Jamie Freveletti - Running from the Devil

Stromeyer introduced herself. After a few minutes, a large man dressed in khaki pants and a short-sleeved white shirt walked up to her. He sported a bad comb-over, a polyester tie that was askew, and a plastic pocket protector in the shirt’s breast pocket. Stromeyer couldn’t begin to imagine the thoughts Banner would have if he saw Mr. White. He smiled a grin that exposed miles of gums, and stuck his hand out.

“I’m Gerald White. Nice to meet you. I’ve got the additional information on Emma Caldridge that you need.”

Stromeyer shook his hand. “I appreciate it.”

White led her past the receptionist into a carpeted hallway lined with doors. They reached one in the back.

“Here’s my office. Would you like some coffee?” He opened the door.

Mr. White’s office bore the stamp of a professional decorator. It was the antithesis of the man himself. The square-shaped room had a bank of windows on one side with a view of a small grassy area next to the building. A sleek cherrywood desk held a laptop in a docking station, a manila folder, and nothing else. Bookshelves lined the walls. Stromeyer saw a Grey’s Anatomy along with several volumes of scientific journals. A book titled Nostradamus, the Predictions caught her eye.

“Interesting choice, Nostradamus,” she said.

White gave her a sheepish look. “He was a sort of scientist, you know. I’ve always been fascinated by him.” White grabbed the manila folder. He perched on the edge of the desk.

“I have Ms. Caldridge’s personnel file here. As you know, it’s confidential, but I can tell you some information without the need for a subpoena. Like how long she’s been employed by us, her job description, et cetera.”

“How long has she been employed here?”

“Eighteen months. She transferred here from a job at a prestigious lab in the Midwest. We were very excited to get her, because she already had quite a reputation for her knowledge of plants.”

“I’ve read an article about her in Science magazine. Something about adding artificial chromosomes to plants,” Stromeyer said.

Mr. White nodded, a look of excitement in his eyes. “Yes, that work is truly groundbreaking. The Mondrian Chemical Company is looking to license her technology.”

“Is she continuing that research here?”

Mr. White shifted, as if nervous. “Not exactly. We do cosmetic chemistry. However, some of her work complements our needs. For example, we know that vitamin C liquid acts as a powerful antioxidant, but a serum containing it degrades quickly into a useless liquid. Ms. Caldridge helped create the technology that allows the ingredient to retain its potency for consumer use.”

“Why did she leave her last job?”

“Her fiancé died. She decided to move here to be near her father. He had retired to Florida.”

“I’d heard something about the fiancé. How did he die?”

“Car accident. He was hit by a drunk driver who veered into on-coming traffic.”

“How tragic.”

White nodded. “She doesn’t talk about it much, but I bumped into some of her former colleagues at a seminar and they say she was devastated.” He handed Stromeyer a piece of paper from the folder.

“She gave her father’s name and address as her emergency contact. George Caldridge, 2370 Poinsettia Place, Miami Beach. Here’s the phone number.”

“Do you think he knows that she was on Flight 689?”

White nodded. “I imagine not the exact flight, but he knew she was headed to Bogotá. Ms. Caldridge mentioned to her secretary that she’d informed her family of her trip.”

Stromeyer couldn’t help but be shocked. What kind of father didn’t call after his daughter when he knew she was on a flight from the same American city, to the same region, on the same day, that a jet went down?

“Has he been in contact with Pure Chemistry?”

White shook his head. “Not at all. In fact, we tried to contact him, but there’s no answer, and the machine is set to take no messages.”

“Ms. Caldridge sent a text to you after the plane went down. Are you very close?”

Mr. White looked pleased. His face turned pink in the beginnings of a blush. “We are. She’s brilliant, but easy to work with. Not the usual combination in our business. A lot of scientists are eccentric, to say the least.” It was clear Mr. White had a crush on Ms. Caldridge.

Stromeyer stood up. “Could I see her office? It would give me a feel for her.”

“Of course. Most of her time here is spent in the lab, which is off-limits to visitors, but her office is right down the hall.” Stromeyer followed White, who led her two doors down the hallway. He opened the door and waved her in.

The office benefited from the same professional decoration as White’s. It, too, had windows that looked out onto the same grassy area, a bookshelf built into a wall, and a cherrywood desk that was identical to White’s. Her desk contained a notepad engraved at the top with the words From the desk of Emma Caldridge, an empty laptop docking station, and a framed photograph of Emma with her arms wrapped around the waist of a man. Stromeyer picked up the picture.

“Is this the fiancé?” she said.

White nodded. “His name was Patrick McBain.”

Both Emma and the man smiled into the camera. They looked happy and carefree. Stromeyer replaced the frame on the desk.

“Do you know if she took her laptop with her?”

White shook his head. “Doubtful. We have strict controls on how much information our scientists can cart around. We’d hate for a competitor to get their hands on some of our work, and laptops can be easily stolen. When not in use, they’re locked in a secure room.”

Stromeyer was surprised. “Is the information that valuable?”

White smiled. “The cosmetics industry is based on fast-paced innovation. Once a product is on the market, generics will re-create it within months. Next thing you know, your expensive face cream is shelved next to the drugstore’s cheaper house brand. Our clients expect to be copied once they launch, but they insist that we maintain tight security during the research-and-development phase.”

Stromeyer eyed the bookshelf. A volume entitled The Indigenous People of Colombia caught her eye. She pulled it off the shelf and showed it to White.

“Had she been to Colombia before?”

White wiped his hands on his thighs. Stromeyer thought he once again looked nervous.

“She went to the Ciudad Perdida last year.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The Lost City. Ancient ruins, like Peru’s Machu Picchu, located in the Colombian Sierra Nevada Mountains not far from the coast. The site remained hidden until the 1970s, when grave robbers discovered it. Of course the indigenous people always knew it was there. To get there requires a grueling six-day trek through jungle and paramilitary-controlled coca fields. Not too many people attempt it. Emma took the trek last year.”

“Looking for plants?”

“Yes.”

“Did she find any?”

White shook his head. “She’d hoped that the indigenous people would utilize the local plants in a new, useful way, but all they used was the coca plant.”

Stromeyer was surprised. “Really?”

White chuckled. “Really. They think it’s a sacred plant that confers strength and fertility on those who ingest it. They chew it for energy. Needless to say, we couldn’t utilize that particular plant.”

“You win some, you lose some.” Stromeyer smiled at White.

White laughed. “You’ve got that right.”

Stromeyer replaced the book and held out her hand. “Thanks for your help. I’ll drive by Mr. Caldridge’s house and check it out.”

“Of course. As I told you on the phone, Ms. Caldridge is one of my best researchers. She’s one of the few people I know who are completely unafraid of new situations. She’d fly to the most dangerous places in the world if it meant discovering something new and exciting.”