James Calder - Knockout Mouse: A Bill Damen Mystery (Silicon Valley Mysteries)

knockout mouse

a bill damen silicon valley mystery

james calder

acknowledgments Im very grateful to my editor Jay Schaefer for his insight and guidance, and to Phil Cohen for sharing his time and expertise. Nurshen Bakir, Ted Conover, and Leslie Kogod were enormously helpful in reading early drafts. Many thanks also to Dr. Jeff Kishiyama for his expertise, and to Ralph King, Leslie Chao, Dr. Julia Gray, Suleyman Bahceci, Andy Black, Rita Roti, Lambert Meertens, Dr. Robert Leibold, Pam Strayer, Josh Crandall, KT Epstein, and Sasha for their generous help. Needless to say, any errors or shortcomings in this book are mine alone. James Calder

Copyright 2002 by Chronicle Books LLC.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, companies, products, and incidents are creations of the authors imagination or are used fictionally.
Any resemblance to actual persons, places, or things is entirely coincidental.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available.

eISBN: 978-0-8118-7062-7

Book and cover design by Benjamin Shaykin
Cover photo by Victor Cobo

Chronicle Books LLC
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San Francisco, California 94107
www.chroniclebooks.com

For my parents

CHARLEY: Youre pushing thirty, slugger, you know, its time to think about getting some ambition.

TERRY: I always figured Id live a little bit longer without it.

On the Waterfront

I was not where I was supposed to be. A crayon box of cartop colors glittered in the parking lot: Lexus gold, Boxster blue, cyborg silver. The hood of my own car, a sun-faded burnt orange, was propped open with an unbasketed ski pole. I was unscrewing the air filters wing nut when I saw the SUV go round a second time.

I was supposed to be in the woods today, not stuck in the Silicon Valley miasma. Wednesday rambles had become a ritual since Id left all this behind. But a friend had asked me to shoot an industrial film for her, and I still needed to pay the rent, not to mention some debts my alleged partners had stuck me with from my last, truly last, venture in this neighborhood.

I lifted the air filter off and leaned in to examine the carburetor. The choke was closed. I inhaled deeply. My engine had an aroma all its own, rich in ancient oils, rubber, and steel. It was the only smell with any real texture in this freshly planted parking lot, which served a complex of new tech office buildings.

The SUV came around again. I saw it from the corner of my eye. A woodland green Lexus with smoke-gray windows. I might not have noticed it, but by this point in my life Id developed an almost unconscious habit of playing cinematographer to my day. I reflexively composed colors, patterns, shadows, and light into a frame. When I was here in the valley, it helped make order out of the disjointed landscape of freeways, corporate campuses, and commercial strips.

This was the third time the Lexus had entered the shot. Id have felt better if I could see who was inside. Id managed to make only one new enemy today, a small number on a job like this. Our clients marketing guy had attempted to educate me on what the look of the picture should be: handheld camera, desaturated color, that gritty independent look. I told him he watched too much MTV.

Pressing down one side of the choke, I used an old cork to prop open the other side. As I straightened, I felt eyes on my back. The SUV was creeping down the row behind me. I turned to track it. My squint failed to penetrate the tinted windows. There were plenty of spaces in the lot, so why was he circling me like a cat on the prowl?

I tried the ignition again. The engine still wouldnt catch. I slumped into the seat. The dials were dead circles on the dash. My skin stuck to the seat back. There was no way I should be having this kind of trouble on a warm fall day.

A smudge of woodland green flashed in the rearview mirror. It was coming down my row again. I adjusted the mirror and watched it roll by. No security emblems, no company names on the doors. What did it want?

When it had passed, I got out and opened the tailgate. Behind my camera cases was a small cardboard box. Inside the box was a gas can and a hair dryer. I grabbed the can, took it round front, and slopped some gas into the choke. By the time I was back in the drivers seat, woodland-green was gliding down the row in front of me. I stared straight at him and cranked the ignition hard.

The starter huffed pitifully, a sign the battery was draining. I went back to the cardboard box. It contained one more option. As I unwrapped the blow dryer from its cloth, the SUV came round the corner and back down my row. I took a couple of steps into the lane and waited. The vehicle jolted to a stop, not quite blocking me in. Two doors opened.

The driver was young, yet stood with an air of casual authority, as if hed pulled me over in a patrol car. But he was too stylish and smug to be a security guy. He wore a tight-fitting silk crew neck and creased pants. His hair was golden yellow, several shades lighter than mine, and cut more expensively than the scruffiness on my head. A little blond patch sprouted from his chin. Wraparounds shaded his eyes.

We stared at one another. At six foot two, he had a couple of inches on me. Maybe I did look a bit suspect among the sleek cars in this mint-new lot, stripped down to my ribbed undershirt, tinkering with a battered old International Harvester Scout. But this would be the last car Id pick to steal, and it was unlikely I was attempting a holdup with the blow dryer.

Waiting for my parking space? I asked him.

Nah. Theres one with my name on it over there. You look like you need some help.

I shrugged. Ignition problems.

He glanced at the dryer. Guess youve got them under control.

Is there something you want?

The drivers stance remained casual. He steadied himself, as if on a sailboat, removed his glasses, and put out a hand. Gregory Alton. This is my partner, Ron. He pointed to the passenger, who stood stiffly and waved. Ron was stockier, with short brown hair. Apparently he didnt rate a last name. We have a company called BioVerge.

Right, BioVerge: one of the occupants of the office park in whose lot I was stuck, along with Stellar Micro Devices, Campton Systems, and Kumar Biotechnics. Each company had its own four-story building, glass-skinned arrangements of cubes reflecting a liquid version of the checkerboard lot back into our eyes.

I stuck my grease-stained, gasoline-scented hand into Gregorys smooth palm. Bill Damen.

You met with Arun Kumar this afternoon, he said.

Thats right.

Why?

To sign a nondisclosure agreement.

He gave a woofing sort of chuckle. I guess I wouldnt want you to talk to strangers if you were working for me, either. Youre doing a job for Arun. Thats nice. He hires the best.

His gaze shifted to the dark bag in the back of my jeep. Youre the shooter. We tried to catch your bossRita, right?but she took off. You guys are a good team.

I remained silent, waiting for him to come out with whatever he was nosing around for. He stumbled over that a minute, then said, We want you to do some work for us.

Oh yeah? I stalled, debating whether I wanted to hear more. The guys method of introducing himself had not endeared him to me. With the Scout acting up, I was already late for Jennys dinner party. On the other hand, I knew I shouldnt let a business opportunity go by.