twenty-nine

By 8 p.m., the rain had stopped and Jonathan remained on-board the yacht, bobbing in the same spot it had been three hours before. Trina, Charlie, and I were invited back into the conference room for an update. As it stood, the boat hadn’t left the dock, which put the FBI in a quandary. So far, no foul play had occurred. Jonathan visited the bathroom twice to send text messages, indicating his ability to communicate freely. Although Cheski and Lamendola had strongly encouraged Jonathan to walk off the boat in return texts, I suspected Jonathan had been sucked into the world of science he now longed for. Cheski, Lamendola, and the FBI were under intense pressure, and that was only exacerbated by Jonathan’s stubbornness about vacating the boat. His texts were transcribed by hand on a mounted white board while various interpretations were voiced.

Comp. valid. Products real.

Dacks ???, but no customer fraud.

Biz model = lots of DNA. Need to build database.

“So where are we?” I asked, hoping someone with a badge would step up to the plate.

The man in the suit was an FBI agent by the name of David Swell. The name worked nicely for him because he was, in fact, a decent guy. Dapper without a bit of pretense. His hair was combed, his suit was tidy, and I’m sure he had a pleasant wife and three nice kids stashed away in the suburbs. Adding a feather to his cap, he didn’t seem the slightest bit turned off by our Freegan ways, even offering us the leftovers from the bureau’s take-out Chinese dinner.

“We have three maritime police boats strategically anchored in the exit points of Long Island Sound,” Agent Swell said. “We’ve also got a helicopter that’s circling sparingly so as not to raise suspicion. And the area around the dock is blanketed with undercover cops.” Swell described the situation without raising unnecessary alarm. “I’m impressed with your friend Jonathan’s eagerness to help, but at this point he needs to get off the boat. Peter Dacks is not who he says he is.”

“So who is he?” Trina had no patience left.

“According to Interpol, his name is Piotr Dackow and he was born in Belarus. He was a small-time scam artist in his hometown and his specialty is falsified papers. When Communism crumbled in the Eastern Bloc, he filled the gap across the Slavic countries by providing phony passports, licenses, and certification in any area required by the payer.” Swell passed around a file with photos of Piotr Dackow, alias Peter Dacks.

“What do you make of Jonathan’s text messages?” Charlie asked.

Swell looked at the messages on the board and then addressed the group. “I think Jonathan is telling us that the bones of the Relativity.com business are legitimate as far as the product sold. With his background in genetics, he seems to be confirming their primary product, which tracks the customer’s familial relatives.

“I think he’s also reporting that Dacks is a bit slippery. My guess is that he comes off as a slick salesman and that’s not Jonathan’s speed. The last text is the most important and it has taken some research to understand what he’s uncovered, but we’ve confirmed that companies like these—companies that compile DNA samples—are dependent on growing their information base. They’re in the business of making conclusions based on volumes and volumes of DNA and then packaging and selling that information. To feed their database, they need DNA samples. The richer their database, the better the product and the more products they can offer.”

“Why?” Trina asked.

Swell spoke slowly and clearly, and I sensed that this one point was a crucial factor in the case. “Because one single case of anything is an anomaly. But two, three, four, or four hundred cases make it real. If you have an unexplainable symptom, it’s an isolated case, until it’s not. The larger the DNA database, the greater chance your inexplicable symptom can be explained. Relativity.com’s current product of tracking relatives over generations is rather benign, but it’s based on the same premise. The more DNA samples in the database, the more connections that can be made across family lines.”

I had no medical or genetic training, but I had grown up in the family business and had come to understand a few basics by sheer osmosis. My exposure helped me to an important conclusion.

“And the labs, through years of research, are probably one of the largest private holders of DNA samples,” I said.

“Yes,” Swell replied.

“And Teddy was working on decoding the human genome, which is essentially the Rosetta Stone of all of that DNA.”

“Right again.”

“So the combination of Teddy’s work and gaining access to the labs’ DNA database has the potential to make Relativity.com a genetic giant,” said Charlie, my brilliant-yet-underrated sometime bedmate. “By tracking relatives and then linking their medical histories, Relativity.com has the potential to own the key to life. More than that, they’d own your personal key.” He let his eyes travel across the room to ensure that everyone understood the impact of his next statement. “And that’s what Teddy figured out. And knowing my best friend, he was disgusted by Relativity.com’s attempt to sell information, the most intense personal information; namely, your own DNA code.”

“The end game,” I said to myself, wondering if DeRosa had gotten this far. The room fell silent. Even the soft shuffling of papers and keyboard tapping came to a halt.

Trina broke the silence. “Cheski, give me that cell phone.” She redialed the last number called and waited with arms crossed until Jonathan picked up and then in a very loud voice she barked, “Jonathan, you were supposed to be home hours ago. The children are asking for you. You promised to read them a bedtime story tonight.” And then she hung up.

Swell was flabbergasted, as were the other FBI officers, whose fingers erupted in a mad flurry of activity flying across keyboards and phone pads. Within minutes Cheski’s phone rang back.

“It’s Lamendola,” Cheski reported. “Jonathan is getting off the boat.”

Trina’s face beamed with intense satisfaction, and I watched as her chest swelled with pride. “There, it’s done. Unfortunately, that’s the extent of my powers. The rest of you have to figure out what this Peter Dacks is holding over Dr. Prentice’s head.”