Ryne Pearson - Capitol Punishment

“So our problem is that we have an almost completed facility, a completed support unit for our environmentals, and a shipload of equipment that won’t do the job.”

“Ouch again.”

Stanley drew in a deep breath and eased back in the soft chair. “So, my job now is to find a system we can put in place in six months, using the existing support plant, that will do the job. Mick said the system you have here…” Again he looked to his notes.

“The SunSnow Duo Temp Assembly 5-M,” Harback said proudly, as if reciting the name of his newborn.

“Right. That’s the baby Mick said might fit our needs.”

“So you want to know if it does us right.”

“Actually I’m sure it does,” Stanley said, easing into the pitch. “Like I said, our problem is setup. Space and arrangement. Mick said you have your equipment rigged in a way that might work for us.”

“Yeah, ours is a little unusual,” Harback admitted. “We narrow down quite a bit above fifty, so we had to plan in some creative stacking, especially with the pumps.”

Yes, the pumps. That was what Stanley had read about in a trade journal. The plans SunSnow had sent him told him all he needed to know about the pumps as pieces of machinery, but Harback would have to give him what he needed more.

“Mick said you’d be willing to show me your layout,” Stanley said. “Kinda to give me an idea if what you’ve done will suit us.”

“Sure,” Harback said, standing. “I’d be happy to show off our baby. Come on.”

Stanley stood, smiling. It was really going to be that easy.

Royce Pharmaceuticals was a sprawling complex of offices, laboratories, and other buildings dotting a neatly tended green pasture forty miles north of Los Angeles just off the Golden State Freeway. The left turn from the off-ramp pointed the Bureau Chevy directly at the facility’s main gate, and at several news vehicles staked out on the facility’s perimeter.

“Word travels fast,” Frankie commented upon seeing the high-tech trucks, two with their telescoping microwave dishes already up as they shot for a hookup with the relays on the nearby peaks.

“When you put on a major CYA show to the press it’s bound to,” Art said, wondering briefly if Vorhees would survive the feeding frenzy. Then he wondered if he really should care at all.

“We’re here to see Monte Royce,” Frankie said as she stopped at the guard shack, showing her FBI shield. The armed guard examined her credentials, then peered through the open window, hesitating. “One of our people called,” she informed the guard. “Mr. Royce is supposed to be waiting.” The look she gave him next was even less than businesslike. “As in waiting for us .”

The guard stepped back and pressed a button in the shack, which raised the single-arm barrier. “Right at the first lot. Park facing the main building, please.”

Frankie hit the up button for the window as she muttered a less than sincere “Thank you.”

“A little paranoid, don’t you think?”

“Paranoia is a virtue in some circles,” Art said, recalling the elaborate security measures he had been witness to during his years investigating organized crime.

Frankie pulled the car into one of several open spots, each clearly marked VISITOR on a post-mounted placard. Art scanned the area as he stepped from the car, noting more security measures inside the company perimeter. “Smile, partner.”

Frankie looked up, seeing the two security cameras mounted atop perches swivel their way. She met the unseen stare of the unseen operator, maintaining it until entering the oversized glass doors that led into the lobby of the main building.

“Agents Jefferson and Aguirre to see Mr. Royce,” Art said to the receptionist, again sensing more security. This time it was two men in immaculate suits standing near the only door leading from the lobby to the innards of the building. Both had their jackets unbuttoned, hands crossed hanging in the fig leaf position. It would only take a split second for either to get to the weapons they obviously carried under their coats.

“Yes,” the receptionist acknowledged. She turned to one of the security guards. “Would you please escort these visitors to Mr. Royce’s office?”

“Certainly.” The man nodded and flashed a professional, antiseptic smile to the agents. His counterpart held the door open as the security guard led the agents through, stopping halfway down a wide hallway that was decorated in subtle earth tones. He pressed the lighted up arrow next to the elevator and followed the visitors in, hitting the 6 button.

“You’d think you guys made cruise missiles or something here,” Frankie said once the door closed.

“We have competitors,” the security guard said.

Competitors . Art translated that to what the man’s tone said it should be: enemies. The business world really was where the next wars would be fought.

“To the right,” the guard said, taking the lead again once they were off the elevator.

Wow . Frankie remembered enough of art history from college to recognize the pieces that hung along the hallway they were moving down. Los Caprichos , a work by Goya, and across from it The Duchess of Alba by the same artist. Both were from the late 1700s, she recalled, amazed that some of the knowledge had stuck with her. More works adorned the walls. Beautiful paintings by Guardi, though Frankie could not place titles with them. Another Goya. And something told her that these were not just reproductions. The artwork alone warranted the security seen so far.

The guard opened a door, letting the agents into the outer office of the chief executive officer of Royce Pharmaceuticals, then closed it and withdrew into the hallway.

“Mr. Royce is waiting,” a very polite secretary said, standing from her desk and walking to the door on the back wall. “Right through here.”

The agents followed the directions and were met by the reason for their visit.

“Hello,” Monte Royce said as the agents entered. He stood in the center of his spacious office, halfway between the door and his desk, which was backdropped by a panoramic view of the green hillsides that would turn brown once the region’s brief rainy season had ended. “I’m Monte Royce.”

Art took the man’s outstretched hand first, then Frankie did.

“Can I offer you anything?” Royce asked. “Some tea? Water?”

“No,” Art said. “Thank you. We’re fine.”

Royce looked to his secretary waiting in the doorway. “Thank you, Mary.”

“Mr. Royce,” Frankie began as the heavy oak door closed, “I have to tell you, you have some beautiful artwork here.”

Royce bowed his gray and balding head graciously. “Thank you. My mother’s father began the collection over a hundred years ago. I have a few pieces here to brighten the place up.”

“It does,” Frankie said.

Royce motioned to two couches facing each other across a stunning Persian rug. He took a seat on one, the agents on the other. “I suspect you are not here to discuss eighteenth-century art.”

“No, we’re not,” Art said. “We’re here about Nikolai Kostin.”

“Yes, Mr. King,” Royce said, nodding, his almost black suit combining with his aged features to give him the appearance of a mortician expressing sympathy over a lost loved one. “I grew used to using his new name while he worked for us.”

The tone of the tense Royce used in referring to Kostin tweaked an alarm in both agents, Frankie jumping on it first. “ While he worked for you? He hasn’t worked for you recently?”

Royce’s eyes wandered the room for a moment, his expression and manner becoming somewhat sad as he looked back to the agents. “Unfortunately, no. His time with us was short. Just less than a year, I believe. He had, you see, a problem adjusting to our working methods. To the way we operate here. It was a matter of culture, partly, and of personality.”