The event at the ballpark was billed as an annual sales celebration for a San Francisco tech firm. The company had booked the Club Level, or, more specifically, the entire second floor of Oracle Park. Guests wandered from one end of the Club to the other, eventually drifting to the ballpark seats to watch a video on the scoreboard about their company’s accomplishments during the last year.
Inside, buffets with more food than anyone could eat spread throughout the Club. Young techies picked up their drink tickets and worked their way past the food and around the crowds to one of the jampacked bars.
“Are they even old enough to drink?” a co-worker asked me as he passed by.
“Some of them do look young,” I agreed.
I watched the crowd, many of whom were thoroughly absorbed by the display cases of Giants memorabilia. This was one of my favorite spots in the ballpark. I especially liked the shelves of bobbleheads, bats and balls. At the far end, the three World Series trophies served as a backdrop for selfies. On this particular evening, I escorted the guests down one level, walked them by the Giants clubhouse and down another flight of stairs to the inside batting cage. There they could go one-on-one with the pitching machine.
Many of the guests delighted in the live music and crowded dance floor. Near the elevators, the heavy, pulsing, guitar-driven sound of the Led Zeppelin cover band pounded, punctuated by the undercurrent of laughter and conversation from around the corner. Everyone was enjoying themselves.
Two of my co-workers were in the midst of a heated discussion. I walked over and heard the tail end of the conversation. “John Bonham… known for his speed and power… always in the groove.”
The other man said, “I’ll take Ginger Baker any day.”
“Are these guys the two outfielders the Giants are interested in?” I asked. They gaped at me as if I had grown horns.
“No,” said the second man, “They’re drummers. Rock drummers.” He pointed down the hall toward the band.
A voice came from behind me, “John Bonham played with Led Zeppelin until the night he drank so much he vomited, choked, and died in his sleep. He was one of the best.”
I turned around. There stood the blue-eyed cyclist, Burk Dennison. What’s he doing here? I took a step back and stuck my hands in the pockets of my khaki work pants.
“Ginger Baker, on the other hand,” Burk continued, “was probably the first superstar drummer. We’re talking mid-sixties. They’re both in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.”
My co-workers nodded. “The man knows his drummers.” They slapped him on the shoulder and walked toward the band.
“Hello,” I said. My stomach lurched. “You’re everywhere, aren’t you? Do you work for this company?”
“No, but I’m a guest of a guy in the C-Suite.”
“Come on, be honest. You’re stalking me, aren’t you?”
Burk looked surprised. And a little amused.
“You have to admit, it’s starting to get a little weird. What is this, accidental meeting three or four?”
“Trisha,” said my supervisor as he walked by, “I need you to run the elevator until the event is over.”
“Sure thing.” I turned to walk away. Burk grabbed my elbow and gently pulled me back.
“I have to tell you something. I recognized you at the swim. I ride in that neighborhood a lot. And I’ve seen you. You know, I happen to believe in serendipity. So, maybe … just maybe … we’re supposed to spend some time together.”
He stepped closer, pulled out his phone, and tapped contacts. Then he typed in, Trisha, the swimmer, saying it out loud with each keystroke. When he said my name, the throbbing of the band, the laughing partygoers and the ballpark vibe, evaporated.
Don’t do it. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t. Burk exuded perfection, on the outside … warm, caring, and genuinely interested in me. But life taught me that perfect didn’t exist. My cynical side concluded he was most likely dicey on the inside. Unfortunately, I had a weakness for dicey.
“Last name?”
“Not important.”
A loud cheer went up from the crowd as the band finished a set. I blinked and took a deep breath, then dictated my number.
“My turn,” I said. I took the cell out of my pants pocket and clicked through to find my contacts.
“Trisha,” my supervisor said, as he came up beside me. “Need you now. For a few minutes.”
His voice startled me, and I dropped my phone. Burk grabbed it before it hit the ground.
“Go. I’ll add my number,” said Burk as he waved me away.
I hesitated and reached out for the cell.
“Come on, Trisha,” said my supervisor.
“Don’t worry,” said Burk. “I’ll be right here. Not going anywhere.”
“Now, please,” said the supervisor.
I turned and followed him through the crowd. He posted me at the top of the escalator on the other side of the Club.
“One of the employees had to leave suddenly. Someone is being redeployed and should be here in a few minutes,” my supervisor said.
“Sure thing,” I said, wondering if I would ever see my cell phone again.
Five minutes later, my replacement arrived, and I scooted toward the display cases. Burk held out my phone.
“Here you go,” he said. “Now, back to our conversation. I’m thinking we should have dinner.”
“Maybe. Working here keeps me busy.”
“Trisha,” the supervisor called out as he walked back in my direction.
“Don’t forget the elevator.”
“On my way,” I called. The chemistry building between Burk and me, fueled by adrenaline and a certain amount of fear, disappeared.
“Good running into you,” said Burk to me as he waved at my supervisor. “Long lost friend. Haven’t seen her in years.” He walked toward the band and the third-base side of the Club level.
My co-worker and sounding board, Charlee Ann, stood next to the elevator and shook her head as I approached.
“Who’s that?”
“Nobody. Just a friend.”
“Girl, tell that to someone else. Does Jon know about him?”
“There’s nothing to know. Just someone I met who keeps showing up unexpectedly.”
She cocked her head. “Uh-huh. You’re headed for trouble, sister.”
“Go back to work,” I said with a chuckle.
That night at the ballpark turned out to be a party no one wanted to leave. I didn’t blame them. It was a great event. Eventually, they all cleared out and I was free. I took the stairs down to the women’s changing room. I fumbled with my jacket as I pulled it from my locker and dropped my work badge when I went to tag out. Then I tripped over the curb as I walked into the parking lot, heading for my battered Honda. Was I just exhausted or was I rattled from my encounter with Burk? Perhaps a combination of both, if I was honest.
It being midweek after 11 pm, traffic had disappeared. Shimmering lights on the Golden Gate Bridge gleamed against the amber towers. The routine summertime fog had moved further west into the Pacific, uncovering the mysteriously beautiful span that linked the city and Marin County. The rush from running into Burk again had melted away. I usually associate that sort of strong physical reaction, that spine-tingle, with my detective work. I hadn’t expected it from a man I barely knew. He was eye candy, and I had just experienced a sugar rush. That was all. Wasn’t it? I hit the accelerator, launching my car off the bridge and into Marin.
Once I passed through the Robin Williams tunnel, the highway grew dark … only a few cars, no streetlights. Burk running into me had to be deliberate. Had to be. Even with his bullshit explanation about knowing Earl and his reason for being at the ballpark, these meetings couldn’t be accidents. Not both of them, anyway. My mind revolved on its hamster wheel again.
Pulling off Highway 101, I decided to take the back route to Earl’s house. The road started at the bottom of La Cruz Canyon, not far from the side exit to the reservoir, and wound its way up past evergreens and new-growth redwoods on one side. High decorative gates protected the houses tucked behind them, only a few scattered streetlamps brightening the narrow two-lane road. Out of the darkness, I saw a car rushing up the hill behind me, its lights glaring in my rearview mirror. At the next bend in the road, a small pull-off appeared, so I moved over, letting the small car zoom pass.
I rolled the windows down, then switched off the lights and the engine. A faint ticking came from under the hood then faded away. At first, total darkness, but then shapes appeared. I heard the howl of a coyote from deep inside the canyon, then a deep bellow joined in. Barking, growling and high-pitched yips layered over the howl. I used to believe the symphony came from a pack of some sort, seven or eight animals at least. But Earl had explained that coyotes can make several different sounds at one time. What sounded like many might only be two or three. A defense mechanism to trick bigger, meaner predators into thinking a pack of coyotes lay in wait. Pretty smart when you thought about it.
Most of the homes around me were dark, but I’m sure their occupants heard the increasingly-loud howls. As suddenly as it started, it stopped again. Total and utter silence. I had the bright idea that maybe I could see them. I grabbed the binoculars I kept in the glove compartment and crossed the road to the top of a trailhead between some houses. A few streets below, a solitary streetlight illuminated the entrance gate to the reservoir. It cast long narrow shadows that stretched almost to the coal-black water.
I scanned the trees and caught the glitter of eyes staring back. Then another pair. Were these the noisemakers? We stood staring at each other; their legs as rooted as mine. The spell broke when I heard a door open and close and saw a flash of light for a second or two, no more. I turned and saw the bottom level of a house. Curtains blocked out most of the light, but a faint yellow glowed around their edges. Someone must have walked in. Outside, four or five bikes leaned against a wall. The door opened again, another brief flash of light and sound.
“Later,” I heard a man say. He quietly closed the door, picked up a bike and headed toward the road on a sidewalk hugging the house. A shorter man with an almost unnoticeable limp walked by him, nodded and slipped into the home. Another two minutes went by, and the cyclist zipped past my car on the side of the road, lights on his helmet and front and back fender. I watched as he stopped under the one streetlight to adjust his pedals and I got a good look at him. It was the same guy who had been riding with Burk in the Canyon. These coincidences were starting to creep me out.
I took a few steps on the grassy trail that led down the hill and into the canyon. The animals I’d been watching had long disappeared into the darkness of the tall trees and shrubs. As I turned around, something hovering near the trees caught my eye. Terrified it was a bat, I almost screamed, but caught myself. Whatever it was, it was mechanical, not biological. It moved, silently, toward the house until it was hovering almost directly opposite the door.
I had seen Earl practice this maneuver many times with his drone, making it hang in the air near the tree line so that it became all but invisible. The drone moved up to the other side of the house that was closest to me, then sailed around a detached garage I hadn’t noticed.
The door opened again, and another voice said, “No worries.”
A man walked around to the garage and pulled up the door. The drone moved above him, capturing his movements. Banks of computer servers lined the garage. He vanished into the humming garage. While he was there, the lights blinked. A few minutes later, he walked out, pulled down the door, and moved quietly to the house and slipped in. “Fixed,” is what I thought he said to those inside.
I watched, fascinated, as the black drone lifted, flew parallel to the trees and then melted into the night.
I walked quietly up the trail to the car and got in. The house over the hill. Could this be the house Tyler had warned me about? Given what I’d seen, it was more than likely. The drone. Burk’s biking buddy. The fact that it was this late on a weekday and there were people still awake in Marin. Could it be a computer start-up? I heard that people often worked all night. But here? Deep in a canyon where the Wi-Fi is sketchy, at best? I was about to start my car when a small beat-up Ford passed me and stopped at the front gate of the house. The driver punched in some numbers on the keypad and when the gate opened, drove in. The sliding fence closed silently behind him.
For after midnight, this place was buzzing.
Dad and Earl sat watching television when I walked in, both holding a Coyote Ridge beer bottle.
“Earl, did you happen to be flying your drone about fifteen minutes ago? Over on the other side of the hill?” I asked.
Dad laughed and turned to Earl. “Didn’t I say not to spy on our neighbors?”
“Just trying out my new night vision apparatus,” said Earl. “How’d you know about that?”
“Long story. Do you or maybe Tyler know who lives there? What they do?”
“No, can’t say I do. This house had its lights on, some outside activity. Perfect for testing my equipment.”
I didn’t believe him, but I wasn’t going to confront him in front of Dad. “Does that awful beer taste any better?”
Dad took a sip and cringed. “Still skunky.”
“Then why are you drinking it?”
I bent down and picked up the cap that Dad had knocked on the floor and stuck it in my pocket. It didn’t matter how old they were. Men were just big messy boys.
“I’m going to bed. So tired.”
My feet dragged as I climbed up the staircase. Inside my room, I collapsed on the bed.
“Ow.” I reached around to my back pocket and pulled out Dad’s bottle cap. Someone had spent a lot of money on the design for the label as well as the cap. The graphics included an outline of two coyotes from the neck up and the initials CR in black.
Classy. I picked up the remote and turned to a rerun of a sitcom I’d watched a million times before. Usually, watching television calmed me down from the excitement of working a game. I slipped off my work clothes and dropped them on the floor next to my bed. As I sank into the silly story, I turned the cap over and over in my hand. I was thinking about the lecture Earl gave me about beer and beer bottles.
“Only use brown bottles. If they’re clear or green without coating on them, the UV rays go right through the bottle and into the beer, changing the taste. No one would want to drink it, that’s for sure.”
He hadn’t mentioned caps. I stroked the little tin cover in my hand. Tyler and his friends had obviously put a lot of thought into this little thing, but they’d forgotten to manage the taste of the beer. To me, they had the whole thing backward. First, create a good product. Then worry about the marketing. I turned the cap over. The underside had a thin layer of plastic tightly fitted against the top. I couldn’t remember the inside of caps looking like that, but then, I’d never spent much time looking. When beer drinking consumed my life, all I cared about was getting the cap off.
I kept rubbing my finger on the inside of the cap while I watched TV and listened to the canned laughter. My eyes grew heavy and began to close. I snuggled deeper into my pillow.
Beer was flat. Cap was flat. Beer was flat. Cap was flat. My sleep mantra stopped suddenly. The beer cap wasn’t flat. I saw a slight indentation under the plastic film. When I closed my eyes, I touched an inconspicuous bulge. Maybe just a bubble of air. I tried pressing down on the pocket of air, but it didn’t give. I picked at the film of plastic, but the edges held tight against the cap.
What a crazy waste of my time. I tossed the beer cap on my nightstand and turned off the light. But I couldn’t sleep. I kept wondering about Tyler and what sort of trouble he was in. I didn’t have any idea. My mind spun faster and faster. And going nowhere. I sat up, shaking my head; I would never fall asleep tonight. Trying to think about something else … anything else … I grabbed the bottle cap and tossed it up in the air and caught it with the other hand. I did that a few times successfully and then tried to do it with my eyes closed. The bottle cap missed my outstretched hand and landed with a kerplunk in a glass of water on the night table.
Oh well. Not ready for prime time. I wiggled my fingers into the glass and pulled out the cap. The bubble of air had a more solid squareness to it. What could be concealed under there? Finding a pair of tweezers, I pulled at the edges until one side came loose. I yanked it and ripped off the plastic. That something flew onto the floor.
It was a ridiculously small microchip. I laid it on the smooth light-colored bedspread and took a picture. Then I turned it over and took another photo. It had to fit into something. But what? A computer? A reader of some sort?
I texted the photos to Lena.
R U up? What’s this?
T is up. So I’m up. A microchip. Smaller than most.
Why would someone put a microchip under a beer cap?
Dunno. U R the detective.
What does this do?
Dunno. Bring it by tomorrow. I know someone who can help.
I wrapped the minuscule chip in a tissue and put it carefully into an empty paper clip box. I did the same with the cap and the plastic film.
“Trisha,” called out Earl from downstairs. “Did you pick up a beer cap? The one from the Coyote Ridge bottle?”
“Yeah. I’ll toss it down to you.”
I reached for the bottle cap, walked out on the landing and said, “Catch.”
“Trish,” said Earl, sounding puzzled. “Are you sure this is it?”
“It’s the only beer cap I picked up.”
Instead of moving back into my room, I stayed on the landing to listen to the conversation between Earl and my father. All I heard was “beer … top … missing.” For a few minutes, I heard the rustling of plastic bags and Dad then said, “I’m not digging around any more garbage for a ridiculous beer cap.” I couldn’t catch the muffled response. “Have you lost your mind?” Dad replied. Then he walked down the hall to his bedroom.
Earl stayed there for at least thirty minutes shuffling through the mess, examining and shaking each piece of refuse. Was he hunting for the chip? I arguably should return it to him, but not yet. I wanted to know what it did.