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Maren stowed her overnight bag in the black Beetle’s trunk, slid into the driver’s seat, and put the top down. At 2:00 p.m. the temperature was in the high sixties, the sky clear and cloudless. She was looking forward to the two-hour drive south to San Jose. True, an insider tour of the Saniplaz plant wasn’t a luxury weekend at a spa, but Maren was happy to be taking an extended drive. She was a road trip girl from way back. She tied a colorful scarf around her hair, slipped on her sunglasses, and backed down the driveway.
Camper stood on his hind legs in the living room, front legs propped on the windowsill so he could peer out and watch Maren’s traitorous departure. But Maren knew all would be forgiven when Jenna showed up to pet-sit and spoil the always-hungry dog with his favorite peanut butter treats.
Although the Dionne Warwick song suggested otherwise, there were several routes to San Jose from Sacramento. It was hard to go wrong as long as Maren pointed her car south. Veering west toward the coast would take her through Richmond past Berkeley, but the weekend getaway traffic would likely be bad on a Friday afternoon, even this early. She could take Interstate 680, which the GPS program tagged as the quickest. But 680 passed through numerous populous towns en route—Pleasant Hill, Walnut Creek—again raising the Friday traffic question. In the end, Maren settled on Interstate 5, an uninteresting strip of concrete that traversed most of the state north to south, but which had the distinct advantage of avoiding basically everything—human or man-made—that might slow it down.
She tried, but couldn’t get clear reception on the radio. Too many dead zones. She found herself thinking again about the photo album and the necklace Sean had left in her bathroom.
There was ample evidence that Sean had been in a relationship with Tamara, which would explain his possession of her childhood photo album. Although doubtful he would have his former girlfriend’s consent, Tamara likely left it at his place, and he’d failed to return it. Part of the unintended custody agreements of clothing, random kitchenware, and photos that always occurred in sudden breakups. It’s not like it was a weapon, she reflected, reliving her relief when she’d discovered that the bag under the waste can in her bathroom did not contain a knife. Plus, Maren really did expect Sean to be exonerated, and if she turned over the album to police storage, it might be damaged or hard to get back. In his grief, Sean deserved to have some memories intact. The heart-shaped locket, however, was different. If it was the one Tamara had on the day of her death, how and when did Sean get it? Did he remove it at the scene, or did he see Tamara before that, despite his denials? On a hopeful note for Sean’s defense, the “BC” engraved on the back might be the killer’s initials, or at least a clue to who he was. But altogether, there had been too many unknowns for Maren to feel comfortable keeping it to herself. So she’d called Lana Decateau and left a message about the necklace, omitting any mention of the photo album. She hoped she’d done the right thing.
When she reached the Saniplaz address, Maren followed signs to parking and navigated the narrow, circular ramp up three floors, only to find that all were full. Circling back down to the basement floor, she maneuvered her Beetle between two SUVs that had no business parking in spots marked “Compact Only.” Taking off her scarf, she checked her hair in the mirror. Rather than being flattened into compliance, her dark curls rebelliously popped up in all directions. She settled for putting on lipgloss, grabbed her satchel, and squeezed out between one of the behemoth vehicles and her car. Her legs needed stretching after the two-hour drive, but otherwise she felt good.
Looking around to determine how to get access from parking to the Saniplaz plant, she saw four exit doors, one in each corner of the garage. They were each a different color—muddy brown, muddy blue, muddy green, and muddy purple—with no labels. She felt like a Let’s Make a Deal contestant. The brown door to her left was the most worn. Assuming that meant it was also the most used, she chose that. Bingo. Inside was an elevator and a small brass-colored sign indicating “Saniplaz, Inc. 2nd Floor.”
The modern lobby, high-ceilinged and constructed primarily of gleaming metal and glass, stood in stark contrast to the dismal featureless garage. The lobby walls were punctuated by videos on big screens heralding the joys of plastic. It looked like Walt Disney had designed the space, a possibility reinforced by a smiling Snow White look-alike receptionist at the front desk.
Maren was signing the log in exchange for a visitor’s badge and a bright-green carryall bearing the Saniplaz logo when Caleb Waterston came hurrying toward her.
“Maren, so glad you made it.” He extended his bony hand to shake hers. She was struck again by how much the man needed an infusion of at least ten thousand calories.
“Caleb, hello. I didn’t realize you would be here.”
“I didn’t want to have a VIP like you negotiating the complexities of a corporate carrot without me, heh-heh-heh.”
A corporate carrot? She was trying to figure out what that could possibly mean when Waterston continued.
“Unfortunately, Senator Joben had other canyons to climb so he won’t be with us today.”
Maren hoped her expression remained appropriate—she was going for minimally let down. She wondered if Alec not showing up was a message to her, that just when she’d decided to roll the dice and see what might happen, he’d gone sour on the idea of dating a lobbyist. Only a few months into his first term, deciding against it—against her—would be the politically smart thing to do.
“We could start,” Caleb said, “but I thought your brother was joining you.”
Maren couldn’t believe she’d forgotten about Noel. She’d turned her phone off on the drive since sound through the TalkFree hands-free speaker system was hopeless when the convertible top was down. Sure enough, there was a message from Noel saying he was stuck in traffic. She figured he must have chosen to take one of the more interesting but less favorable routes. He told her to start the tour without him, that he would call when he got there. There was also a message from Garrick Chauncey. They hadn’t spoken since their lunch together and she still didn’t know what to say to him. She hit Save without listening and turned back to Waterston.
“Noel’s delayed. Since we have a minute, I’d like to ask you about Senator Rickman’s cell phone legislation. I understand why TalkFree opposes, but can we—”
A monster of a man molded into a white coat and holding a clipboard interrupted them. “Ms. Kane, Mr. Waterston, good afternoon. The plant closes in an hour. If we want to see any of the action, we need to move. I’m Dr. Samuel Jones, vice president of the Go-Green Initiative here at Saniplaz.”
At six feet four, three hundred pounds, he was bald, with thick side-burns and a goatee, and looked like a bouncer at a hip club, not a plastics executive. Given the difference between Snow White’s puffed-sleeve dress and hair bow at the desk and this guy, Maren had to give Saniplaz points for letting employees express their individuality. She tabled her thoughts about the cell phone bill and determined she would get back to Waterston about that later.
Dr. Jones began the tour’s narrative as they walked. “What you will see today is the cornerstone of the Saniplaz Go-Green Initiative. As you no doubt know, most plastics are produced using petroleum. That is accomplished in increasingly eco-friendly ways in our main facility. But Saniplaz is always looking for alternatives that can be eco-effective and provide our customers with the quality and durability they need.”
Eco-effective? He may look different, but he sounds the same, Maren thought as she listened to what appeared to be a standard corporate spiel. He should try telling the people in the gulf at ground zero for the BP spill that oil is increasingly eco-friendly.
The trio passed through several hallways that fed into offices before reaching a large set of double doors emblazoned with a life-size image of a stick figure with a line through it and the words “Danger, Industrial Production Area.” Maren thought privately that the stick figure was a pretty good rendering of Caleb Waterston. Dr. Jones reached into a side locker and pulled out a hard hat and safety goggles for himself and handed similar gear to Maren and Caleb. He reminded them to check that their phones were off for the tour. Then he swiped a card through a keyless entry. There was a click as the doors unlocked and he pushed one open, gesturing for them to go in.
The space was cavernous, filled with pulsing machinery dominated by three huge steel cylinders. There were only three workers in sight, all in white coats and safety gear, checking various dials and panels. Jones shepherded Maren and Caleb to one side.
“As I noted, most plastics are made of nonrenewable petroleum. However, in this new Go-Green facility our plastics are all corn-based. We purchase the raw materials—resin pellets distilled from corn—from a plant in Iowa, ship them here, and then use that as the basis for biodegradable plastic. Not only is the source renewable, the end product is biodegradable.”
Caleb was smiling smugly, proud of his client’s achievements. Maren had to admit she found the idea of corn-based plastics pretty cool. Jones walked them through the various stations of production and introduced them to staff along the way. Maren was sorry Noel was missing this. Not only would he have enjoyed it, he could have asked the hard questions about by-products from corn processing, including how much energy it took and why the chemical BPA was still needed. She had tried but was unable to decipher the technical responses.
Back in the entryway, Maren thanked Dr. Jones and Caleb Waterston, promising to follow up with any questions Senator Joben, author of the BPA bill, might have. She also asked Caleb to give her a call about TalkFree and the cell phone legislation as soon as he could. When they had left, she turned her phone back on and checked for messages. Only one—Noel again. She felt a moment of disappointment, realizing she was hoping for the call from Lana Decateau that would tell her there was a break in the case, that the police knew they’d made a mistake and Sean was being processed for freedom.
Maren hit Play.
“I’m sorry I’m late. Four hours for what should have been a two-hour drive. Please call me.” Noel was clearly frustrated.
She tapped the Callback icon on her phone screen. He picked up on the first ring.
“Noel Kane here.”
“It’s me. Where are you?”
“Saniplaz. There was a four-car pileup, injuries, ambulances.” He paused. “I’m here now, parked on a side street a few blocks from the plant. I couldn’t figure out the maze of one-way streets to get to the entrance. I’m walking. Wait, that looks like the parking garage.”
“Great. Meet me at the lowest level—my car’s near the brown door. I can drive you to your car and we can have dinner. I’ll tell you about the tour. I have lots of questions for you.”
Noel hung up and walked around the block until he saw external stairs down to the garage. The complex was nearly empty. Clearly, most of the Saniplaz employees had gone home for the day. Maren’s VW was parked against the opposite wall. He took out his phone to let Maren know he had located it. But mid-dial he sensed something and looked up to see an ominous figure dressed head to toe in black, including a black ski mask, crouching behind Maren’s car.
At that moment Maren entered the garage, head down. She was rummaging to get her ringing phone from her bag as she walked, oblivious to the imminent threat less than ten feet away. Noel shouted at her to stop as he dropped his phone, ignoring the cracking sound as it hit the concrete.
He took off at a sprint toward her, his long legs covering the space quickly, his trench coat billowing behind him. The dark figure rounded the car toward Maren and rose to standing, a knife held high in one black-gloved hand. Noel threw himself the last few feet into the narrow gap between his sister and her attacker. He knocked Maren backward as the cold steel of the knife blade drove deeply into his side. Maren’s landing was cushioned bottom-first on her soft satchel, but Noel hit hard, free-falling, arms outstretched onto the unforgiving cement floor.
The assailant shifted Noel’s limp body, quickly patting the trench coat pockets, pulling a wallet from one.
“What’s going on?” Caleb called, seeing the tangle of bodies as he entered from the opposite end of the lot near a shiny white Volvo, his car key in hand.
The figure in black dropped Noel’s wallet at the sound, backed away, then turned and ran. Maren managed to sit up and crawl toward her brother. He lay face down on the ground, his head turned toward her. She saw the protruding knife and felt his warm blood as it stained his coat and flowed onto the concrete, fast. Too fast. His eyes were closed, his breathing rapid and shallow.
Caleb reached them. “What the hell is happening?” he said, his voice shaky.
“Shut up, Caleb. For once, shut up. Call 911. And give me your jacket.” Caleb pulled his suit coat off and dropped it next to Maren as he fumbled to get to his phone.
“No reception.” He waved his phone helplessly.
“Go outside. Now!” Maren ordered, pressing the jacket to Noel’s side in an effort to stop the bleeding.