Dragonfire: A Gulliver Swift Adventure

Classified Information and a Bloodstained Door

Harry Bostridge had it right; Ms. Sums in University Administration was regretful but as adamant as she'd been on the phone. Dr. Caravalho's lab was off-campus, off-limits, the location confidential.

"Why would you waste our time and hers when you knew this before?" Robertson complained as they headed for the street.

"Voice on the phone is one thing," Swift said. "Personal contact is another," whatever he was going to add interrupted by the driver lounging alongside the heavy-duty Cadillac Escalade at the curb—dark FBI business suit, Ray-Bans, chauffeur's cap, expensive black leather gloves.

"Professor Swift?" Mr. Justin Edward Larrabee II would like to have a conversation with him.

"How did Mr. Larrabee know I'd be here?" The mogul was not in the SUV.

"He'll tell you himself." Rear door opened, Gulliver gestured in, Robertson not.

"Either it's the both of us," Swift said, voice a rumble, "or it's 'have a nice day'."

Not how it was supposed to go, the journalist hoisting his JVC to his shoulder to catch Gulliver pivot on his heel. "Wait." An Android was already in a gloved hand, speed-dialed. "Mr. Larrabee, sir."

"You're calling to confirm you've picked him up, I hope," they could hear the billionaire say. "I don't pay you the big bucks you weren't able to find him where my people told you you'd find him; I trust you know that, David."

Swift snatched the phone from the chauffeur. "And I'm pleased to accept your invitation, Justin—except your man here has a problem I bring Lloyd Robertson with me and I'm sorry, I wouldn't feel right, leaving him in the lurch."

"No press."

"I'm not press anymore," the journalist said, leaning in to the cellular in Gulliver's hand, finger still on rec.

"The hell you're not. Hand Dave the phone and get in the car before I decide I don't want to be so magnanimous."

Lloyd got in the car, as did Swift, Dave's passengers speculating as to where the tycoon would be when the Escalade got where it was going: an oak-paneled boardroom on a high floor of Larrabee's office tower downtown? A picturesque New England chapel in which the mogul's murdered son would be laid to rest? A training gym adjacent to the Garden, Larrabee in the ring in Everlast trunks and fluorescent blue Adidas boxing gloves sparring with a rising young middleweight?

None of the above, Justin's driver turning off Park Row onto the Brooklyn Bridge.

"Maybe he's making himself comfortable waiting in your apartment," the first suggestion coming to the archeologist's mind—invalidated when the Escalade began to make its way south on Court Street. "Want to bet he hangs a left at Third?"

"Back to the scene of the crime," were they?

No response from Dave other than a slight uptick at the corners of his mouth as the Caddy hung the left, as predicted.

Scene of the crime it was, the Third Street Bridge over the Gowanus Canal coming into view just beyond the chain link fence surrounding the cement plant. A Kawasaki 450 was leaning on its kickstand in front of the padlocked gate, its rider seated sidesaddle lifting the helmet off his head, shaking the extravagant mane falling out from under.

Justin Edward Larrabee II, of course. Probably not there because he thought the facility represented a potential investment, Robertson guessed, JVC establishing the yard, the bunker, the conveyor belts inclined above.

"Never know where opportunity's going to knock," the developer said, gregarious, undisturbed by the taping.

Were there some significance to here, Gulliver presuming it would have to do with what had happened on the far side of the plant.