the Cold War.

  Reddic was familiar with the Russian language and could even speak enough to get by when in country, but he certainly wasn't fluent. But he didn't have to speak like a Muscovite to know what was being said. This man had just revealed the location of Hansen’s house.

  Reddic evaluated his options. He could let this man walk out and follow him to Hansen’s home and confront him later or he could try to take him out now. If he could take him out of play here that would be one less burden to worry about later. And it would be worth the risk to try to find out who this guy was working for. The problem was he had no weapon. He silently cursed himself for worrying too much about campus gun laws. It was a severe lapse in judgment on his part, one clearly caused by rustiness in his craft. The rigors of a long basketball season were just an excuse. He made the decision not to carry and now he had to face it head on. The only consolation was that he still had the element of surprise, and he intended to take full advantage of it.

  As the man turned his back to replace the stack of letters, Reddic reached out and took hold of the nearest hardcover book resting on the shelf. He held it firmly in his hand and stepped forward into the closet doorframe. Timing was critical. With no weapon he knew he would only get one chance at this.

  Reddic planted his rear foot and hurled the book at the man’s face just as he turned toward the office door. The unexpected appearance of Reddic surprised him momentarily, but not enough to make him an easy target. Most non-professionals would have brought their hands up to block the object, or they would have ducked down out of the way, leaving themselves exposed. This man was anything but an amateur.