Perpetual Motion (28 page)

“We’re not getting much out of the two
operatives we picked up in Borrego Springs,” McCobb said. “They
probably don’t know much anyway.”

“What about the woman?”

“No sign of her,” McCobb said glumly. “When
we found her vehicle in the desert, she was long gone.”

That didn’t surprise the x-detective either.
Women had a way of disappearing on him. The long-legged,
sandy-haired woman had escaped down the beach too. Probably for the
best, he thought.

“We subpoenaed Black Starr’s offices and have
been going through their banking records,” McCobb was saying.

“That’s good,” Cynical said, half-listening,
his eyes still scanning the beach. “When in doubt, follow the
money.”

“That’s what we’ve been doing,” McCobb said.
“They received a sizable deposit about three weeks ago. It was
wired from an off-shore account on Jersey Island.”

“Jersey?” Cynical asked, wondering if there
was a Mob connection after all.

“Yeah, in the Channel Islands,” the FBI agent
clarified. “Europeans like to use the Channels for their private
banking.”

“Oh, yeah, right,” Cynical said, trying to
cover his mistake.

“Anyway, the account it came from is
registered to a shell company, so it’s tough to trace.”

“Yeah,” Cynical muttered. Whoever was behind
all this was smart enough to cover their tracks. Like the tide
washing over foot prints in the sand, they were gone, much like the
woman up the beach. “Well, if anything breaks, let me know.”

“We actually did have an interesting
development,” McCobb continued. “We’ve been monitoring that account
and, a few days ago, one million dollars were transferred out.” The
agent paused for effect, or possibly to give Cynical a chance to
guess - or confess. “The money was sent to a checking account…
registered to a Samuel E. Jones.”

The color drained out of Cynical’s tan as he
heard his name.

Cynical felt his legs go rubbery; the chair
mercifully catching him half-way to the tile patio below. In a weak
voice, he muttered, “Mancuso?”

“You sound surprised?” McCobb said
harshly.

“I didn’t know,” Cynical heard himself
helplessly saying.

“You didn’t know you made a million dollars
or that it came from Mancuso?”

“No, I knew…” Cynical sputtered. “I just…” He
trailed off, his mind racing. “You sure he was paying Black Starr
too?”

“It came from the same account. You’re a
detective; you figure it out,” McCobb said sarcastically.

“I didn’t know,” Cynical repeated; his
thoughts blending together.

“How much do you really know about Alfred
Mancuso?”

“Not much,” Cynical admitted. Actually, he
knew next to nothing. “He works for an asset management company in
London, right?”

McCobb scoffed. “That’s kind of like saying
the Pope works for a church. Mancuso retired from being chairman of
the Pyramid Group but, from what we understand, he still runs
things.”

“So, what is the Pyramid Group, exactly?”

“They manage billions and it’s all invested
in multi-national oil and gas companies, like Petro Pacific, South
American Oil and Gas, Euroilco. They also have a division that
lobbies for their energy interests. Basically, they
are
Big
Oil.”

A chill went down Cynical’s spine. He had
researched everyone except his own client. It had all happened so
fast; he had been in such a hurry. In truth, he knew the money –
and the jet - had blinded him too. He had wanted Mancuso to be on
the up and up.

“So where’s Dexter?” McCobb asked, breaking
into the x-detective’s nightmare.

“He’s gone,” Cynical stammered. “I mean, I
think he’s safe. He gave me his latest prototype - a motor – in a
car – to give to Mancuso. Michael thought he deserved it since he
had funded his research. I thought Mancuso would take it public –
or at least protect it.”

“Yeah, he’ll protect it all right,” McCobb
said. “That motor will be so heavily protected it will never see
the light of day.”

“I wouldn’t have given it to him if I’d
known…” Cynical trailed off.

“Well, fortunately for you, there’s no crime
against ignorance or taking Mancuso’s money,” McCobb said. “If that
were the case, half of Congress would be indicted – on both
counts.”

After a moment, Cynical feebly asked, “What
now?”

“What now?” McCobb repeated mockingly. “I
guess I go back to work and you go back to working on your tan.
Have a nice vacation, Cynical.”

Hearing the dial tone, Cynical slouched in
his lounge chair, mulling over the part he had unwittingly played.
Mancuso had never wanted to save the invention; he wanted to shut
it down, and shut-up anyone who knew how to build it. The only
solace Cynical could take was that he’d protected the kids from
Mancuso and Black Starr.

Mancuso’s words played back in his head: ‘Oil
makes the world go round.’

The old man was right. The world was totally
dependent on oil. Since it’s a finite commodity, supplies will
eventually tighten, making prices go up. The corporations who
produce the black stuff will make obscene profits, and the rich
will get even richer. The only hitch would be something totally new
that changed the equation.

Cynical whirled around and rose from his
chair, straining his stitches in the process. Ignoring the howls
from the various hotspots on his body, he hurried into the hotel
room.

Finding his old jacket with the bullet hole
in the shoulder, he fumbled through the pockets, coming up with the
encrypted phone. The old man had never asked for it back, and he’d
forgotten about it, until now.

Filled with one part rum, three parts rage,
he pushed the three asterisks in a row and waited. It seemed like
it took minutes for the next available satellite to pick up the
signal, the line began to ring…and ring.

He was ready to give up when he heard a
click. It took a moment or two more before it was answered by a
curious voice that merely said, “Mancuso.”

At the sound of “Mancuso,” Cynical froze.
Once again, he’d launched into a course of action without thinking
it through. Then he remembered how he’d been manipulated by the
person on the other end of the line; and all the people who’d
suffered and died as a result.

“Yes, Mr. Mancuso,” he said, finally finding
his voice. “It’s Cynical Jones.”

“Oh yes,” came the easy reply. “I did not get
my phone back, did I? What can I do for you Mr. Jones? I trust your
fee came through?”

“Yeah, I got the money,” Cynical said
guiltily, the words sticking in his throat. Swallowing, he
continued, “I just wanted you to know - I figured out your game. A
little late maybe, but I know it was you.”

There was a slight pause from the other end.
“And what, precisely, do you know?”

“I know Black Starr was working for you.” The
response was followed by more silence, so Cynical kept talking.
“The way I figure it, you heard what Michael was doing. You knew it
had promise, so you invested in it. I mean, what better way to keep
an eye on something than to own it?”

“Yes, Michael’s ideas had potential,” Mancuso
freely admitted. “It was only a matter of time before others
recognized it.”

“So when you heard the Department of Energy
had paid a visit, you knew you had to move fast before you lost
control of it,” Cynical continued. “That’s when you hired Black
Starr to blow up the prototype and terminate anyone who could
duplicate it.”

As the silence lengthened, Cynical realized
he wasn’t going to get a verbal response. The silence was his
answer, none-the-less. He tried a different tact.

“My question is, if you already had Black
Starr, why did you need me?”

“I’m not admitting I hired them,” Mancuso
said. “But I will say you were invaluable, Mr. Jones. You were able
to garner information no one else could. You found our young man in
Las Vegas and you established trust with the girlfriend.”

“Okay,” Cynical said. “Then if I was so
great, why did you hire them?”

“Again, I am not saying I hired this group,”
Mancuso began again. “However, let’s just say, you couldn’t be
trusted to complete the job.”

So Cynical had been hired to flush out the
prey while Amanda had been brought in to finish them off. “So you
just sat back and watched us kill each other from your private sky
booth?”

There was a lengthy gap into which Cynical
wondered if he’d lost the connection. Then, in a somewhat irritated
voice, Mancuso responded.

“Perhaps, I am partly to blame for agreeing
to overly generous bonuses. Everyone over-reached their
assignments. For instance, you were simply supposed to locate the
subject and report to me. If you had stayed within the perimeters
of your assignment, the operation wouldn’t have become so, well,
messy.”

Mancuso paused, before adding in a cheerier
tone. “Despite you taking liberties along the way, I believe I
hired the right man for the job. Only a cynical man would believe
his own government was trying to destroy its shot at energy
independence.”

Cynical no longer knew what to say to such an
amoral predator. Only one question managed to emerge from his the
recesses of his strained brain.

“So, you’re really going to destroy one of
the greatest inventions of our time, just so you can make more
money?”

“Well, what’s ‘great’ to one person may not
be so wonderful to another,” Mancuso said, a playful lilt in his
voice. “You wouldn’t think the light bulb was such a wonderful
invention if you were a candle-maker, would you?”

“It seems like a smart businessman would make
the transition to the future,” Cynical said, “especially if he
owned the rights to the original light bulb.”

Mancuso chuckled, amused. “Yes, well, perhaps
if I was a younger, more ambitious man. At this point, I have
vested interests: investments, contracts, options, leases, not to
mention lifelong associates to consider.” He sighed. “I’m afraid my
die is cast, so to speak.”

Cynical shook his head.

“I really must go,” Mancuso said sharply.
“Remember your confidentially agreement is still in effect. If I
hear you have spoken to anyone about this matter, you will be
hearing from my attorneys.”

The sinister tone, once again, became almost
sadistically chipper. “This will be the last time we speak. Please
accept my gratitude for your service, Mr. Jones. Have a pleasant
day.”

And with that, their connection abruptly went
dead.

As the fog slowly cleared around his head,
Cynical sat seething, grasping for some way to wreak revenge on the
evil troll. But the more he dwelled on it, the more he realized the
truth: Mancuso was too powerful. For a brief moment, he thought
about sending the money back…. But what would that really
accomplish?

Besides, with the money, he could live on an
island with enough fruity cocktails to blot out the rest of the
world. Michael and Karen had run away from it all; maybe he could
too. Just sit in the sand until the world became a more equitable
place.

Something told him a million dollars wouldn’t
buy him that kind of time.

Off in the distance, he detected a dark dot
on the horizon.

At first, he imagined it to be Mancuso’s jet,
lording over him like some kind of malevolent god. However, the
longer he stared, the bigger the object became, until he realized
it was a gathering storm head. A southerly wind was picking up,
blowing the storm formation toward the island.

Wherever he went, he seemed to attract
disasters of every kind. Trouble followed him like a magnet, and
maybe, an unconscious part of him liked it that way. Perhaps it was
perverse, but he enjoyed the thrill of the chase and even the
excitement of being a little over his head. Whether he liked it
not, he was at home in the swirl of a hurricane.

In that moment, he knew he would go back to
LA and get back to work because, at the end of the day, he had
rather go down swinging than drifting off in a hammock. It was who
he was: a fighter, a detective, and more cynical than ever.

The first thing Cynical did when he got back
to LA was have Angelo sweep his apartment. As he expected, there
was a high-end bug on his phone. It confirmed what Angelo and Mort
had already told him; a security system is only as good as its
weakest link. In this case, that would be him.

By the time he got around to visiting J.T. in
the hospital, he had been moved out of intensive care and was
starting an extensive rehabilitation process. Since the bodyguard
had put his life on the line, it seemed reasonable to offer to
cover his extra medical expenses. Plus, he was frankly afraid of
J.T.

Even after shelling out for hospital and
rehab, Cynical was still in pretty decent financial shape. For
once, he didn’t feel obligated to take work he found morally
reprehensible. This new standard cut out many of his regular jobs,
which left him with more time to do things he’d been putting
off.

For starters, he asked Cynthia to dinner.
Convincing her he wasn’t angling to extract information on a case
wasn’t easy. Eventually, she agreed to meet him at his favorite
Italian restaurant where they talked and laughed for hours.
Afterwards, he wondered why it had taken him so long to do
something so simple and pleasurable.

More often than he’d like to admit, he
searched the internet for signs of life from the kids. He didn’t
think Desmond would be able to resist bragging about his exploits
but, he couldn’t find any mention of him. Perhaps, the FBI had
given him a new identity. He liked to think of Desmond getting a
fresh start, maybe working in a secret lab, trying to replicate the
perpetual motion machine for the US government.