2024
“Hate to break it to you, Discreet Detections, but you didn’t live up to your name. I absolutely know it’s you who have been tailing me lately, sticking to me like glue whenever I’m trying to go about my business, not to mention refusing to answer my emails and phone calls and playing dumb when I showed up at your downtown digs the other day. Fine, play it that way. I’m looking into my legal options, so I’d think twice about invading my privacy again. And while I can’t say for certain that you’re also responsible for breaking into my home and searching through all my personal stuff, I have to wonder: Who else could be so interested in poking their nose into my affairs—and this investigation?
“All of which raises the burning questions: Who hired you and why? What about looking into Gillian’s disappearance has stirred up such a hornet’s nest? Who out there has the answers, and what do they know that we don’t… yet. Rest assured, Cetacean will be exploring these mysteries—and keeping an eye out for you, my not-so-subtle shadows, from now on.”
Replaying the podcast, Melinda smirked as she imagined the professional snoops at Discreet sweating big-time now that the latest episode had dropped, airing their “confidential” doings to all her subscribers; that those same snoops surely listened to Cetacean every week stood to reason. She’d stretched the truth a bit by threatening legal action; she and Dennis hadn’t actually spoken to any lawyers yet and weren’t entirely sure how strong a case they might have. For now, she just hoped that the threat alone, along with the unwelcome light shone on their covert activities, would be enough to get Discreet to back off. If nothing else, she had to assume that their unknown employer wasn’t going to be happy about this kind of publicity, let alone all their other clients. Who wants to employ a discreet, confidential detective agency that’s getting dragged all over a hit podcast—and can’t even keep from being caught in the act?
Hope you’re squirming, detective dudes. Serves you right for horning in on my case.
She and Dennis had debated the pros and cons of publicly shaming their shadows. They might be sacrificing a strategic advantage by letting Discreet know they were on to them. Likewise for unbugging their personal hardware and replacing any hopelessly compromised devices with virgin gear. It had been worth it, though; not being able to talk freely in their own home was no way to live. They couldn’t constantly be mindful of unseen ears and lurking shadows every waking moment—and autumn in the Bay Area was way too chilly to spend all their time on the roof.
That airing Discreet’s dirty laundry also made great content was a bonus.
“What do you think?” she asked Dennis, who was working his new laptop at the other end of the couch. She put down her phone, which she’d been listening to the new episode on, and stretched. Their handy-dandy drone—a matte blue-gray for camouflage purposes—was recharging on top of a file cabinet. “Wanna bet our shadows are already feeling the heat?”
“Please, God, I hope so,” Dennis said. “I don’t know about you, but I can’t cope with looking over my shoulder twenty-four seven. Keeps me up at night.”
He wasn’t exaggerating, she knew. Purple shadows under his eyes testified to sleepless nights. He also seemed more jittery than usual, probably because of all the caffeinated energy drinks he was consuming to compensate for the lack of shut-eye. She felt a twinge of guilt for dragging him into this pressure cooker and refusing to let it go, but wanted to think it would all pay off if and when they stuck the landing. She’d just have to make it up to him afterward.
“Think how good it will feel to get to the bottom of this mystery once and for all.”
“Here’s hoping.”
He kept slaving over his laptop, scouring the internet for info. The irony was that deep dives into conspiracy theories were his comfort zone, but also heightened his anxiety, which drove him back to his computer, keeping him up nights. Was that a paradox or a vicious circle or both?
“How’s it going? Dig up anything juicy on Discreet, like maybe who exactly paid them to spy on us?”
She’d deliberately used the first-person singular on the show for the sake of Dennis’s nerves, but could refer to “us” when it was just the two of them talking.
“Possibly,” he hedged. “No luck getting a peek at their client list or financial ledgers. Turns out that private detective agencies take pains to keep their private records private. Their firewalls are nothing to sneeze at.”
She frowned. “Can’t you just hack into the bank accounts? Follow the money back to their client?”
“Just like that?” He snorted at the suggestion. “I’m not some teenage computer genius from a TV show who can hack into the Pentagon with a few keystrokes. I’m more a research guy, remember? That being said, rooting through public records did turn up something… interesting.”
“Do tell.”
“If you dig deep enough and wade through a maze of shell companies and all-but-impenetrable corporate misdirection—you’re welcome, by the way—you can, with considerable effort, discover that Discreet Detections is a fully owned subsidiary of… Amaranth, Incorporated.”
The name meant nothing to her. “Which is?”
“A cutting-edge biotech firm, based over in San Jose.”
“Never heard of it,” she admitted. “Enlighten me.”
“As Big Pharma goes, it’s not one of the big names like Pfizer or Soong, but more of a streamlined boutique operation specializing in radical new techniques for extending health and longevity. Immunotherapy, nanosurgery, gene splicing, cryogenics, and so on. Groundbreaking stuff, apparently, pushing the envelope of medical science.”
A lightbulb went off over her head. “Just the kind of operation that would be very interested in learning all about a pill that can regrow human kidneys.”
“Bingo. Figured that would get your spider-sense tingling.”
“And then some.” She scooted closer to him, feeling a heady rush of excitement. “Tell me more about this Amaranth outfit.”
“Okay, here goes.” He took a swig of caffeinated sugar water to power his info dump. “Amaranth was founded in 2007, so it’s only been in business for about seventeen years. In other words, long after Wilmer Offutt was chasing after the kidney pill back in the late eighties, right after Gillian disappeared. So maybe Discreet spying on us has nothing do with that old phone number you called?”
“Maybe.” Her gut told her otherwise. “Any connection between Offutt and Amaranth?”
“Not that I can find. Records indicate that Offutt died ‘after a short illness’ back in 2002. If that was his real name, of course.”
She recalled Dennis’s theory that “Wilmer Offutt” was just an alias, existing mostly on paper.
“Speaking of names,” he continued, “I googled ‘Amaranth.’ Turns out it’s a plant, but get this: the ancient Greeks believed it had unique healing properties and regarded it as a symbol of immortality. You can find it on plenty of old tombs and temples. Pretty on the nose, right?”
“Kudos to their branding.” She mulled over what she had just learned. “So why does a hot-shot biotech firm need to own a private detective agency? Can’t imagine it’s a super-lucrative financial investment, so maybe… industrial espionage?”
“Preventing or committing?”
“Either/or, possibly. Big money involved either way, I’m guessing.”
“But why buy the agency?” Dennis asked. “Why not just hire some private snoops as needed?”
“Maybe to keep any shady stuff in-house, while still keeping Discreet at arm’s length so that nobody asks the same questions we’re asking now, about why a biotech company even needs private eyes on the payroll?”
Dennis nodded, getting it. “Hence the shell companies and all.”
Now we’re getting somewhere, she thought, but where exactly?
There were still plenty of fuzzy spots, but the picture was coming clearer in places. Amaranth wanted or knew something about the kidney pill, and the pill related to Gillian’s participation in the hospital raid right before she disappeared, so Cetacean got Amaranth’s attention, either because they were out to uncover the secret of the pill—or because they already knew something about the case they didn’t want exposed?
“I don’t suppose Amaranth has patented a miracle cure for regrowing kidneys?”
Dennis shook his head. “Pretty sure that would be big news if they’d announced something like that. No way I could’ve missed it.”
Which suggested that they were still after the formula for the pill, like so many other doctors and laboratories back in the day, and hadn’t already cracked the puzzle. No wonder they hadn’t tried to halt her investigation, only keep tabs on it.
“Wanna bet they’re hoping we find out for them where that kidney pill came from?”
“I’d settle for a revolutionary new antacid,” Dennis said, wincing. “I feel like I’m down to my last layer of stomach lining.”
Maybe ease up on the energy drinks, she thought to herself. “So who’s in charge of Amaranth?” Personalizing a conflict with a nameless corporation would be challenge for Cetacean, narratively. “Do we have a face and name?”
“You bet.” Dennis turned on the TV screen remotely, then uploaded an image from his laptop. “Meet Orlando Wilder, founder and CEO of Amaranth, Inc.”
The photo, which was transparently a professional head shot, depicted a man in his late twenties at most, his youthful features unlined by age. A sober expression conveyed a serious attitude befitting his work. Avid brown eyes peered out beneath bristling black eyebrows. Slicked-back hair, a bronzed complexion, and a lantern jaw were among his distinguishing characteristics. An entrepreneurial boy wonder, Melinda gathered, presenting a mature and responsible face to stockholders and potential investors. She wondered how much of that was staged and what he was actually like in real life.
“Not a lot of images of him online, actually,” Dennis said. “For a CEO, he keeps a low profile. Generally avoids publicity and personal appearances, preferring to let his PR people handle the press, with a marked emphasis on the company, its discoveries, and their potential rather than him personally. He seems to want his work out there, not him.” He shrugged. “I can relate.”
“A tech tycoon who shuns the spotlight?” she marveled. “Will wonders never cease.”
“Eh. Not everyone wants to be a household name, you know.” He gave her a pointed look. “Although I realize that may be a difficult concept for you to grasp.”
“Touché.” She contemplated the oh-so-serious visage on the screen. From the sound of it, she and Orlando Wilder were overdue for a serious discussion. “But if he won’t come to the spotlight, we’ll have to bring the spotlight to him.
“Where exactly in San Jose is he based?”