Bodily Harm (16 page)

“Maybe not, but Fitzgerald is the new regime.”

“No. Not yet. Not with the old man still alive. This goes against everything Kendall has professed to stand for. Fitzgerald wouldn’t do this unless he was concerned about something.” She paced. “He’s trying to keep this completely under wraps; he sent it overseas so no one would find out.”

“He’s hiding it?”

She stopped, turned. “Wouldn’t you? Think about it. He keeps it completely under wraps and launches it right for Christmas. He’ll create a run at the stores, like when Tickle Me Elmo came out of the blue. It will be the toy of the season.”

“It
is
amazing,” Craft said.

“Need I remind you, Brandon, that it is not our toy?”

The smile vanished.

“So where did it come from?” Bolelli asked.

“No one knows. No one recalls seeing anything like it in New York or Germany,” Craft said, referring to the two biggest annual toy fairs. “Maybe Kendall’s in-house design team came up with it.”

“If that were the case then why didn’t Santoro tell you about it?”

Bolelli knew Craft and Santoro had been talking since Galaxy first approached Kendall with an offer to buy the company. Not believing she’d get far with Fitzgerald, who had a perverse sense of loyalty to Sebastian Kendall, Bolelli had sought an advocate inside the company and didn’t have to go far. Santoro was disgruntled after Kendall passed him over in favor of Fitzgerald. Since Santoro and Fitzgerald were roughly the same age, Santoro’s prospects of ever running that company were slim at best. That meant he’d be looking for another opportunity, or more money. Not wanting a paper trail leading back to her, Bolelli arranged for Craft to attend a trade industry conference she knew Santoro was attending. Craft came back with his chest puffed, as if he were the next James Bond, advising that “someone” at Kendall was unhappy with his situation, might be looking for greener pastures, and with a little persuasion, might just be willing to provide Galaxy with inside information on a company Bolelli coveted. Bolelli had played along, telling Craft to pursue it. Once she had acquired Kendall she’d fire both Craft and Santoro. She knew from personal experience that if a man cheated once, he’d cheat again, and no one was ever going to cheat on her again. Besides, what could Craft or Santoro do, sue and have the information about their clandestine meetings come out in public? They’d never get another job.

“He said he didn’t know about it until Fitzgerald broke it out at a board meeting. No one on the board had ever seen or heard of such an idea.”

“Which means Fitzgerald must have suspected someone was leaking information and is keeping everything about this toy very close to the vest. That’s why it’s being produced in China.” She thought for a moment. “That board meeting was weeks ago. Why didn’t Santoro tell you about this sooner?”

Craft opened his mouth as if to speak, but instead his face twisted, as if considering a complex mathematics problem.

“He’s getting cold feet,” Bolelli said, starting to pace again. “If this thing is as good as projected, Kendall’s revenues will go through the roof, and so will their stock. Santoro could sell and be worth three to four times what he’d get in salary here. He’s playing you, Brandon.” Before Craft could respond Bolelli changed gears. “Have you discussed the concept with our design people? Can we duplicate it?”

“They say it can’t be done.”

“Well, tell them someone has already done it, damn it.” Bolelli stopped pacing. “Oh shit!”

“What?”

“Titan. If Ian gets wind of this he’ll be on it like stink on shit. Why the hell did we go public with our offer?”

“I tried—”

“Kendall will need help with distribution and getting retailers to agree to prime shelf space right out of the gate. Damn it! Fitzgerald and Ian are probably already working on it together.”

“What do you want to do?” Craft asked.

At the end of the table Bolelli gripped the back of a chair. “Start buying more Kendall stock.”

“It will drive the price up even higher,” Craft said, alarmed. “It’s already inflated. We could create a feeding frenzy.”

“What do you think will happen when this thing hits the store shelves?”

“How high do you want to go? We’ve already depleted most of our cash reserves.”

“I don’t care. Overpay if you have to. I want as much control over Fitzgerald as I can leverage. If he partners with anyone, it will be Galaxy, not Titan, and if he doesn’t, we’ll still stand to make a shitload when this thing hits the stores.”

EMERALD PINES DEVELOPMENT
KENT, WASHINGTON

HIS STOMACH CHURNING, Sloane drove past the rock wall with silver letters identifying the development as Emerald Pines. It seemed every development built since the 1970s identified itself as if it were an exclusive gated community, but there was no gate at the entrance, and the homes were modest and unmemorable—between two and four thousand square feet with wood siding, trim, and wraparound porches. The developer had broken the uniformity by flipping the floor plans, placing the garage of some of the homes to the left of the front door rather than the right.

As Sloane stepped from the car his foot sank into the saturated thick lawn separating the curb from the sidewalk, the moisture seeping through his leather shoe and dampening his sock. A broken sprinkler head bubbled water, flooding the area. He pulled free his shoe and approached the house. The garage door was up, revealing a Toyota Camry beside an empty space for a second car. Michael McFarland had kept his job as a machinist at Boeing, but Eva, who had been employed at a local Costco, had been unable to work since Austin’s death. Bicycles hung from hooks in the
ceiling, and sporting equipment and household supplies filled storage racks. To the right the front door was beneath a pitched porch with a skylight that offered natural lighting.

Eva McFarland answered the door looking like she had recently put on makeup and tried to comb her hair before giving up and pulling it back in a clip.

“David,” she said, trying not to sound rushed though he obviously had not given her enough advance warning. “Come on in.”

“I better take off my shoes,” he said. “Looks like you have a broken sprinkler.”

She looked past him to the sidewalk. “The gardener runs over them with the lawn mower. Mike is not going to be happy.”

He slipped off his shoes and left them on the porch. The tile entry was slick in his socks, and he felt a bit like a beginner ice-skater feeling his way, but the rubber stopper on the end of the cane gave him security as Eva led him toward the back of the house.

“I was just starting the wash,” she said, slipping a hard
r
into the word, as was the case with some native Washingtonians.

As with her own appearance, the rooms showed signs that someone had tried to tidy quickly: a single tennis shoe stranded in the hall, dishes in the sink, bread crumbs on the tile counter. Eva tossed a brown stuffed rabbit onto a pile of toys overflowing from a toy box in a corner of the family room off the kitchen.

“The dog likes to use it as a chew toy,” she said.

As if on cue, a small dog barked and scratched at the sliding glass door leading to a fenced-in backyard. More toys lay strewn on a rounded cement patio and lawn, along with a baseball contraption of some sort, a ball hanging at the end of a tethered string staked in the ground. Though the sun was out, the room faced north and was well shaded.

Eva turned off CNN. “I was tracking that storm in the Gulf.
Mike has relatives in Texas. They say they’re going to lose everything.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

She crossed her arms, as if cold. “You don’t really lose it if you can rebuild it or replace it. I look around the house now at all these things that were once so important, and, well, now I just see a bunch of stuff.” She seemed to catch herself. “I’m so sorry about your wife, David. When we heard about it we just couldn’t believe it. How horrible. I don’t know what to say.” And as if to emphasize the point they stood in an awkward silence. “We sent a card.”

“I appreciate it,” he said. “Thank you.” Carolyn had placed the card on his chair that morning so he would have time to read it in case the subject came up.

“Can I get you anything, coffee?”

“No, I’m fine.”

Another awkward pause.

“Please, sit down,” she said.

Sloane sat on a leather sofa as Eva retrieved the newspaper from a matching chair and set it on a wood coffee table next to a
People
magazine,
US
, and
Sports Illustrated
. The room held the burnt smell of a recent fire in the fireplace. Eva continued to ask him the perfunctory questions, whether the police had arrested anyone and how he was doing recovering from his injuries. Sloane answered her questions patiently until, with nothing left to discuss, she got to the reason for his visit.

“You said on the phone you wanted to talk about something about the case.” Sloane heard the hesitation in her voice. “They’re not going to appeal, are they?”

“No, they can’t do that,” Sloane said. “They’ve already paid the judgment.”

“Thank God.” She exhaled in relief.

Sloane hadn’t known Eva McFarland before the death of
her son, but he had seen photographs. Whereas at one time she would have been considered perhaps ten pounds overweight, she was now rail thin, though she did not have the healthy, toned appearance of someone who had exercised and dieted to lose the weight. Despite the family’s recent vacation Eva continued to look gaunt and pale and had dark circles beneath her eyes. Sloane wondered how many hours a night she slept, and how often her nightmares woke her.

“I wanted to ask you a few questions about something that has come up.”

Her brow furrowed.

“It’s actually about Mathew,” he said, referring to their older son.

“Mathew? I don’t understand.”

“Was he ever part of a group of kids chosen to evaluate a toy made by Kendall Toys?”

“What?”

“Was he ever asked to play with a Kendall toy and tell them what he thought of it?”

Eva folded her hands in her lap and looked to the darkened television. “I’m sorry. Things are still a bit hazy. What is this about?”

Sloane took out a crude sketch he had made from memory and showed it to her. “The toy was an action figure called Metamorphis.”

Eva considered the diagram and, after a moment, displayed the beginnings of a smile. “You know, I think I do remember this.”

Sloane’s pulse quickened.

Her smile widened. “Yeah. I do remember this. Mathew would take that thing all through the house yelling, ‘Metamorphis,’ and make it change. I think it became a boat, or an airplane or something. I can’t remember.”

Sloane tried not to sound impatient. “How did he get the toy, do you recall?”

Her nose scrunched. “I think it was through a friend of a friend type of thing. Mathew’s best friend’s father has a relative . . . someone who works at Kendall. I don’t know, but they were looking for a few boys. I remember because Mathew couldn’t tell his friends at school anything about the toy, or let them see it. And I seem to recall that we had to sign a document that said we wouldn’t divulge anything about it—as if I were about to run out and talk to all my friends about a toy.”

“You didn’t keep a copy of that document, did you?”

“If I did, I’ve long since thrown it out. There’s enough clutter around here without adding to it.” Her head tilted. “How do you know about this?”

Sloane had debated whether it was best to tell Eva about the Gallegos family or let her read the articles. He decided that the articles would be too painful.

“How long did Mathew play with it?”

“A few days, maybe a week. Like I said, I don’t really recall all the details.”

“Did he have to go anywhere and be observed playing with it, or to answer any questions?”

She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. “I have a vague memory of something like that, a Saturday—I remember because Mike had to take him pretty early in the morning. He said it was a warehouse in the middle of nowhere. You’ll have to ask Mike. Mathew was happy, though. I remember they paid him something.”

“Was it by check?”

“I assume, but I really don’t know.”

“What did Mathew think of the toy?”

“He loved it,” she said without hesitation. Then she leaned forward, hands on knees, eyes narrowing. “But how do you know about this?” she asked again. “Why is this important?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be cryptic. I had someone come and talk to me about the toy. He designed it.”

“Okay.”

“He gave me a file with some drawings and an article . . . an article about another boy in Southern Washington.”

Eva’s eyebrows knitted closer together.

“The boy died a few days before Austin.”

She pulled back.

“He lived in a town with a Kendall manufacturing plant and his brother was also given one of the same toys to play with. The boy came down with flulike symptoms: high fever, vomiting, listless.”

Eva covered her mouth with her hand.

“The parents didn’t take him to the doctor right away because they’re here in the country illegally. By the time they did the boy had slipped into a coma.”

Tears pooled then overflowed the corners of her eyes, running down her cheeks. “What are you saying?”

“Did you ever notice any pieces of the toy around the house, anything at all?”

“You think Austin choked?”

Sloane shook his head. “No. Small black pieces, tiny rectangles.”

She shook her head.

“The toy operates through the use of dozens of tiny, powerful magnets.”

“No, nothing like that,” she said.

“If the plastic cracks the magnets can become free, and if a child swallows more than one, the magnets will attract each other
inside the intestines. With time the intestine starts to die in that area, and it can perforate. If that happens, bacteria can get in and poison the bloodstream and organs.”

“No. Nothing like that,” she said again. Then, “This other boy, he had . . . they found magnets in his body?”

“They did an autopsy; the medical examiner found six magnets.”