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working with? Who are you, anyway? What’s your interest in this?”
    She let the driver’s-side door click shut again, fiddled with the car key, still in her hand.
    â€œI’m not budging until I get some answers,” Cochrane said, folding his arms across his chest.
    â€œPaul, you’ve got to trust me.”
    â€œWhy? Who the hell are you? What’s so fucking important about my brother’s work?”
    â€œThat’s just it! I don’t know! I’m trying to find out. Very powerful people are after that information. That’s why Arashi’s involved.”
    â€œWho are you working for?”
    She hesitated a moment. “Myself.”
    â€œBullshit.”
    â€œI’m a freelancer. I sell information to people who pay for it. You’d call it industrial espionage, I suppose.”
    â€œElena, I don’t think there’s a goddamned single word of truth in what you’re telling me.”
    Strangely, she smiled at that. “More than one word, Paul. But you’re right: not all of it’s true.”
    With that, she opened the car door and got out. Cochrane sat there for all of ten seconds, then got out of the car and trotted after her to the smoked-glass double doors of the Calvin Research Center’s entrance. She’s like a snake charmer, he said to himself. And I’m the goddamned snake.
    The center’s director was Jason Tulius, a burly, barrel-chested man with thick white hair and a full white beard fringing his face. His light gray eyes seemed guarded, almost suspicious. Give him an eye patch and he’d look just like an old-time pirate, Cochrane thought. Then he corrected himself: No, he looks more like a tired-out, unhappy Santa Claus.
    â€œIt’s a terrible tragedy,” he said after shaking hands with Sandoval and Cochrane. “A terrible tragedy.”
    Tulius wore a brown tweed jacket over an open-collared pale green shirt. His top-floor office was spacious and airy, with broad windows giving a sweeping view of the hills on the far side of the highway. Instead of sitting at his desk, Tulius directed his visitors to the round table in the far corner of the office. His executive assistant carried in a tray bearing a stainless steel coffee urn, three mugs decorated with the CRC logo, and a plate of muffins.
    â€œMy one vice,” Tulius said, reaching for the mug as the young man who’d brought it in silently left the room. Then he eyed Sandoval and smiled. “Well, one of my two vices.”
    She smiled back at him as he poured steaming coffee into one of the mugs. He offered coffee to her and Cochrane; both shook their heads.
    Cochrane got them down to business. “Ms. Sandoval thinks that Mike was murdered because of the research he was undertaking. Others apparently do, as well.”
    Tulius’s shaggy brows hiked up. “His research? He was working on photosynthesis, just like most of my staff.”
    â€œHe called me a couple of days before he died,” Cochrane said. “He told me that what he was doing will bring him millions. Tens of millions.”
    With a patient sigh, Tulius replied, “Michael was always a… an enthusiast. He was always overly optimistic about his work. Two years ago he started tinkering with genetic engineering, trying to modify certain strains of bacteria to produce a form of oil that could be used as fuel.”
    â€œDidn’t Calvin himself work in that area?” Sandoval asked, surprising Cochrane.
    â€œYes, he did.” Tulius nodded vigorously. “But he never succeeded. Neither did Michael, despite his enthusiasm. After eighteen months with no positive results, I had to order him to give it up.”
    â€œWhat could he have been doing that might be worth tens of millions?” Sandoval asked.
    Tulius took a long sip of coffee from his steaming mug. “I can’t imagine,” he said. “I simply cannot imagine.”
    â€œThere