The Biggest Game

By Tom Lee

Another day in Manhattan Beach, just another day in paradise. But paradise is horribly lost for K.J. Robard when he comes back from the beach to the grisly scene of his roommate’s murder. The shock of the crime is quickly crowded out by fear when K.J. learns he was, and still is, the killers’ intended target. He has always been an athlete, but now pitted against an unknown opponent for unknown reasons, he must win the game of his life. – The Biggest Game.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tom Lee
• Release date: Jan 3, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466082090

Tom Lee

Tom Lee is a graduate of Michigan State University. He is a retired Marine of twenty years. After retirement he trained to fly aircraft, eventually flying Medivac, corporate, and finally for the airlines commercially. Now retired from the airlines he has settled into his third career as an author. Tom’s other books are - There’s a Turtle on the Runway and other flying stories. Retribution is Tom’s fourth book in the series involving Ryan, Scout, Gunny, Cate, Amanda and others. 

Book preview

Foreword

The cover of my novel The Gods Underground mentions that I am the "Author of The Biggest Game". And for years now I’ve been asked by readers where they could buy a copy of that first novel, to which I’ve always had to answer ‘Regrettably, there are no copies available’. The reason there are no copies available is simply that the book has never been put into print. Why it’s never been put into print is not answered quite so simply. If there were a simple answer it would be laziness on my part. And I wished that explained it all because I could go on being lazy without too much strain on my psyche.

When I wrote the first draft of The Biggest Game I had no idea that my writing was crap. Somehow, though, the story line in that first manuscript was good enough to interest one of the readers employed by a Hollywood literary agent. The agent had taught novel writing at Yale and after signing me to a contract I was excited to find out that he would personally critique my manuscript. That excitement turned to utter embarrassment when a week later he sent me back the first three chapters almost completely covered in red ink from all of his suggestions and little hints like "punctuation is NOT something to be guessed at and get a copy Strunk and White and read it!" After swallowing my pride I put on my dunce cap, rewrote the chapters and sent them back. A week later more red-ink covered pages came back to taunt me. But now there was hope because the comments no longer painted me as a moron. They clearly indicated that I had stepped up to being an incompetent fool. With that encouragement, I persisted and after several more cycles of rewriting those three chapters, my agent was finally satisfied and told me that I could now rewrite the book. Six months later I had a manuscript worthy of him and soon after I signed a publishing contract and life was good; I was officially a writer.

Since you already know that the book has never been in print, you probably guessed correctly that something happened, or more accurately, didn’t happen. My novel was the third one in line for the publisher when they decided to quit the fiction business. By that time my agent had me working on my second novel, The Gods Underground. When I finished that novel I was on the wrong end of big break. My agent had sold the rights of another writer’s novel to Disney for millions, and suddenly scores of Hollywood writers wanted him for their agent. Too busy for me, he passed me off to his son, a literary agent in New York. I can’t blame him; after all, since my publishing contract fell through I was no longer officially a writer.

So there I was, two novels written and an agent in New York who couldn’t care less. Then suddenly I found a publishing company to take on The Gods Underground. Actually I should say I founded a publishing company. After buying ten ISBNs, building a web site, and contacting a printer, I finally became a published author and I didn’t have to spend thousands of dollars with a vanity publishing company. Instead I simply lost thousands of dollars as a publisher. The Biggest Game, then, became yet another victim of a publisher getting out of the business, its characters stuck in limbo still longing for their chance to perform on their literary stage.

I often feel the eyes of K.J. and Gina, Bud, and even Dieter as they silently ask why they’re not as worthy as Roger, Heather, Sarah, and Colonel Patterson from The Gods Underground. Why won’t I free them to tell their story? With Print On Demand and e-publishing services, cost has not been an excuse for years. So what’s stopping me, they demand to know? Nothing. And that’s why I would like to blame it on laziness. Somehow I imagine my characters can understand and forgive laziness. They’re not lazy themselves, but they’re able to sympathize with a man pulled in too many directions to pay attention to their predicament.

But I think the truth is that I’m just afraid to tell them they got old. The story originally was written in 1994 and things have changed since then. For instance Sand Dune Park in Manhattan Beach where a key scene takes place is not the same as originally described. The houses on Thirty-First Street are not the same. K.J. may no longer be able to jump from roof to roof. Even my writing has changed (hopefully for the better). But mainly it’s the technology that has kept them in the wings all these years. I’ve been programing computers since the seventies and should have known better than to saddle my hero and villains with technology that would be obsoleted so quickly.

For a long time I had wanted to do a rewrite so I could upgrade their equipment and at the same time fix any writing flaws that surely must have been made by a first time author. But every time I sat down at the computer I was torn. Maybe fixing flaws would change my characters to people I didn’t know or even recognize. I might spend months in a rewrite and then ask myself, Who are these people? But putting off the decision to get the book ready for publication actually did feel akin to guilt, almost as if the characters really were nagging me.

I finally struck what I consider a reasonable balance between my guilt and laziness. K.J. and his friends will finally get their day in the sun, but their day will be in 1994. I’ve simply noted that date at the start of the first chapter. I’ve rationalized this solution by reasoning that the reader actually benefits from learning about what would have been considered beyond state-of-the-art in the nineties.

In the end, however, it’s not about the time or technology. It’s about the story that is finally being told.

Prologue

She stared at her fingers poised on the keyboard. The glossy polish was perfect, nails pretty enough to please Sam. But her fingers refused to move, refused to grant Sam this one simple favor. Her fingers refused to break the rules.

Jeri Moulton knew the rules by heart. The National Security Agency paid her handsomely to enforce the rules her fingers were now being commanded to break. However, argued that other part of her body, this was merely a technicality; no breach of security would be involved. That had been Sam’s argument, but now her fingers weren’t buying it.

Pushing back her chair with an angry burst from her legs, Jeri cursed the image of Sam’s lovely face that made her heart race with desire. The illicit love affair had started only a week before, but undeniably had changed her life. She had found it so easy to make up lies, plausible lies to her husband that allowed her to meet Sam for intense lovemaking that lasted until the early hours of the morning.

Jeri stood, and then slowly paced the deserted cubicle bay, all the while reliving the previous night when Sam’s unmerciful teasing had brought her to the brink countless times until she had finally agreed. Agreed to one small favor. And the reward had been so . . . explosive. Jeri stopped her pacing and let last night’s pleasure wash over her until her knees threatened to buckle. What, she wondered, would Sam do for her tonight if her fingers would only obey, would only enter the information?

Jeri hurried back to her desk.

Five minutes later, a new user had been granted access to a very special NSA computer.

Jeri stopped at the after-hours security desk. But as she signed out, her fingers were still protesting their unwilling participation in the forbidden deed. Her signature came out a shaky scrawl.

The reward was even better than Jeri had anticipated. Sam had indeed been very grateful.

Jeri lay on her stomach in the warm afterglow of intense pleasure and purred to the soft caresses of Sam’s hands on her backside. She reassured her guilty fingers that everything was all right.

Suddenly her fingers reached for her neck, reached for the source of a terrifying pain. Her fingers felt a gaping slash in her throat. Their desperate, clutching movements told her one last time: It was wrong to break the rules.

Sam picked up Jeri’s crumpled skirt and slowly wiped the blade of the knife on its hem until the engraved letters were cleaned thoroughly. S. Heasty identified the owner of the lethal blade. S. Heasty left the tiny apartment in sole possession of an NSA computer access code, the code entered by Jeri’s fingers.

Chapter One

August 1994

Kenneth Jeffrey Robard, K.J. to his friends, stopped jogging the moment he rounded the corner at the top of the steep road. Tall, six-foot two, and fit, the surfboard slung under his arm looked more like a hot dogger’s stick than a forty pound, Dewey longboard. He pushed a strand of light-brown hair out of his eyes, and stared at a rare August sight in Manhattan Beach: A huge south swell.

From his vantage point atop the hill he saw endless rows of long waves patiently lining up as they came to the end of their thousand mile journey. The local surf report had mentioned their size but failed to describe their near-perfect shape.

K.J., wait a sec. The voice called from a second-story kitchen window. Seconds later a young man emerged from a weathered door. Like most beach volleyball players, his body was lean and chiseled.

What’s up, Eddie?

Sanders and O’Connor want to play at Marine Street today but I need a partner. Can you make it at ten?

You want to play with a geezer like me? I’m flattered.

Don’t give me that ‘old man’ line of yours. You can still beat half the pros on the circuit. Come on, don’t make me beg.

K.J. smiled his appreciation, but shook his head. I’d love to Eddie, but I can’t. I’ve got a job interview at eleven.

You’re kidding. You’ve only been laid off for three weeks. Man, you’re on a six month paid vacation. You got benefits. You can’t just shine that.

Ah, to see life through the eyes of youth. He hefted his ancient nine-eight Dewey. Maybe I’ll swing by the courts later, after you guys wear yourselves down to my level. He started his trot down the steep incline.

You old guys gotta’ learn to relax and enjoy the paradise we’re living in, know what I mean? Eddie smiled at K.J.’s acknowledging gesture, and watched him pad across Highland Avenue.

K.J. knew exactly what Eddie meant. He had known it that very first summer when his dad was transferred and moved the Robard family from Towson, Maryland to Manhattan Beach, California. As a high school freshman, K.J. fell in love with the L.A. area. The weather. The sports. Baseball games were never rained out. Football could be played in the winter without wearing snow-suits. Tennis nets were never taken down, golf courses never closed. Not to mention the sports unique to Southern California: beach volleyball and surfing.

For K.J. it had been a move to paradise. Not so for his family. His parents moved back to Maryland immediately upon retirement. His older brother and sister had complained loud and long of the lack of seasons. Both went back east for college and careers.

When he crossed the bike path, he switched the board to his other arm for the final jog across the wide stretch of soft sand. He looked at his watch. The beach town was still a paradise to K.J., but a paradise situated in reality – the world wasn’t clamoring for thirty-eight year old mainframe computer programmers. It had taken a cancellation of merely one military contract to knock K.J. from technical guru to dinosaur. The Internet, the Web, e-Commerce – that’s where you had to be, that’s what the world wanted, not some graybeard who had always worked for the same aerospace firm since graduate school. The point had been made very clear by the headhunters that he had contacted after the firm’s massive layoff.

K.J. paddled out through the foam, and thought about the many times he had railed about the bums who lived on government handouts. Now he realized how seductive it was to be on the dole, as his father used to say. He entertained Eddie’s tempting suggestion. Wasn’t it the government, after all, that had thrown him out of work? Now they were willing to pay him to play for another twenty-three weeks.

A mass of white water rushed at him. Fifty yards beyond the spot where the huge wall of water had peaked, another began to take shape as the rising ocean bottom resisted the wave’s forward momentum.

The smell and taste of the briny mist added to the excitement triggered in him by the sight and sounds of the huge surf. His arms responded. The big board plowed through the raging soup. He pushed on until his board suddenly rose, poking through the top of the next crest. From his perch, he saw it – the perfect way to start a day.

The wave came to him. K.J. spun the Dewey around. Three strokes and a six-foot wall of water overcame the heavy board’s inertia. It shot down and in front of the massive cascade of white water. He jumped to his feet. Leaning hard, the left rail dug deep. The board climbed back up the face of the wave as it peeled to the north. Another weight change. The board leveled out in the center of the curved wall. Then a final trim, and a walk to the nose.

For K.J., the ride occurred in slow motion. Twenty seconds is a long time to ride a wave. Hanging ten made it an eon. Plenty of time for thoughts. Crazy thoughts. Wonderful thoughts. Like making a come-back in volleyball, like updating old stand-up routines, like living a permanent vacation.

He thought of Gina – the wave died out, and so did the crazy thoughts. K.J. paddled out again. The excitement was missing, replaced by a week-old question: Why had a minor argument caused such a change in Gina?

An answer didn’t come forth, but a course of action did. A seven-foot wave slipped under his board. It would be difficult, painful, but when he got back he would do it. Another peak formed and rolled by. He would tell Bob Stevens that it had been a mistake to have taken him in as a roommate, tell him that he had to move out. Gina had been right; he had even told her so. Now he would show her. The third wave of the set rose. His arms stroked. He dropped in. Paradise was looking good again.

The jog back up the hill was a killer. As always, he pushed even harder when his thighs caught fire. Pain didn’t stop him – a flashing beacon did.

K.J. took it all in, the squad cars, the milling crowd of people, the yellow tape being strung around a house.

His curiosity suddenly leapt into shock. It was his house being cordoned off, his house being sealed off from the crowd by the fluttering plastic tape. He ran until the crowd of neighbors forced him to stop and wade through their gawking mass.

He pushed through the last line of onlookers who were pressed against the yellow tape, their eyes staring at him as he dared to step over the barrier.

He heard a voice in the crowd, someone had said his name. He looked back at the sea of faces directed at him. Amazing. A thin strand of plastic tape kept thirty people at bay. It was magic.

No one’s allowed in here. Police investigation. A hand clamped down hard on his arm.

He snapped the arm free and spun around to face a uniformed policeman. Sorry, I didn’t mean to –

Sir, I’m going to tell you one more time. This is a police investigation.

I live here. What’s going on?

You got any ID on you?

He patted his bathing suit and shrugged. The good-natured intention of the gesture was lost on the eager officer.

I’m going to have to ask you to wait here until I can –

It’s okay, Mike, interrupted another uniformed policeman with three stripes on his sleeve. K.J. recognized the sergeant standing on his front porch.

Sergeant Tony Lucas had gone to a rival high school, had played basketball against K.J. when they were juniors. They often saw each other around the beach and played in the same softball league. They knew each other enough to say, Hi.

Tony, what’s going on? K.J. walked up the steps.

Tony glanced at the straining necks of the curious crowd and lowered his voice. You have a roommate?

Yeah, Bob Stevens. Why?

Can you ID him from body characteristics – you know, tattoos, scars, things like that?

What are you saying?

K.J., someone in your house was murdered. There’s not much of his face left, the sergeant almost whispered.

Murdered? Oh, my God. Bob? Murdered?

He flung the door open. Color drained from his face. A halo of splattered blood stained the wall above what was left of Bob Steven’s head. K.J. stood in the doorway. From somewhere far away he heard his own voice asking, Why?

Is that your roommate?

K.J. turned away from the surrealistic sight and nodded slowly.

How can you be sure?

His left knee. He had arthroscopic surgery. Two round scars on either side of the knee-cap.

The sergeant checked the corpse.

Look, K.J., I know this may be difficult but I’ve got to take you back to our offices and get a report. We’re bringing in some forensic experts from the sheriff’s department and we don’t want to disturb anything here. We’ll get you some dry clothes from lost and found.

K.J. closed his eyes. What about him?

Lots of people will be working here. Don’t worry; it’ll be taken care of.

No. I meant –

K.J., I know what you meant, but there’s nothing we can do for him.

K.J. walked over to the breakfast bar. Two mismatched bowls with dried Frosted Flakes sat on the counter. He felt Tony’s stare and turned back.

My wallet, he offered as an explanation. Gina had given it to him for his birthday last month. Gina. Her face took over his thoughts, giving him a break from the tragedy in the living room. Then suddenly her image twisted into the unthinkable. She was sitting where Bob Stevens sat. Her beautiful face had been blown into a halo of splattered blood.

K.J. shook his head. Bob Stevens came back to the sofa.

Come on, K.J., we’ve got to go.

The excited crowd, now doubled in size, hushed when the door opened. The sea of onlookers parted meekly for the sergeant and K.J. as they passed under the tape. The squad car rolled away. Excitement returned to the crowd.

Chapter Two

Quiet filled the squad car. A mile and a half and not one word between the two men. Images, questions, theories, memories, tumbled into and out of K.J.’s thoughts. There was no room left for words. Tony respected the silence. He knew how the reality of a murder could tear at the sanity of a novice like K.J. It was Tony’s first murder, too.

It wasn’t the first murder for the two investigators waiting for K.J. in the interview room of the Manhattan Beach police station. Howie Brennan, the younger of the two detectives, dressed in a cheap suit that hung over his wiry frame, nodded his head. Look at this, Marty. It’s a goddam resort. These prissy cops don’t know shit about police work. Half the time they’re on the fucking beach checking out sixteen year old tits. Bet none of them ever got a pizza delivery before. Maybe now these twinkies will see the kind of shit we go through every day.

Martin Johncock, just eight months from retirement, nodded out of habit. He had long since realized his partner wouldn’t, couldn’t, shut up. Martin continued to study his notes.

The two men snapped their heads up when the conference room door jerked open. Tony Lucas held the door open for K.J.

Detective Johncock spoke to Lucas. That’ll be all, sergeant.

Tony ignored the detective and continued to stand in the doorway searching for consoling words but not finding them.

K.J. settled into a high-backed chair at the end of an elegant table.

You heard him, Lucas. That’s all. Howie’s tone begged a fight.

Tony shrugged and closed the door behind him.

Howie continued to glare at the door as if he could still see the sergeant. Guy thinks he’s a real cop.

Martin nodded again and then got to work.

Your name is Kenneth Jeffrey Robard?

Yes, K.J. responded after a slight hesitation.

You live in and own the house where Bob Stevens was murdered?

Yes.

"Did he live there, too?

Yeah. He is . . . He was, my roommate.

He was your roommate? For how long?

He moved in about 10 days ago. He answered an ad in the paper.

You guys lovers? asked Howie Brennan. Disgust underlined the last word.

Lovers? He was my roommate. Helped me pay the mortgage.

Howie’s face fell in disappointment.

Do you own a shotgun?

Are you saying you suspect me?

No. Witnesses cleared you. But we want to establish that the killer didn’t have access to a shotgun in your house – that he used his own gun. Now did you or your roommate own a shotgun?

No.

You or your roommate dealing drugs?

No. I work, worked that is, for Hughes.

You sure about your roommate? You’ve only known him for a month.

I said ten days. To be honest I’m not sure about the drugs. I never saw him do any. He’s a waiter – works at night, but I’ve been around pretty much the whole time. I never noticed anything.

Detective Johncock continued the questioning for almost an hour. He questioned K.J. about his friends, his dates, his hobbies, his job, his family. Another half hour was spent with questions about Bob Stevens, and K.J. mostly replying, I don’t know.

At last the interview was ending. The detective turned off the tape recorder.

You can go now, but stay around. We’ll probably need to talk to you again. Sergeant Lucas can take you back. Our forensic team should be done by now.

K.J. wondered about his ex-roommate. What was he supposed to do about him? Call his parents? Does he forfeit the cleaning deposit? That wasn’t funny.

Robard. You hear me? The older detective’s voice pulled him back. I said we have no idea what prompted the murder. But sure as hell, this ain’t your everyday break-in thief. They don’t tote sawed-off twelve-gauges.

You think whoever did this will come back?

"Well, if you’re clean and weren’t dealing drugs, probably not. I’m just saying you better hope they got what they were after – drugs, money, revenge, whatever – because if they didn’t, they will.

Detective Johncock snatched the phone from its cradle. We’re done.

The three men sat, no eye contact, no words. A soft clank came from the door handle, breaking the silence, turning their heads.

Tony held the conference room door open for K.J. Howie had suffered enough silence. He had to speak. Sergeant. Have him fill out a missing inventory report – by this afternoon.

Tony led K.J. to the squad car. "Those assholes. They give you a hard time?

K.J. shook his head slightly.

I’m not so good with words, but what do you say we talk a little on the ride back?

About what, Tony? I’ve been asked a ton of questions, but so far, no one’s told me anything.

I don’t know much either. We got a call from one of your neighbors saying he heard an explosion and saw someone drive away in a low-rider Chevy – probably ‘68 or ‘69. We don’t know much more. If he was a common thief it wouldn’t make much sense that he’d carry a shotgun and then try to rob your place in broad daylight.

I don’t get it.

Sure you guys weren’t into drugs?

K.J. closed his eyes. No. We weren’t into drugs.

Sorry but that’s the most obvious reason. What about insurance? Did Bob have an insurance policy? Did he piss anyone off at work? That’s all it takes these days. You lay a guy off and he comes back and blows your brains out.

Maybe that ought to be a standard question on the employment form: ‘Have you ever been fired and if so, how did you kill your supervisor?’

He felt Tony’s stare. "Sorry. It’s strange. I’ve been thinking of jokes all morning. It’s like if I joke about it enough, someone’s finally going to walk out and say ‘Look over there and wave because you’re on Candid Camera.’"

K.J. grimaced and rubbed his forehead. It’s real. He let out a rush of breath. Tony, I’ve got to tell you, I don’t want to go back in that house right now.

I know. But you have to. We need you to go through your stuff and tell us if anything’s missing. The body’s been moved to the morgue. Bob’s relatives will be notified.

The crowd in front of K.J.’s house had dwindled to just a few curious onlookers. The heads turned in unison at the approach of the squad car.

It amazed K.J. that curiosity had endured for so long. What did they expect to see? More blood? More bodies? Go home. I’ll call you if we find another body – unless it’s mine. K.J. paused before walking in the door to look back over his shoulder at the onlookers held at bay by the magic yellow tape. The empty gazes offered no sympathy, no help, no strength.

He turned, resigned to the task at hand. Four hours ago this house was his home, an extension of himself. It provided more than shelter. It had been his comfort, his retreat, his protective womb. Now his womb had been violated. He felt like a stranger in a strange house.

As he closed the door behind him, K.J. didn’t see the disappointed looks on the faces of the crowd. He also didn’t see the gray-haired man with the cold eyes turn and walk slowly away.

Chapter Three

If anyone had paid attention to Dieter Schranz, the gray-haired, thick-bodied, old man they would have noticed he was not just a curious neighbor. He walked around the corner and pressed a button in his coat pocket. A slight beeping sound came from the door panel of a new, midnight-blue Lincoln Continental.

The push of the button not only unlocked the door on the driver’s side but also disarmed the twenty thousand dollar security system. The system relayed a code to a geo-synchronous satellite which relayed the code to a central computer in a highly secured office complex. The computer verified the code and acknowledged. The acknowledgement was relayed back within ten milliseconds, activating the OK tone. The tone told the operator that the door was unlocked. More importantly, it told him the deadly booby traps were disarmed.

Dieter crumpled the parking ticket on his windshield. A monthly visit from a special courier provided clean, untraceable license plates. Mundane laws didn’t apply to him.

As Dieter turned the Lincoln onto Highland Boulevard where the lunchtime traffic still lurched along, his eyes darted around. Nobody had noticed him.

On Rosecrans Avenue the traffic flow increased. Ten minutes later the blue Continental pulled into an innocuous parking lot in one of the many look-alike business complexes in El Segundo. Dieter ignored the blue sign displaying the outline of a wheelchair, and parked directly in front of the entrance to an office building.

The receptionist in the lobby looked up with a smile on her face – until she saw him. He passed without displaying the required security ID.

Dieter strode slowly past her to the second elevator door and pressed the button once for two seconds, paused, then held it for another five seconds. Elevator number two came down from the third floor.

When the doors to elevator number two shut, Dieter inserted a key into an unmarked slot. He clicked the key once to the left, held it in place, then hit the lobby button. The elevator slid down two floors. The doors opened into a basement for which no plans had ever been submitted to the city, and into which no inspectors had ever entered.

The car came to stop, but the doors to the elevator remained closed. Dieter passed his hand across the panel of buttons. Five hundred and twelve lines in his palm were scanned by laser and digitally encoded. The micro-processor in the panel searched four billion bytes of memory. A match. The doors opened.

Hidden lights illuminated the room. Hidden cameras zeroed in on Dieter, their captured images turned into digital signals, beamed into space and back down to three identical offices in three distant cities.

He sat in the single chair at the near end of the conference table. Three empty chairs were arranged at the far end. A black briefcase had been placed in the center of the table.

A soft whirring. When the sound stopped, three men blinked into the chairs at the far end. The meeting had begun.

The men stared at him. No, Dieter reminded himself, holographic images stared at him. They only looked like men. They could be women or kids. Morphing, isn’t that what it was called? He would ask Sam Heasty about it some time. For now it didn’t matter. They people behind the images paid his salary.

The man/image in the middle spoke first. Did you get it?

I’ve got it. Dieter held up a thin stack of papers.

Thank God! the man on the right whispered.

Good work, Shar –

Damn it, no names here – not even code names. I don’t care if the transmission is scrambled – no names. The man in the middle chair turned to his fellow images as if they were in the same room. Assured that his stricture would be obeyed he turned back to the man in the El Segundo basement. Hold it up again.

Two thousand nine hundred and fifty miles away, a mouse button clicked. At nearly the speed of light, a computer in the El Segundo office received a copy of the click and output a burst of 10 millisecond electric pulses. A USB port passed along the pulses to the logic circuits built into the broadcast-quality video camera. The circuits interpreted the pulses and passed a current to the stepping motor attached to the zoom lens. Two seconds after the mouse click, three men were staring at a close up of an ordinary looking cover sheet to an ordinary looking specification document.

Put in it the briefcase.

Another mouse click. Suddenly three faint blue laser beams emanated from the ceiling in El Segundo. The lines traced an inverted pyramid with the apex resting on the top of the black briefcase. Two latches clicked.

It’s safe now. Put it in.

Dieter followed orders. Another mouse click. The latches snapped.

The images seemed to relax. Maybe the faces weren’t morphed.

Are you certain there are no others that knew about it?

Except for the author, no one else knew and there were no copies made.

And what about the last owner of the document? the man on the left asked.

Dieter’s cold eyes tightened slightly, along with his jaw. There was a problem. His roommate was inadvertently removed.

In addition to, or instead of?

The specified target remains alive.

The face on the right flushed. He hesitated then found his words. You’re telling me we’ve had another killing and it wasn’t even the correct person? We’re paying you too much to tolerate such mistakes.

You’re paying me for information. You made it very clear I was not to carry out the removal.

That’s beside the point. You’re heading up the field operation, you picked the third party.

This discussion is counter-productive. Tell me, will the problem be remedied?

Yes.

Right image again. No. No more killings. We should never have allowed the first.

The face on the left spoke. None of us liked it, but it was necessary. The alternative could mean destruction of all that we’ve ever worked for.

When does it stop? We have the document and the author is dead. There’s nothing more that can hurt us. Even if the current subject read it, he’d have to be a world class physicist to understand it. Besides, it could backfire on us. People could get very suspicious if two roommates become murder victims in the same week.

He’s right about that. How was it done?

The images watched Dieter reach into his coat. He held up an 8x10 glossy. The camera zoomed in on the headless body of Bob Stevens.

Dieter almost smiled when two of the images grimaced and turned their heads.

The gruesome sight didn’t phase the man in the middle. Did you okay the modus operandi?

Yes. The target was killed by injection, the document was found and removed, and then shotgun blast removed all traces of the needle mark – a murder for no apparent reason in the middle of the day – no one will ever come up with a suspect.

I must admit, said the center image, the plan was brilliant in its simplicity.

If it was so goddam brilliant, said the left, then why do we still have a problem?

Dieter’s eyes narrowed. The concept was perfect, it was merely an operational error. The problem will be rectified.

How? How will they do it this time?

The original target will be removed. Natural causes. No one will be suspicious.

No. I insist we stop it here. We’ve got what we want,

And I say we can’t take any chances, countered the left image.

Are you positive our current subject did not copy the document?

No one can be sure until we’ve run all the tests. But from my observations and information, he neither read nor copied the document.

So we don’t need another killing. We’re safe.

But now we may have a problem. Our original subject may get suspicious, said the left image.

He doesn’t know the contents and the document’s gone. We’re clear. Drop it.

Watching the three bickering images made Dieter impatient. Tell me what you want.

The left and right looked to the ultimate decision-maker in the middle. He paused to weigh the costs and benefits of Kenneth Jeffrey Robard’s life. Finally: Remove him.

The head on the left nodded solemnly, the right hung low.

The circumstances appear to give us adequate margins. Take the time to do it right. There must be no – I repeat, no suspicions. You have a week. Any questions or comments? After no response, Meeting’s over.

The images blinked away.

Chapter Four

K.J. stepped from the narrow shower and grabbed a towel. With the ocean salt finally washed away, his body felt refreshed. Mentally, he was fatigued, and dreaded the task of combing through his house searching for missing items. But Tony was outside interviewing witnesses one last time and seemed anxious to wrap up the day’s chores.

K.J. dressed quickly and started his search. It wouldn’t take long. His house was small, an original beach bungalow, one of only two left on his street. The others had all been replaced by two-story, custom homes.

He could afford to rebuild and he certainly could afford to live alone. As a systems programmer with Hughes he had made a good salary. But in his mind, his large nest egg of bank CDs wasn’t money he had access to. It was money that would be used to retire when he turned fifty.

It made no sense to Gina. The money was there. Why take in a roommate? Use the money.

To K.J., it was a matter of cash flow. Savings and operating cash were two different things. He wasn’t making money now and he needed cash flow. Simple economics.

Their opinions differed on other subjects – like living together.

She had always thought his view on cohabitation was quaint: He didn’t think it was right to live with her unless they were married. Until two weeks ago, she had found this view endearing. When he decided to take in a roommate, she found his view archaic. It was time for practicality. They had talked of marriage, that was close enough. How did he come by such an outdated notion of propriety?

Two weeks ago she found out. They had had a great meal at Mangiamo’s – a great meal and two bottles of wine. The wine had loosened his tongue. He had told her why he thought it wrong to live with her. He explained it all, including Judy.

He had been a senior at UC Santa Barbara when he met Judy. It was a time when the mores of the sexual revolution were mainstream attitudes on college campuses. Not for K.J. His buddies called him the Reverend for his puritanical outlook.

Judy changed that outlook. His torrid infatuation overcame one inhibition after another. The last to go was his stance against living with a girl. It wasn’t an easy obstacle, he had even done the unthinkable: He discussed it with a parent. His father told K.J. that living with a girlfriend would be fraught with unimagined perils. After hearing his father’s words, K.J. listened to his hormones. Judy moved in.

The annoyances of day-to-day living soon replaced the infatuation. Things like leaving the cap off the plastic milk container, buying the wrong peanut butter, putting a fuzzy cover on the toilet seat so that it wouldn’t stay up by itself.

The little things kept adding up until he decided he had to get out. He told her of his plan to move back into the fraternity house after the winter quarter. Judy freaked. She accused him of having an affair, that he wanted to move in with another woman. He asked if she was crazy. She showed him the answer, first with a screaming tirade, then with a baseball bat.

He had remained calm even after his stereo lay shattered on the floor. She hated his calm. She wanted to drag him down with her. She knew how. She slapped him, but it was her words that hurt him.

Go ahead, she had said. Break my nose, shatter my face, send me to the hospital. Just like you did to that innocent little kid. Scar me for life, too, you bastard.

Judy’s words didn’t have the effect she had expected. They didn’t push him into rage. They pushed him into pain. He packed and left.

His dad had been right. He vowed that he would never live with a woman until he was married.

To Gina, the story tarnished K.J.’s position on living together. His motive wasn’t based on morals, but rather on the behavior of two immature college students. The story wasn’t relevant to their situation. She took it personally. It was the start of their spat.

When he told Gina the story, K.J. didn’t mention Judy’s words that had pained him. Nor did he tell her about the accident that took place twenty years in the past, the accident whose pain followed him in the everlasting present.

A bad temper. That’s what everyone had called it. Everyone but K.J.’s coaches, coaches who wanted to win, needed to win. They had coddled their star athlete; said K.J. had fire in his belly. But it was a bad temper.

All of his parents’ lectures were to no avail. But K.J. found a cure. It happened when he was a senior in high school playing on the varsity baseball team. While charging a ground ball from his shortstop position, he collided with a runner. The umpire called interference on him. The runner was awarded third, the batter was safe at first. K.J. went ballistic.

He had a right to object to a terrible call. He had no right to scream in the umpire’s face, to throw a bat after being ejected. His teammates had struggled to pull him off the field to avoid a forfeit, struggled to keep him away from the opposing player that grinned at him from third base and surreptitiously flipped him the finger.

But there was too much competitive fire in K.J., too much hatred of losing. He broke free.

He charged his antagonist, who fled for the safety of his own dugout. Seeing that his quarry would escape, K.J. picked up the ball still lying on the infield grass. On the run, he fired it at his enemy who was about to reach the edge of the fence. The ball missed its target by inches, hitting the steel fence post instead. It then caromed at a seventy degree angle and traveled another four feet where it slammed into a twelve-year old nose. The nose, up until then, had been functioning perfectly on the face of Jeff Kerzog, the son of the visiting coach. Little