Shattered Legacy (12 page)

“Yes,” Ramirez broke in. “Why doesn't Templar try to make money?”

Dorian lifted his head a fraction. “Excuse me?”

“Where's the profit in ferrying supplies into space? You’re years away from running regular passenger traffic, and no one believes you'll ever get your costs down low enough to make it profitable. When are you going to stop throwing money away?”

Dorian looked as if he were unsure if Ramirez was asking a real question or just talking off the top of his head.

“It isn't about money.”

“Then what's it about?” Lowell shot back. He rose to his feet, shoved his hands in his pockets, and walked over to the window. He glanced back over his shoulder. “You're a businessman, Mr. Dorian. You built Templar Enterprises from the ground up and then sold it for billions. A decade later, you turn around and use those billions to buy Templar
back
. I find it hard to believe that anyone would just squander a fortune like that. What are you trying to do? You want to be remembered as the man who threw away more money than anyone in history?”

Dorian smiled, and then coughed lightly. “You're not too far off the mark.”

“How so?”

“Did you ever hear of me before I bought back and relaunched my company?”

“Can't say that I had.”

“And if I died five years ago, would you have known of me?”

“I doubt it,” Lowell admitted with a shrug.

“That's because, in the end, the amount of money you die with says nothing about you.” Dorian looked from one agent to the other. “Sure, the names and the money behind them are remembered. Rockefeller. Vanderbilt. But who remembers the
person
? When I'm dead and buried, who's going to remember me? I don’t want my name on the wall of a library or on the wing of some college engineering department. My wife and son are dead, but I still plan to leave behind a
legacy
. I’m not interested in ferrying rich folks to the edge of space. I want to be man who sets in motion the next phase of human exploration.” His eyes were wide and unblinking. “Can you understand that, Agent Lowell?”

Still staring out the window, the agent slowly nodded.

Dorian cleared his throat. “That was off the record, gentlemen. Now
on
the record: What do you want with my company?”

“We're concerned about your company's finances.” Lowell turned and crossed his arms. “We've already had a run-in with your general counsel. Frankly, sir, I’m worried that your people may be leading your organization down the wrong path.”

A smile spread across Dorian's wizened face. What began as a chuckle quickly broke into a painful coughing fit. Dorian fell forward onto his blanket, hacking. The two agents rushed over to the bed. Ramirez reached for the glass of water from the stand and tried to hand it to Dorian, but the old man violently refused assistance. He waved his arms and forced them away. The agents exchanged nervous glances as Dorian gasped for air. They certainly did not want anything to happen to him while they were alone with him. After several tense minutes, Dorian recovered and Lowell helped ease the old man back onto the pillows. The agents waited patiently until he found the strength to speak.

“I've been accused of being a shyster since the day I bought back my company,” Dorian told them in a wavering, gravelly voice. He gripped his bedding with clenched fists and swallowed several times before continuing. “If there's a problem with my company, then I assure you that our people will get to the bottom of it.” The old man carefully noted the agents' sullen expressions. “Work with us, boys.”

Lowell leaned in close. “I assume you’ve been briefed on this situation. It's very serious, you know.”

Dorian folded his hands across his stomach; his eyes rolled shut. “I’ve been told enough.”

“And?”

Dorian's eyes fluttered open. “As my favorite attorney would say, you two are on a 'fishing expedition.' I don't think you have anything on us. I think the reason you were sent here was to pump me for information. Am I right?”

“We did suggest that you have your counsel present during this interview,” Ramirez said quickly.

Dorian laughed by way of a grunt. “Oh, I don't think we would have had nearly as interesting a conversation if Samson Tyler were here.” Then the smile abruptly dropped from his face. He drew a ragged breath and closed his eyes. “If you don't mind, gentlemen, I'd like to get some rest.”

“One last question,” Lowell pressed.

Dorian shook his head, his eyes still closed. “I have nothing more to say.”

The agents quietly left the room. On their way down the staircase, they passed Shannon, who was carrying up a large tray of food. She offered the agents nothing but a cold glare.

“So, what do you think?” Ramirez asked as they left the house and walked off the front steps. It was warmer now than when they arrived. The sky was bright and cloudless, promising a pleasant day.

“We need to rethink our position,” Lowell muttered. “You saw the man. He’s terminally ill.”

 “Whatever he’s suffering from, he’s obviously keeping his condition a secret. Besides, if anything is going on with his company, I doubt he knows about it.”

“He’s not stupid or senile, believe me. That old man knows exactly what’s going on around him.”

Ramirez shook his head. “I doubt he’s hitting too many board meetings these days.”

“Doesn't matter. Dorian is only part of the larger problem. Some street punk rips off someone for twenty bucks and we throw him in jail for a few years. But other crimes - the ones so big, you can’t even calculate the damage - they go unpunished.”

“C’mon, Andrew. Not every old rich white guy is a criminal.”

“If it were up to me, I’d have capital punishment for
capital
crimes. Maybe we should take Dorian’s advice about dealing with his people. Samson Tyler seems to know more than he's letting on. What do we have on that guy?”

“Not much,” Ramirez replied, reaching into his pocket and flipping open his notepad. “We had a file opened on him during that huge SEC investigation on Templar a few years back. Let’s see… He was in top ten percent in his law class. Participated in moot court and was published in the law review.” He scanned through his notes. “The article was called 'Dynamic Justice: The Rewriting of the Investment Company Act of 1940 through Judicial Intervention.' Sounds thrilling.”

“What was his undergraduate degree?” Lowell asked.

“Psychology.”

“Psych and law? That’s an odd combination.”

“Apparently, his career took off when he helped Templar beat back a huge SEC investigation. It led to his promotion to lead counsel.”

“What about his personal life? Any group activities?”

“The usual professional organizations,” Ramirez said, shaking his head. “No political affiliations. No political contributions either, which is a bit odd, considering his status.”

At the car, Lowell opened his door and looked at his partner from across the roof. “What about his finances?”

Ramirez shook his head again. “There’s no unusual spending, no large purchases and no large bank deposits in the last six months.”

“Keep digging. As of right now, Samson Tyler is my person of interest, and I’ll be damned if we don’t nail him for something.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The deadbolt lock snapped open and thumped into the door. Moments later, the doorknob twisted one way and then the other. The door opened a crack, and a figure peered inside, listening. The apartment was dim and silent.

But then, Merrick already knew the place would be empty.

She stepped inside and closed the door. No longer dressed in rumpled street clothes, she wore a dark, expensive business suit. She looked different as well. Thanks to a wig, her hair was now long and blond, and she sported wide, dark-rimmed glasses. She clutched a small leather briefcase in her hand, her clear latex gloves barely visible.

Getting inside the building had been easier than she expected. With just a smile and an easy lie, the door attendant had let her pass without even a second glance. Had she been a common burglar, she could have hit the proverbial jackpot. All the residents in this building were wealthy, some fabulously so. However, Merrick was not a burglar by trade, and her purpose was not to steal anything.

Anything physical, at least.

She padded across the apartment, glancing around with silent approval. The decor confirmed that Samson Tyler's real life was in his work. This apartment was simply a place to visit for food and sleep. It had all the modern conveniences, but none of the charm of a truly lived-in place.

After a quick walk around the place, she climbed the spiral staircase to the loft area. Again, everything was neat and orderly. The bed against the back wall was neatly made. A lamp and several back issues of the
New York State Bar Journal
sat on top of a small nightstand. In the corner was a small bookshelf and desk area, which included Tyler's desktop computer.

She paused and crouched down before the small nightstand to examine a small, framed photograph of Tyler and a younger woman. Judging by Tyler’s arm around the woman’s shoulder, and the fact that she was holding his hand, Merrick figured that the woman was a girlfriend – probably a current one. She walked over to the desk and set down her briefcase. She noticed a few more photographs tacked to the wall. One picture was apparently taken on the top of the Empire State Building, where Tyler had his arm around the same girl. The other photographs were of men and women dressed in formal attire, apparently at business functions.

She snapped on the lamp, and then crouched down and carefully slid the computer from under the desk. She turned it around for better access, being careful not to pull loose the cable connections. Sitting cross-legged on the carpet, she loosened the screws, removed the computer’s access panel, and set it aside. Then she turned the open computer around for better lighting and reset several tiny jumper pins on the motherboard.

From her briefcase, she removed a laptop computer, opened it up, and turned it on. While the laptop ran through its boot-up sequence, she used a connecting cable to link the laptop directly to a slot on the computer’s motherboard. When everything was set, she pressed the power button on the front of Tyler's computer.

Typing commands onto her laptop, she started a customized data migration program that allowed for the duplication of hard drive information from one computer to another. She was using the program to transfer the entire contents of Tyler's computer directly onto her laptop. With the tool, no one would find a trace of illicit tampering. She watched as the list of duplicated files ran down her screen. With the stored files on her own laptop, Merrick would be free to examine Tyler's contacts, files, passwords, and copies of his e-mails at her leisure. She would use that information for the next phase of her operation.

The data migration took about two minutes to complete.

Merrick was shutting down the laptop when she heard a sound from downstairs. She quickly snapped off Tyler’s computer and the desk lamp, fell flat to the carpet, and slithered up beside the desk.

She heard the door open, followed by footsteps on the wooden floor.

The footsteps were too light to be a man’s. Merrick crouched lower and peered over the edge of the loft. At the same time, she carefully pulled a Glock 30 from her inside her briefcase.

A woman came into view. She had dark hair, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans. From the angle, Merrick recognized her as the girl in the pictures; Samson Tyler’s girlfriend.

The woman walked into the kitchen and out of sight. Merrick held her breath and edged over a bit further.

Moments later, the woman came back out from the kitchen. She glanced around the living room, and then stopped and rubbed her chin, as if she were looking for something.

Merrick gripped her pistol tightly. Right then, she made the decision that if the woman came up the stairs or even looked up at the loft, she would put a copper-jacketed bullet into her head.

The woman walked over to the couch and sighed in exasperation. She picked up a thick book from the cushion and shook her head. Then she turned and walked back toward the door.

Seconds later, after the door clicked shut, Merrick released the breath she had been holding and tucked her weapon away. She moved back to the desk, quickly rearranged Tyler's computer equipment and crept back downstairs. Before she left, she paused inside the foyer.

From her jacket pocket, she produced a red emergency flare. She turned it around in her hands, pulled off the safety cap, and ignited it. One end burst into a bright flame, hissing and spitting sparks. She quickly tossed the flare into the living room, where it hit the area rug with a solid thud and rolled under the couch.

Then she left, carefully closing the door behind her as thick black smoke billowed throughout the room.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Each year the Pentagon sells millions of dollars of surplus military equipment in government-sponsored auctions. The material ranges from old canteens and web belts, to entire demilitarized weapons systems. The Defense Logistics Agency, one of the few Pentagon programs that can actually cover its own operating costs, oversees the surplus sale program.

Like many government operations, the auction process is lengthy and complicated. Once an item is designated as surplus and allocated for auction, it is shipped to, checked in, and sorted at the Defense Reutilization and Marketing Office, or DRMO. The sorted items are first offered for reuse within the Department of Defense or transferred to other government agencies, museums, and nonprofit organizations. Whatever is left over is sold at public auction through a network of military sales offices, where dealers buy the auctioned goods and resell them across the country.

For decades, the system has been rife with problems. Lost or misappropriated transfers are common, with military-grade technology often ending up in the wrong hands. Foreign buyers, some representing enemy nations, purchase high-tech parts for transport overseas. Illegal transfers of restricted technology are sometimes hidden in scrap metal shipments that leave the country.