22.
ZACHARY BERMAN’S HOME, BOULDER, COLORADO
THURSDAY, APRIL 25, 2013, 2:14 A.M.
Pia reckoned she had four or five hours to search Berman’s home. The fact that her host was drunk and drugged up didn’t stop Pia from going back and checking on him twice in the hours since he’d finally succumbed. Pia had arranged Berman in a kind of a recovery position on his large couch with his head a little over the side in case he became nauseous. She was confident that to the world, he appeared to be sleeping like a baby. Pia spent ten minutes in the kitchen, drinking several glasses of water until she felt slightly more human herself. She wanted all her faculties.
Pia had no notion of what she was looking for in Berman’s house. She walked through the whole place, making a mental note of the location and function of each room. The property was on three levels, with guest rooms, a workout room, a wine cellar, and access to the garage downstairs. She had seen the whole of the first floor, but nothing of the second. The two main rooms up there could be reached by a main staircase from the living room, and by a back stair from the kitchen.
Berman’s giant master bedroom, with two huge baths, occupied most of the space. But there was another room as well, and it was the one Pia was most interested in. It was clearly a home office.
Wearing a pair of latex examination gloves she’d picked up in the ER when Paul Caldwell was off getting her Temazepam capsules, Pia sat at Berman’s desk in his chair and looked around. The table was glass and on it sat a large Mac, the latest model with retina display. To the right was a six-inch-high stack of papers; to the left, a flat-panel charger for Berman’s iPhone and Android. To the side, below the table, was a cherrywood filing cabinet that was locked. Pia swiveled around and took in the room. Unlike the rest of the house, there was a smooth finish to the walls, wood paneling that lent the room a more businesslike air than the rest of the timbered home.
There were a couple of low cabinets against one wall and Pia tried the door handles on both. Each was locked. Bookcases lined the other wall, filled with what Pia saw as a standard guy’s collection of business books, sports biographies, and thrillers, with a few coffee table books on the Rockies thrown in. She pulled a few of the books back but the wall behind was solid. There was no drawer in the glass desk, and Pia ran her hand along the flat surfaces in the room, looking for keys. Nothing.
All Pia had ready access to was the pile of papers on the desk.
Pia read through the pile meticulously. Most of the papers turned out to be printed-out copies of intra-company emails. Many were anotated in pencil in Berman’s hand. The majority were status reports of tests and experiments going on throughout Nano, and Pia recognized a few of them as her own. Her unfamiliarity with some aspects of other applications of nanotechnology hindered her ability to decode some of the more technical language. Scattered among the emails were copies of requisition forms that Berman had signed, including hers for the additional biocompatibility experiments.
One paper was a form for a new office chair for someone named Al Clift that Berman had turned down. He drew vigorous circles around the price—$359—and wrote “request denied” next to it. All Berman could be accused of from the evidence in this pile of paperwork was being a micromanager, and a cheap one at that.
Pia slumped down in the seat and stared at the Mac. It was powered down and she thought if she turned it on, Berman most likely would know someone had been in his office, and she’d be the prime suspect. She was frustrated and extremely tired. It was now a quarter of four. She decided to take one more tour around the house, come back to the office and look at the papers again, and then leave before Berman woke up.
The lower level yielded nothing. She could see into the wine vault but couldn’t open the door, which had a separate lock. Through the window she saw row after row of bottles but no safe or cabinet or any other out-of-place piece of furniture. The climate-control system hummed along, keeping the room at a steady temperature and humidity. Pia hesitated to go into the garage in case Berman considered it part of the outside and her visit would be recorded. She had a moment of panic when she wondered if Berman had been lying about cameras inside the house being off, but it was much too late to be concerned about that.
She carefully checked the door into the garage. It didn’t seem to be wired. When she opened the door, she kept herself out of view until she could be sure there were no switches on any of the doorjambs. It seemed that the outer doors of the garage were the ones wired to the alarm system. It made sense, considering what was in the garage.
There were three vehicles: a Ford F-150 with a snowplow attachment, a Range Rover, and an Aston Martin. There was also a sailboat on a trailer. The room had two freezers, which on inspection were largely filled with venison and elk meat. One wall was covered with power tools and gardening equipment mounted on hooks. This was a meticulous and well-prepared man, Pia thought.
As she followed that line of reasoning, Pia realized it was unlikely Berman would store sensitive material in plain sight in his home. Why risk having documents lying around at home, no matter how good the security system, when he could leave everything at work? Nano had fences, armed guards, iris scanners, multiple cameras, and who knew what else. Pia sighed. She’d give the paperwork one more look and then cut out.
Pia walked up to the main level of the house. As she passed the small room where Berman kept his TV monitors, a movement caught Pia’s eye on one of the screens. She moved closer and was horrified to see something walking up the steps toward the front door that was barely ten feet from where she was standing. It was the tall and unmistakable figure of Whitney Jones.
Pia did an immediate one-eighty and hurried back toward Berman and the den. As she ran along on her tiptoes, she pulled off the surgical gloves and held them in her hand. In the den, Berman hadn’t moved, and he was still snoring peacefully. Pia imagined Whitney was approaching the front door. Quickly she pulled the den door to without shutting it. By then she could hear the sound of heels on the hardwood floor, so she made her way over to the couch. She plopped herself down and curled up in the corner with Berman’s feet in her lap. She hoped she looked as if she were asleep. Once again her heart was pounding in her chest.
Whitney had walked into the dining room but hadn’t looked in the den. Pia peeked and saw from a display on the TV console that it was 4:42 A.M. Did she always show up that early? Maybe the garage had been wired, after all. Pia knew Whitney would have seen her car in the driveway. As the footfalls receded, she figured Whitney was going to check on the bedroom, the logical place. Pia reached under her short dress and stuffed the exam gloves into her panties. Her heart was thumping so loudly in her ears, she thought Whitney could probably hear it from upstairs.
After what seemed like a half hour, the footsteps returned, louder and faster this time. Whitney hadn’t found Berman in his bed, perhaps she was now worried. After another circuit of the living area, the door to the den opened slowly, and the room was filled with light. Pia breathed more loudly. Now her head was pounding from anxiety, and she felt nauseous. Whitney must have surveyed the scene from the doorway because the door quickly closed and the den was plunged back into darkness.
Pia lay still, thanking her luck in seeing Whitney on the monitor and not having to run into her someplace else in the house, wondering if she had left any evidence of her nocturnal visitation. She figured Whitney was still in the house, and she didn’t relish the idea of lying here in the dark, listening to Zach Berman snore. She needed to grab a couple of hours’ real sleep in her bed. Pia swung her legs over the couch, fumbled for her purse in the dark, and stepped over to the door.
23.
ZACHARY BERMAN’S HOME, BOULDER, COLORADO
THURSDAY, APRIL 25, 2013, 4:45 A.M.
Whitney Jones was sitting at Zachary Berman’s dining-room table, expertly tapping a message on her iPad. She was g
ood at it and often sent more than a hundred texts a day. She heard the door to the den open and close. Whitney was pleased someone was taking the initiative, as she wasn’t sure how to handle the situation. She sensed that someone had appeared in the archway into the dining room and gathered it was Pia, as Berman surely would have announced himself. She further sensed that Pia had entered the room and walked over to her, but she didn’t look up. Whitney was being deliberately passive-aggressive—she sensed her boss’s infatuation with Pia and thought it could only lead to trouble.
“Oh, hi, Miss Jones,” said Pia, genuinely embarrassed despite not having been discovered in flagrante delicto. Pia hoped she was doing as good an acting job as the one she had with Berman, albeit in a completely different role. But still, she felt if what she’d been caught doing was not illegal, it was at least naughty. She was glad it was only being found asleep on the couch first thing in the morning with her boss’s boss, and not wandering around Berman’s house, looking for incriminating evidence of what Nano was up to with the Chinese, as she actually had been doing.
“I thought I heard the door open,” said Pia, waiting for Whitney to react in some way. “And of course I saw the light.”
“One second,” Whitney said, and went on typing rapidly with her thumbs. After a long minute, she looked up with arched eyebrows and addressed Pia. “I’m sorry if I woke you. I was looking for Mr. Berman. Obviously enough, I guess. He has a call to make this morning before certain people leave their offices.”
From Pia’s perspective, Whitney appeared to be completely unperturbed by Pia’s presence. Either she was hiding her feelings and doing an acting job, too, or she really was as cool as they came. It also made Pia wonder what the relationship was between Whitney and Berman. Obviously she had a key to the house.
“It’s still very early, isn’t it?” said Pia, looking around as if to see a clock. “What time is it?” She decided to try to be as nonchalant as Whitney, as if this were no big deal. And it really wasn’t, Pia thought, apart from the fact that Berman was drugged rather than asleep. Pia had no idea if he would suspect anything when he woke up, but the thought of it made her anxious to leave. At the same time, she wanted to stick around to see if Berman was okay, because if a doctor examined him, it might be hard to evade the difficult questions that would almost certainly arise.
“It’s a quarter of five here,” Whitney said, interrupting Pia’s train of thought. “But it’s not that time all over the world.” Whitney looked back to her device as an answering text came in, and she went back to tapping on the keyboard.
Pia imagined that in China it was approaching five P.M., since it was on the opposite side of the world. Perhaps that’s where Berman was calling. It certainly made sense.
“Yes, well, he’s asleep in there,” said Pia, suddenly feeling the need to say something. “We both had rather a lot to drink, I’m sorry to say.” Pia didn’t have to fake feeling tired and slightly hungover. She rarely drank alcohol of any kind.
Whitney finished typing and looked at Pia.
“Don’t worry, Pia, you won’t hear any judgment from me,” she said. “One of the reasons Zachary likes me is my complete discretion. But the call has to be made. Excuse me!”
Then she walked off in the direction of the den. Despite herself and after a moment of indecision, Pia thought it would be inappropriate to leave at that point, so she followed. Whitney went over to Berman and tapped him on the shoulder, but he didn’t wake up. She squatted down and shook him more forcibly while calling out his name. There was still no response. She stood back up, looking down at him. “He’s sleeping like a baby. What on earth were you drinking? He looks like he’s out cold.”
“This,” said Pia, holding up the almost-empty decanter of whiskey. The scent wafting up made her feel sick. She picked up the soiled glasses, including Berman’s tumbler, which she’d washed right after Berman had passed out but had brought back to the den. She was glad she had, because it might look odd that there were no glasses with the whiskey. But only if she was acting guiltily, which Pia was now very afraid she was doing.
“You can leave those for the housekeeper,” said Whitney with a wave of her hand.
“It’s no trouble,” said Pia, who wanted to clean the glass a second time, somewhat like Lady Macbeth washing her hands, in case any residue of the narcotic remained. Before Whitney could protest further, Pia exited the room and went to the kitchen, where she scrubbed the tumbler clean under the hottest water the faucet could provide.
Again, Pia didn’t know whether to stick around to see if Berman woke up or to take her leave, but when she got back to the den, Berman was sitting up, drinking a glass of water. He looked as if he’d been in a bar fight. His eyes were reddened and his hair was sticking straight up in the back.
“How are you feeling?” said Pia. This was a moment of truth. “You went down pretty hard last night.”
“I feel like I’ve been hit in the head with a hammer,” said Berman. He kept his head down, eyes away from the light. “How many whiskeys did I have?”
“Plenty, but you’re okay?” said Pia. Meaning, you don’t feel like you’ve been drugged, do you?
“Yes, I’m fine,” he said. He looked at Pia and tried to smile. “I usually have a good head for that stuff. But don’t worry about me, you should go home.” Now it was his turn to feel embarrassed. Behaving like an inexperienced college kid had not been his plan. “Miss Jones tells me I have an important call to make in a few minutes, so I’d better get myself together. And thank you for coming. I had fun, what I remember of it.”
“I had fun, too,” said Pia. She felt vastly relieved, and she didn’t know whether to go over to Berman and shake his hand or kiss him on the cheek. In the end, she did neither, and thought it was best if she just left before it got more awkward. She waved wanly, made sure she had everything she came with, and walked out of the house.
It was still dark outside, and Pia felt as if she might still be drunk as she uneasily descended the front steps down to the driveway level. Fearful of possibly falling, she hung on to the handrail for dear life. She was exhausted and even a little depressed after all the effort she’d expended for naught. On top of that was the realization that she had probably opened the floodgates as far as Berman was concerned. Up until this evening she’d made it a point to keep Berman and his ardor at arm’s length. Now she had no idea what to expect.
Pia drove back to her apartment with extreme caution, maintaining five miles per hour below the speed limit. She parked her car very carefully and made her way into bed. She looked at the clock. It was five-thirty. Berman was on his call or he had finished it. But what the nature of his business was, Pia was no nearer to finding out than she’d been before showing up at Berman’s house. Before she could think about it too much and feel too disappointed, she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
24.
PIA’S APARTMENT, BOULDER, COLORADO
THURSDAY, APRIL 25, 2013, 10:45 A.M.
Pia awoke with a start. She emerged quickly into consciousness—damn, she thought right away, what time is it? Pia found her phone and was horrified. Although she had expected to sleep for a couple of hours at most, it was ten forty-five. She saw that she had emails and texts from Mariel Spallek asking where she was, and to get in touch with her immediately. And voice mails, too. Pia didn’t need to listen to them to know what Mariel wanted. Not wanting to delay the inevitable, Pia called Mariel, who answered immediately.
“It’s Pia, I’m really sorry, I’m sick. I’ll try and come in after lunchtime, if that’s okay.”
“I guess it’ll have to be,” said Mariel. “What’s wrong with you?” Her question was posed in the same tone an irritated motorist would use to ask a mechanic what was wrong with her car. There was no hint of sympathy or concern. Mariel had been inconvenienced, and she didn’t like it. Pia wasn’t particula
rly surprised by Mariel’s reaction—she, too, would have been frustrated by someone not showing up for work, even though this was the first time Pia had ever called in sick. Although some of Pia’s morning timekeeping could be somewhat erratic, such episodes had always been due to her working to the wee hours of the morning.
“Headache, dizziness, nausea. Basically, I feel like shit.” Pia had chosen her rude syntax on purpose, hoping to cut off conversation.
“Sounds like the same thing Mr. Berman has,” Mariel said, unable to resist the opportunity for a little dig, and suggesting to Pia that she had learned of Pia’s second visit and felt jealous. “I’ll see you at two o’clock if not before.”
Pia was about to ask a question, but Mariel had hung up. Had Berman not made it into the office? she wondered. That seemed unlikely. Pia surmised that he had come in, and Mariel had seen him looking hung over. The few hours’ sleep she had stolen had done Pia a world of good, and she felt almost back to normal.
To help with the process, Pia downed two ibuprofen tablets, drank two glasses of water, and took a shower. As the hot water further revived her, Pia went over her options. Again, she took the position contrary to her own and challenged her concerns as to what she had witnessed over the last few days and asked if there couldn’t be a rational, innocent explanation for all of it. And again, presumably with humans involved, possibly as subjects of experimentation, she couldn’t convince herself there was and that she should do nothing.
Pia decided she needed a sounding board. She first thought of George, but there was too much personally invested, on his side, for that to be an efficient use of her time. Two years previously in medical school, he had been helpful, even if it was his negative energy that Pia sometimes fed off. He’d pointed her in the right direction for the polonium discovery, although he had done so inadvertently. Today if she called, he’d want to talk about his recent visit and what it meant, and how they needed to make better contact, blah, blah, blah. That was the last thing Pia wanted to discuss. Pia truly liked George, even if he was hopelessly conservative. The problem was that she knew she could never be what he thought he needed. She also knew instinctively that he’d oppose her doing any kind of investigation of Nano and would be unable to understand her need to do so.