The Test

​​

“What do you want to do?”

​

The question hung in the air like the ringing of a distant bell, insistent yet faint. I had been asking myself the same thing for months now, but coming from Dr. Lambert, it felt heavier—more real, more urgent. It wasn’t just a question; it was a challenge.

​

He continued to press.  “You’re failing all of your classes.  Worst of all, you’re failing my class.  What do you want me to tell your father?”

​

Dr. Lambert’s office was a curious contradiction. For a man whose name echoed through academic circles, the space was understated to the point of austerity. A battered wooden desk and filing cabinets competed for space with books—endless books. They sprawled across the shelves, spilled onto the desk, and even leaned in precarious stacks on the floor. Titles like Clifford’s Routes and Appadurai’s Modernity at Large loomed over me, accusing in their uncracked spines.  I knew them by their titles:  they were at the top of the reading list for his freshman level course.  I hadn’t read any of them.

​

Lambert himself was standing beside his desk, exuding an easy authority that made the room feel smaller. At forty-something, he had the athletic build of someone who hadn’t yet surrendered to age. Aside from his Godzilla-like honker, he was probably quite handsome.  At least that’s what most of the co-eds said about him.  His short dark hair had a natural broccoli curl, reminiscent of all of those Greek statues throwing a discus or a javelin. 

​

 His tailored tweed jacket and dark jeans gave him the air of a man who didn’t need to try too hard to be cool—he just was. Even his Birkenstocks, which should have looked ridiculous, seemed to carry the weight of a cultural critique I couldn’t quite grasp. He even made those things look cool.

​

This wasn’t my first time in his office.  In fact I was a regular visitor as of late. Since I was technically an anthropology major with a GPA at subterranean levels, I was about to get the lecture again.  Lambert was my advisor, and I was about to get advised real good.

​

“You’re not even trying, Brian,” he said, his sky-blue eyes fixing on me with an intensity that made me want to squirm.  His frameless glasses perched delicately on his Roman nose, giving him the look of a philosopher poised to deliver some life-altering truth. 

​

“How do you know that?” I shot back, gesturing vaguely at the nearest stack of books. “How do you know they’re right?”

​

Lambert tilted his head, amused or annoyed—it was hard to tell. With a grace that belied his height, he plucked a book from the top shelf. “This one,” he said, holding it up for me to see. Culture and Truth: The Remaking of Social Analysis.​  He turned the book in his hands, his fingers brushing the edges of the pages with something like reverence. “Renato Rosaldo,” he began, his voice softening, “a brilliant scholar who wrote this in the shadow of personal tragedy. It’s a cornerstone of modern anthropology.”

​

“Sounds heavy,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “Emotionally, I mean.”

​

Lambert gave a wry smile, but the humor didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It is. But it’s also revolutionary. It redefined how we think about objectivity in our field. Rosaldo argued that subjectivity isn’t a flaw; it’s inevitable. To embrace it is to understand the human condition more fully.”

​

“That sounds… mushy,” I said, trying for a grin.

​

“Why are you here, Brian?” His voice was calm, but the weight behind the question was undeniable. “Why anthropology?”

​

“Honestly? I thought it would be an easy A.”

​

He didn’t laugh. He used to laugh at my jokes, but today he looked at me like I was a puzzle he was tired of solving. “Your father believes you've got potential.  He pulled a lot of strings to get you into this program,” he said. “And you’re doing everything you can to prove him wrong. Why?”

​

I shrugged, suddenly fascinated by the scuff marks on the floor. “I guess I’m looking for something solid. All this talk about subjectivity just doesn’t feel… real.  I want to do something, not just read about it.”

​

Lambert stretched one leg comfortably across the edge of his desk as he sat on top, studying me over the rim of his glasses. The silence stretched until it became unbearable. He glanced to his left, as though he were listening to hidden voices behind the bookshelf.  When his focus came back to me, the folds of skin under his eyes were twitching. “What if I gave you a chance to prove yourself?” he said finally.

​

I straightened, wary but intrigued. “What kind of chance?”

​

“A real-world test. Fieldwork, if you will.” His voice dropped, conspiratorial. “You complete the task I assign you, exactly as I instruct, and I’ll revise your final grade to a C minus. Do we have a deal?”

​

“What’s the catch?”

​

“The catch is,” he said, leaning forward, “you’ll have to take it seriously. No shortcuts, no excuses. And it might even be a little dangerous.”

​

Dangerous. The word lingered, crackling with potential energy. For the first time in months, I felt a flicker of something I hadn’t expected: curiosity.

​

“I’m in,” I said.  It sounded better than Rosaldo.

​

Lambert’s smile was slow and deliberate. “Good. Let’s see if you’re ready to become the man your father would be proud of.”

 

 

 

***********************

 

 

I pulled up to the docks under a bruised sky, the air thick with salt and the faint tang of rust. The Jaguar XJR stood out like a brand new television at a yard sale, its polished surface gleaming under a sputtering streetlight. Amber’s car might as well have had a neon sign screaming, "Dumb rich kids." A group of longshoremen shuffled by, their eyes raking over the car and then us, as if we were a misplaced exhibit in a museum.

​

Amber’s face bore all the hallmarks of sucking prunes.  “Why are we here?” she asked. Her voice was thick with impatience.

​

“I need to pick up a box.  It’s called a chuen hup. Basically, it's a Chinese candy box, made of wood.  I guess it dates back to the Ming Dynasty.” I answered.

​

Amber threw the visor down and flipped open the mirror, checking her lipstick.  “So what’s in the box?”

​

“Lambert wouldn’t tell me.”

​

After a generous slather of lip moisturizer, Amber slapped the mirror shut.  “I heard he left his wife and is dating a sophomore.”

​

“I heard he drives a Ferrari,” added Tommy from the back seat, scanning the parking lot as if he would find it parked among work trucks and rusted out hatchbacks.

​

“Did Lambert say we’d be in any danger?” Martin asked from the back seat, his voice taut. He craned his neck, his dark, perpetually disheveled hair brushing against the headrest as he scanned the surroundings. His face, pale and drawn in the dim light, reflected the tension I felt but refused to show.

​

“I’ll go in with Tommy,” I said, glancing at him over my shoulder. “You and Amber stay with the car.”

 

Martin’s frown deepened. “That’s not reassuring.”

​

“You know my Mandarin’s a bit rusty,” Tommy piped up from the back, his voice betraying uncertainty.

​

I cracked the door open and shot him a look. “Yeah, well, mine is nonexistent. Let’s go.”

​

Amber leaned over the center console, her hand brushing the steering wheel as she stared at me with those big, dramatic eyes she’d mastered for any occasion. “Be careful, Brian,” she said, her concern genuine, even if her eyelashes weren’t.

​

I smirked, trying to play it cool. “I will. Try to keep your hands off of Martin while I’m gone.”

​

Martin groaned, sinking further into the plush leather.

​

“Gross, Brian.”  Amber rolled her eyes, but there was a faint smile as I closed the door. The Jaguar’s sleek frame sparkled under the streetlight, a stark contrast to the rusted, decades-old vehicles surrounding it.

​

“That won’t be uncomfortable at all,” Tommy muttered as we followed the cement path toward the docks.

​

“Martin needs to loosen up,” I replied. “He needed this outing as much as I do.”

​

“He’s not the one failing all his classes.” Tommy’s tone was cutting, but he followed me without further protest.

​

The cracked cement path led us to a cluster of Quonset huts shrouded in fog. The faint sound of waves slapping against the pylons mixed with the distant clang of a buoy, creating an uneasy soundtrack.  A blend of thick, salty air, mixed with oil and a hint of decomposing organic material assaulted my lungs. We stopped in front of a warehouse marked R-27. The faded tin siding was streaked with rust, and its low-arched roof disappeared into the mist above.  This definitely was not the yacht club.

​

“This is it,” I said, checking my handwritten notes.

​

I knocked, the sound echoing dully against the metal. The clang from a distant bell, perhaps a harbor buoy echoed in the distance as we stared at the imposing door.

​

The wait stretched long enough for doubt to creep in. “You’re gonna do great, Tommy,” I said, filling the silence with words I barely believed.

​

Finally, the door creaked open. A man’s face appeared, half-hidden behind a mop of greasy hair. His dark eyes glistened with suspicion as they flicked between us.

​

“Who’s he?” he asked, nodding toward Tommy. His thick accent stretched the words like rubber bands.

​

“I don’t speak Mandarin,” I said.

​

“I’m speaking English, dumbass,” he snapped.

​

“Is that what that is?”

​

The door swung wider, and a gun barrel filled the space between us. “You funny college boy. You think you can do what you like?”

 

*************************

 

The warehouse swallowed us in darkness, the air thick with the scent of oil and damp wood. Shadows danced on the walls, cast by the faint glow of work lamps. Rows of crates loomed like silent sentinels, and somewhere deeper in, men worked methodically, their movements precise and deliberate as they unpacked small packages from a container.

​

“What have you gotten me into, Brian?” Tommy hissed, his voice barely audible as we followed the path carved between the crates.

​

The gunman jabbed my shoulder, directing us toward a metal staircase that climbed to a second-floor office. “Up there,” he barked. “Go in. Sit down.”

​

The office was grimy, the large glass window overlooking the warehouse streaked with grease and grime. A battered desk stood beneath it, flanked by a stack of heavy wooden containers.  Somewhere under a thick layer of grime, dark colored cheap linoleum tiles covered the floor surface, peeking out at intermittent intervals between floor debris and boxes.  Tommy and I sank into the mismatched chairs in front of the desk, the air thick with the smell of cigarettes and stale sweat.

​

The door behind us opened soundlessly. A man entered, his movements smooth, almost predatory. His Asian features were framed with bleach-blond hair and a face that was both handsome and unnerving. Stylish jeans and a leather jacket completed his look, but it was the cold intelligence in his eyes that made my stomach knot.

​

“Lambert told me his students were smart,” he said, his voice low and mocking. “You didn’t follow his instructions.”

​

“I brought Tommy to translate,” I said quickly.

​

His gaze sharpened. “And the two others in the car?”

​

I hesitated, the truth suddenly feeling like a terrible idea. “My girlfriend and my roommate,” I admitted.

 

“So is this just another party for you?”

​

Wisely, I kept my mouth shut.  The last time I made a comment, I ended up with a gun in my face.

​

The man sighed, reaching into his jacket. He pulled out a pistol, its boxy frame unmistakably real. It had a snub nose and a very large magazine, perhaps 30 rounds or more.  It looked like a Mac10, just like the ones in the movies.  The metal frame stock was folded over the butt of the gun, making it appear more like a pistol.  Its snub-nose barrel was threaded to receive a suppressor. 

​

He placed it on the desk and spun it lazily, the barrel carving circles in the grime. When it stopped, it was pointed at Tommy.

​

“I could kill your friend,” he said conversationally, lifting the gun and sighting it on Tommy before swinging it toward me. “Then kill you.”

​

My hands went up, sweat trickling down my temple.

​

With a flick of his wrist, he holstered his weapon and produced a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket, tapping the box to cough out a single, and bringing it to his lips.  With his free hand, he snapped open a silver lighter and sparked a flame, drawing a deep drag. 

​

He savored it for a moment, then offered a long puff of smoke toward me, right into my face. 

​

The man smiled, a predator’s grin. “But then I’d have to explain why the son of the third-richest man in America ended up dead in my warehouse. That’s a hassle I don’t need.”

​

He leaned back, his gaze boring into mine. “Tell Lambert we’re done. No shipment. No deal. Now get out.”

 

 

 

*********************

 

 

 

My hands were still shaking as I keyed open the door to my dorm room. 

 

“Why do you think he didn’t make good on his promise, and… you know?” Martin asked, trailing in behind me. 

 

“My father maybe.  He made mention of him, but… honestly, I don’t know.” 

 

“You should have followed Lambert’s instructions,” he said.  His eyes locked onto mine. 

 

“Tommy?”

 

His face soured.  “You’ve burned that bridge, I’m afraid.”

 

I remained silent.  He was right, but I could never admit it. Technically, Martin was an athlete on a tennis scholarship, but was more brain than brawn, the kind of guy who made professors look average.

 

After a pause, I offered hopefully, “Amber doesn’t know.”

 

Martin shook his head.  “I wouldn’t be so sure. Girls have an intuition, or so I hear. “

 

I shook my head. 

 

“Look Brian, it’s your life.”  He sorted several books on the desk, found the one he was looking for and stuffed it into his backpack.  “I’ve got work to do.”

 

He headed for the door. 

 

“Martin?” I asked as he stepped into the hallway.

 

He stopped and turned to face me.  He face was impassive, unreadable. I didn’t see anger, only disappointment.

 

“Thanks.” I muttered with my head down.

 

Martin nodded.  “Take my advice,” he said in a low tone.  “Anyway, I’ll be at the lab, see you later.”  With that, he closed the door.  I could hear his footsteps as he made his way down the hallway.

 

After a long moment, certain that he was gone, I plopped heavily onto my bed.  My dorm room felt so small and stagnant. A bed and a desk on each side of the room.  Two closets, one at the foot of each bed.  The flooring was a large bland industrial pattern tile that was both hideously ugly nearly indestructible.  My eyes raked over the room, seeing nothing worth looking at. My wall was covered with posters of Jerry Rice and Deion Sanders -my favorite NFL players from my favorite team, which stood proudly beside Sports Illustrated swimsuit models. Instead, I replayed the scene from the evening’s events over and over in my mind.  The spinning gun.  The blond man’s smile.  His cigarette smoke in my face. 

 

A knock on the door broke me out of my trance.

 

“It’s open.”

 

The door creaked, but no one stepped in.  I stood, walked to the door and opened it fully.   A teenager stood in the hall.  He was wearing a plaid flannel shirt, khaki cargo pants and holding a skate board under his right arm.  When I opened the door, he nodded toward me with his chin.

 

“Wrong room, you want 112, two doors down,” I said.

 

“You Frost?”

 

“I am.”

 

“Then I’m in the right place.”

 

“Who are you?”

 

“Can I come in?”

 

I walked back to the desk and pulled out a chair and sat down.  He followed me into the small dorm room and closed the door behind him.

 

“So you got to meet Chin?” he asked, dropping his skateboard on the tile floor. 

 

“Whose Chin?”

 

He studied the room like he was a realtor making an assessment. “Blond hair.  Smokes a pack a minute,” he said, smiling.   “He also likes to carry a Mac10.”

 

My eyes jerked to lock on with his. “Who are you?” I asked. 

 

“Something you’re running out of these days.  A friend.” 

 

I studied him carefully.  His black Chuck Taylors peered out from the cuff of his cargo pants.  His hair was brown, stringy and messy.  It looked like he hadn’t washed it for a week.  “I don’t know you,” I said.

 

He flipped the skateboard back up off the floor into his hand.  The movement was smooth, almost effortless.  “You shred?” he asked.

 

“I’ve got a board.”

 

“We should go.”

 

“It’s late, and I’m tired,” I said.

 

He wasn’t listening.  He was in my closet, pulling open the doors and sorting through an assortment of gear.  He reached into a pile of dirty laundry and produced my board, a Kryptonics classic with a skull and crossbones paint scheme. 

 

“What are you doing?” I asked.

 

He was examining my board, pulling on the trucks, spinning the wheels.  “Not bad,” he said. He dropped his board again and began playing it back and forth under his foot. “It’ll clear your head.”

 

I didn’t respond. 

 

“Suit yourself, man.”

 

“I said I don’t know you and I’m tired. What do you need?”

 

He flipped my board under his other foot and began switching feet, going from board to board, like a musician playing an instrument. 

 

“Me?” he said looking at me and not his footwork.  “I don’t need a thing.”  He flipped my board into the air and caught it.  “But you,” he said pointing at me with the nose of my board. “You, on the other hand need a small box that you need to give to Professor Lambert, which you do not currently possess.”

 

I was rolling a pencil on my desk and stopped.  I studied his face.  He returned my stare with a smirk.  “How do you know that?” I said, standing to my feet.

 

 He paused the motion at his feet and gave me a look.  “Dan Welker, FBI.  We’ve been following Lambert for a while now.”

 

“FBI?” I asked, half laughing.  “You look like you’re twelve.”

 

“I did my undergrad at Georgetown.  I got my law degree from Duke.  I’ve been with the Bureau three years now.”

 

“Damn.  Just when I thought this day couldn’t get any better.”

 

He approached my desk and propped himself up, facing me. “Look Brian, I know you’re in trouble academically.  You need this class or your done.  Am I right?”

 

I didn’t respond.

 

“All I need is for you to go back and get that box.”

 

My eyes shot upward and locked onto his. “Go back?  To Chin, or whoever he is?  He told me to never come back.”

 

“That’s a risk I’ll have to take,” he said.

 

“With my life?”

 

“What if I could ensure your satisfactory completion of all your courses this semester?”  His white teeth flashed in a bright smile.  He reminded me of the surfer dudes I would see on the weekends at the beach. “I can’t guarantee you won’t screw it up next semester, but we’re taking this one step at time.”

 

“You could guarantee I would pass all of my classes?”

 

“One hundred percent.  Guarantee that is.  Your grades would meet the minimum requirement to stay enrolled in your program.”

 

I glanced out the window.  It was dark and there was little activity outside.  I shook my head.

 

“Let me show you something.”  He unsnapped the right thigh pocket of his cargo pants and produced a mini recorder.   He held it up and pressed play.

 

The sound was scratchy and muffled, like someone was breathing heavily into a coffee can.  A voice filled the recording.  It was a smooth, deep voice with a hint of a New England accent.  “You need me more than I need you,” he said.

 

Another voice clucked, presumably the person on the other end of the phone call.  “Your kid screwed the deal.  He brought another party.  Three other parties, actually.  I was a few seconds away from placing an order for a refrigeration unit –“ 

 

Welker clicked the pause button. “You know what that is?” he asked.

 

I shook my head, no.

 

“It’s Chin’s own special method of disposing bodies.  It usually involves cement and a trip out to sea.”

 

He pressed play again.  The smooth voice responded.  “So buy the unit.  I don’t care.  I don’t need him.”

 

“You forget our contract?  Do I need to send my lawyer to your office to remind you of the terms?”

 

That gave the smooth voiced one pause.  I could hear his breath again.  It was weighty, as if he had climbed a set of stairs.  “I’ll get another.”

 

“Make it quick.” 

 

With those final words, the line went dead.  The other party had hung up.

 

Welker dropped the mini- recorder in his cargo pocket and folded his arms.  “I estimate you’ve got about twelve hours for Chin to process the current shipment.  He’s gonna torch the warehouse and disappear again.   We can’t let that happen.” 

 

“What’s in the box?” I asked.

 

Welker shrugged.  “Something important enough for Uncle Sam to become interested.”

 

“No way,” I said forcefully. “I’ll take the F.”

 

He nodded, considering my words.  “Yeah, you’re right.  It’s dangerous and your old man will probably understand when you drop out.” He spoke to the door, as though he were thinking out loud.

 

“All right Frost, I’ll just talk to the next kid Lambert gets to do the pick-up.  Just do me a favor and don’t mention our little conversation to Lambert.  I can make sure you fail all your classes just as easily as I can guarantee passing.  Who knows, maybe the next kid will follow directions a little better than you.” 

 

He pushed off my desk and kicked his board into his hand again.  “Later,” he said and walked out the door.

 

“Prick.”

 

 

*******************

 

 

I arrived at Amber’s dorm just after noon two days later.  Monday was our day to “study” together.  The building had been remodeled from its original footprint, adding a new wing to accommodate growing enrollment.   Amber’s room was in the new wing.

​

 As I trailed around a large tree, the centerpiece of the greenspace in the quad, I noticed a fleet of police cars, marked and unmarked, lining the driveway on the other side. 

 

A blond co-ed was coming out the front door, a light blue backpack slung over her shoulder.

 

“What’s all this?” I asked as I held open the door for her.

 

“Some girl crashed her car,” she said with a shrug. 

 

I climbed the stairs to Amber’s floor, and made my way past the RA’s door.  Wendy Wardlaw was a somewhat attractive junior with blond hair and big eyes.  Her face bore the perpetual expression of shock, probably because of her large eyes.  I waved to her as I breezed down the hallway to Amber’s room.   Her door was open so I just walked in.

 

“Who’s the chick who crashed –“

 

Her room was unoccupied.  Amber’s bed was unmade, her sheets pulled to one side, laying partly on the floor.  No roommates, no Amber.    That was weird.  I followed my footsteps back to the RA. 

 

“Have you seen Amber?”  I asked.

 

Wendy looked surprised. “They didn’t tell you?” she asked. 

 

“Tell me?”

 

She stepped back into her room and started to close the door.  “Talk to them,” she said, pointing toward the end of the hallway, then closed her door in my face.

 

I looked in the direction she had indicated.  At the far end of the hallway, two female police officers were speaking with a group of girls in hushed tones.  The cops had little notepads and were scribbling as a large group of women and a few men, stood huddled around them. 

 

Maybe I walked, maybe I ran.  Amber was not among the crowd.  Somehow I found myself breathlessly pushing my way through the group and finding one of the female officers.  I put myself in front of her face, her gold-colored nametag read Gonzales.  She was about five feet six inches tall and probably weighed in at a buck and quarter with her belt and gun. 

 

“What happened to Amber?” I blurted, positioning myself between Gonzales and the girl she was interviewing.

 

“Who are you?” asked Officer Gonzales.

 

“I’m Brian, Amber’s boyfriend.” 

 

She gave me a hard look.  “Amber’s dead.”  She continued to study me, then added, “I’m sorry,” almost as an afterthought. 

 

Her words were not registering in my brain.  “No, you don’t understand.  Amber Way, she’s the daughter of the fashion designer and the model.  Her dorm room was open, and I can’t –“

 

Gonzales interrupted me.  “I’m going to need to get your contact information.  The detectives are going to want to speak to you.”

 

“Detectives?”

 

A shriek engulfed the dormitory and I turned to see Amber’s fashion designer father standing in the hallway in the midst of the gaggle, speaking to the other female officer.  “Noooooo! Noooooo!”  His face was pasty pale and his hands were reaching out over the head of the other female officer.  It was as if he could just make it to Amber’s room and he would find her there. 

 

I had only met him once, but instinctively I began moving toward him.  “Salvatore!”

 

His eyes jerked in my direction. “You!” His expression melted from shock to hostile.  “It’s all your fault!” He was struggling to break free from the young officer’s grip.  He was swinging his arms, as if he could swim through the crowd to get to me.

 

I felt a strong grip on my shoulder, spinning me around and moving me in the opposite direction.  It was Gonzales.  She was stronger than she looked.  “Let’s go talk to the detective.  I think now would be a good time for that.”

 

 

 

**********************

 

 

The dean’s office was smaller than I had expected, probably a file cabinet’s width larger than Lambert’s.  It was crowded too.   Where officer Gonzales’ tiny frame barely covered the small chair, the chief detective filled his chair easily with his girth.  It had taken my father’s lawyer under thirty minutes to get to campus.  He had arrived just in time to round out the four corners. 

 

The detective, Reinholdt, was a serious guy with serious B.O.  With his jacket removed, one could spot the stains on his armpits from across the room.  Every time he raised his hand to gesture, the aroma wafted about the small office.  I think the smell was on its third lap. 

 

“So you haven’t seen her since Saturday?” Reinholdt asked.  He looked like he probably played football in college.  A once solid build betrayed by time, now overtaken by a thick layer of mush, especially around his middle.   Still, his arms were the size of a tree trunk.

 

“That’s correct.” I answered.

 

“Where?”

 

I glanced at my father’s attorney, Mr. Raymond Wray.  He nodded slightly.

 

“We went to the beach.  She asked me to drive, as usual.  When we came back to campus, I parked in the garage, then I walked back to my dorm.”

 

Lambert made a point of flipping through his notes, licking his thick index finger and pulling at the pages. 

 

“Are you sure you went to the beach?” he asked.

 

“I’m sure.”

 

“That’s interesting.  Amber’s father told me that Amber called him late Saturday night and mentioned an excursion with you and two other boys out to the docks.   She claims that you were very scared after you came out  of the building. She claims it was for some meeting with a Chinese importer.”

 

I looked at Ray who was shaking his head.

 

“I haven’t had a chance to speak with my attorney yet.”

 

“Okay, let’s move away from where you were. Do you usually drive her car?” the detective asked.

 

“She’s not a very good driver," I explained casually.  "This is her third one since she had gotten her license.”

 

Ray Wray, was making a slicing gesture across his throat.

 

“How did she drive?” asked Reinholdt.  “The car that is.”

 

“Fine.” I answered.  “It’s less than a year old and it’s got the new –“

 

Ray cut in.  “How is this relevant, detective?”

 

Reinholdt leaned back in the wooden chair that creaked like a screen door after the thaw.  He gave Ray a hard look.   “It’s relevant because we believe this might not have been an accident.  We’re still pulling her car apart piece by piece, but preliminary investigation indicates some type of foul play.”

 

I gave Ray a look that exposed my ignorance. 

 

“Can you tell us what happened then?” he asked.  He flipped his thousand dollar lapel over his two hundred dollar tie.

 

Reinholdt was still leaning back in the chair, testing its tolerances to the maximum.  “Amber was attempting to park on the fourth floor of a downtown parking garage late last night.  Where she had come from and where she was going we’re still trying to piece together.  Either her accelerator got stuck, or she had help plowing through a cement barrier and doing a swan dive out and over the parking garage into a tree, four stories below.”

 

Ray shook his head.  “I’m sorry Brian.”

 

I nodded.  I had not heard that piece.  I looked up at the detective.  “Can I see her?”

 

“Look kid,” he said, leaning forward.  His neck stretching his already loosened tie across his loosened collar.  “You don’t want to do that.  The car caught on fire after it collided with the ground.  We’ve got a shrink with her father now.  We don’t even want him to see her.  Believe me, it’s pretty bad.”

 

So far Gonzales had been a silent witness.  I don’t know how she knew, but somehow she had gotten a message from someone outside the office.  “Detective Reinholdt,” she said softly.  “We have another development.”   She passed a piece of paper to the detective.

 

He flipped open the note and read it silently, testing the chair once again.   

 

“Do you know Tommy Shien?” he asked looking at me with dumb eyes.

 

I looked at Ray Wray who shrugged.  I turned back to Reinholdt.

 

“Ah, yeah, he’s in my Anthro class with Professor Lambert.”

 

“Did he happen to be in the car with you and Amber when you went to the docks?”

 

I glanced toward Ray. 

 

“I think we need to table this conversation until I have a chance to confer with my client,” he said.

 

Reinholdt shrugged.  “Suit yourself.  But I think you should know he’s dead.”

 

“What?”

 

“He took a header off a fifth floor balcony last night.  Forensics will run a tox screen and we can get a better picture once the results come in.  Eye witnesses claim that he had been drinking and wandered off the balcony.”

 

“Martin!” I whispered out loud.

 

“Who?”

 

“Martin Carlisle, my roommate.  He was with us too.”

 

Reinhold remained perfectly still.  The only thing moving was his eyebrows.  “With… us?”

 

Ray Wray jumped in.  “Look detective, I would like to know the status of my client.  Is he a witness or a suspect?”

 

Reinhold shot a sideways glance at the lawyer.  “He’s a little of both until we can sort this out.”

 

“Then we are done here,” said Ray.  “If you want to question my client further, we will do it in a private setting and not without my presence.”

 

“Suit yourself, hotshot.  We’ll be in touch,” said Reinholdt.   Looking at me, he said, “I would keep a low profile in the meantime.”

 

 

********************

 

 

 

I found Martin outside the physics building, his home away from home.  He was sitting on the

stone stairs.  Paramedics had come filtering through the door pushing a stretcher just as I arrived.  A crowd of students had gathered around to see who it was.

 

I sat down next to Martin and waited for the crowd to thin.  “What happened?” I whispered.

 

“I switched my lab slot with him.”  He shook his head.  “That should have been me.”

 

I nodded, still processing all of the information.  “How did this happen?”

 

“There was an electrical anomaly.  He was electrocuted.”

 

“Damn.”

 

“The thing is, it was a low voltage test.  This never should have happened.”

 

“Martin,” I said seriously. “We have to go. Now.”

 

“Brian, I really cannot –“

 

I cut him off.  “Tommy and Amber are dead too. The man at the docks is tying up loose ends and that leaves only you and me.”

 

“Wait,” he said, holding up his hands.  “Both Amber and Tommy are dead?  How?”

 

“The police are saying Amber accidentally drove her car off a parking garage downtown.  They say Tommy was drunk and fell off a high rise balcony.”

 

“Tommy never drinks to excess,” he observed.

 

“I know.”

 

Scanning the quad, I realized the crowd was now gone and we were the only ones there.  The buildings around us appeared dark and foreboding, even though it was barely midday.   

 

I nodded, frantically searching the corner shadows enveloping the brick walls surrounding us. 

 

“Look Martin, we don’t have time, we need you to leave this place.”

 

“Brian, you know I can’t leave.  I have too much –“

 

Martin stopped in mid-sentence. His face melted, whiter than a bowl of cream of wheat. 

 

I turned around in time to see one of Chin’s guys approaching us.  He was wearing a leather jacket and smoking one of those Chinese-brand cigarettes.  We stood up frozen as he approached.  We could run inside the building, but he would only shoot us in the back.

 

“The place is crawling with cops,” he said quietly.  “Let’s go.”

 

I looked down to see the barrel of gun.  I couldn’t tell a Beretta from Colt, so I couldn’t identify the make.  All I knew was that it was large, and black.   He motioned for us to keep walking.

 

“What have you done, Brian?” Martin’s face registered with shock and betrayal.

 

“I didn’t do this.” I answered.

 

“Come on boys, we can chat later.”  Chin’s guy was prodding us from behind.  “There’s a car waiting in the lot up ahead.  Get in the back,” he ordered.

 

We walked slowly toward our destiny.  I could tell Martin was furious. 

 

My mind flashed back to Lambert’s class where we had watched a movie about genocide.  Lambert did an entire lecture about the long walk to the executioner.  I wish I had taken better notes. 

 

We moved between the buildings slowly.  There was nobody else around us, almost as if the campus was deserted. The cement path opened up to green space.  At the far end was a parking lot.  There, a black Mercedes parked illegally in a fire lane was waiting.

 

“Martin, I’m sorry.”

 

Martin remained silent and kept his pace. 

 

We crossed the small lot and approached the car when a door popped open in the back.  The guy behind us jammed the gun into my ribs.  “Get in,” he ordered.

 

I reached for the door when I felt a swish of motion behind me.  I turned to see the black gun go flying and the guy holding it lying flat out on the ground.  Dan Welker was standing over him with his skateboard in hand.  On the other side of the Mercedes was a female that I recognized.  The co-ed walking out of Amber’s dorm.  She was firmly planted in a firing stance, pointing her weapon at whoever was in the back seat of the car.

 

Eventually, blond hair emerged from the back seat.  Mr. Chin came out from the car with his hands in the air.

 

 

***********************

 

 

“What do you want to do?”

 

My father was a busy man, so I didn’t want to waste his time.

 

“I think I’m gonna travel.  Europe, maybe Scotland.”

 

“And then?”

 

I shrugged.  “Maybe the French Foreign Legion,” I said sarcastically. 

 

My father scowled. “You know how much it took to build this company?” he asked, admiring the décor in his designer office. 

 

I looked where he was looking.  Wood paneled walls, tastefully lined with shelves for all of his trophies. Original sculptures in bronze and stone graced the entire landscape like trophies.  A Venus here, an Apollo there.  I glanced from sculpture to sculpture.    Some were purchased, most were gifts. 

 

“I had a gut feeling that my technology was good.  Even when others doubted me, I believed.  I believed in my ideas and I believed in myself,” he said.

 

“I can’t do this any longer, dad.”

 

“Sure you can, you just don’t want to.”

 

He always looked great, wearing a dark blue suit with a subtle blue tie, one shade darker. 

 

“Did the FBI talk to you?” I asked, getting the attention off of me.  “I don’t understand why they were tracking Lambert.”

 

“I guess we will never know.  Ray said that the police found Lambert dead too.  It looks like it was suicide.  At least that’s the official version.”

 

The weight of the news was like another brick added to the ton I was already carrying. 

I studied his office again when a flash of gold caught my eye.  I stood up and walked to its source on top of the credenza. 

 

I moved closer to the credenza to get a better look. “Where did you get this?” I asked, pointing to a small box resembling the one Lambert instructed me to pick up from Chin. 

 

My father turned to see where I was pointing.  “Oh that?”  he said, swiping the air like he was shooing flies off a pie.  “The university gifted that to me last year after my rather large donation.”

 

I picked up the piece, about the size of a music box.  It was made of some type of exotic wood, light brown with dark tiger stripes.  An intricate carving of a dragon with its wings flared and an open mouth ready to spew fire that danced menacingly on the lid. 

 

“It’s called a  chuen hup.  It’s a Chinese candy box dating back to the Ming Dynasty,” he explained.

 

The piece was solid and heavy.  “What’s inside?” I asked.

 

“Nothing,” replied my father.  “It was originally built to be used to hold candy.  Now, it’s just a decoration piece.”

 

I brushed my fingers over the lid.  The carving gave a three dimensional appearance to the dragon.  I felt a protrusion and saw that the eye of the dragon was raised from the surface of the carving.  I reached for a pen from my father’s desk and using the ballpoint, I pushed on the dragon’s eye.  I heard a small pop, and something opened in the back side of the lid.

 

“What in the world…”  My father stood and came closer to investigate.

It was a wooden tray, about the size of a stick of gum, and maybe just a few millimeters thicker. 

 

Gently, I pulled a wooden tray out of the lid of the box.  On it was a miniature transistor and electronic components so tiny, it would take a magnifying glass to see all the connections.

 

I removed the electronics from the tray. 

 

“Is this your technology?” I asked, holding the piece up.

 

Now it was my father’s turn to get pale.  My father reached for the box, then gawked at it in silence. 

 

“That’s been sitting here in my office for over a year…”  he began, studying the lid.  “I was wondering why we were losing contract bids.” 

 

I made my way to the door. My father was still holding the open candy box when I found the handle.

 

He looked up to make eye contact one last time.  “If you leave now Brian, you will never have a place in this company.”

 

I nodded in his direction.  “I’ll call you from Europe.”

 

I left my father in silence, still staring at the chuen hup with a bewildered expression on his face.  Like me, all of his confidence had left him.