Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 62262 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 311(@200wpm)___ 249(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62262 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 311(@200wpm)___ 249(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
A man with a red beard chimed in, “Can you imagine the implications? You could custom-build the world’s most powerful superhero.”
“Or totally unstoppable supervillain,” Sam said, which made everyone pause and look at him. “Just saying.” Since everyone was still staring, he asked, “So, you don’t know if Dr. Mercanti was close to some kind of big breakthrough?”
“Highly doubtful,” Silverton snapped.
He bristled when the guy with the beard added, “He was a genius though, smarter than any of us. If anyone could do it, it’d be him.”
Sam was full of questions. “What about the rest of his work, aside from the journal? I know his lab burned down, but there must have been computer backups.”
Beard guy shook his head. “Mercanti was paranoid and totally convinced people were out to get him. That’s why he worked alone, and he didn’t use a computer for fear of getting hacked. He did everything old school, with pen and paper.”
“And then he died in that lab fire,” Sam reminded him, “so maybe someone really was out to get him.”
“Even though I’m sure Mercanti was spinning his wheels, I’d like to get a look at that journal,” Silverton told me.
“Of course. File a requisition, and I’ll initiate the transfer,” I said, as I collected the photocopies and returned them to the envelope.
Silverton nodded. “I’ll do that. Not that I expect it to contain anything useful, mind you. Call it professional curiosity.”
We headed for the door, and once we were outside, Sam asked, “Do we still need to authenticate the journal, even if it’s going to get transferred out of the archives?”
“I think we should. Until the transfer is complete, it’s my responsibility.”
“How long does it take to requisition something?”
“Weeks, probably. Everything at SPAM moves at a glacier’s pace,” I said. “I asked for some toner for my printer last week and was told it would be sent downstairs in fourteen to twenty-one business days.”
“That’s ridiculous. I’ll snag some for you when we get back. Before that though, I have an idea. There’s one more person who might recognize Mercanti’s handwriting. His son is a bigshot CEO, and he works about five blocks from here.”
“How do you know that?”
“Remember when I told you I looked up Mercanti online? Most of the articles I read mentioned his wildly successful son.”
“Do you think he’d take the time to meet with us?”
Sam shrugged. “Doesn’t hurt to ask.”
The skyscraper that housed Synergenics Technologies was the exact opposite of SPAM’s building. It was flashy and modern, clearly meant to impress. As we walked through the cavernous white marble lobby with its giant modern art sculpture, I whispered to Sam, “Do you think that’s a Picasso?”
“Probably.”
He looked mildly disgusted, so I asked, “That doesn’t impress you?”
“I think it’s gross when one person accumulates as much wealth as this guy. As the owner and CEO of this company, he’s absolutely loaded.”
“What do they do, exactly?”
“No clue.”
When we reached the massive reception desk, Sam took the lead. He informed the receptionist, “We’re here to see Edward Rosselin,” with all the confidence in the world, as if he wasn’t standing there wearing a shirt with pineapples all over it.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, we don’t. We work with SPAM, and we want to ask him about a journal recovered from his late father’s lab.”
She typed something into the computer, and a moment later, surprise registered in her eyes. “His assistant will be down shortly. Please take a seat.”
We followed instructions, and once we were perched on the edge of a white leather sofa, I whispered, “Do you know why he has a different last name than his father?”
“One article I read mentioned his parents divorced when he was a kid, and he chose to take his mom’s maiden name.”
“That suggests he and his dad weren’t close, so this might not get us anywhere.”
“You’re right, but let’s just see what happens.”
Not five minutes later, we were joined by a young, blond man in an expensive suit, who was carrying a tablet. He introduced himself as Harvey, and after we told him why we were here, he said, “Please give me the journal, and I’ll take it to Mr. Rosselin.” When I handed over the photocopied pages, he asked, “Where’s the rest of it?”
“In the SPAM archives.”
“Mr. Rosselin would like to see the whole thing.”
“I understand, but this is all I brought,” I told him. “I need to verify whether that’s his late father’s handwriting.”
“Why?”
“It’s my job.”
Harvey typed something into the tablet. A few moments later, he informed us, “Mr. Rosselin will see you now. Please follow me.”
That was shocking. I hadn’t wanted to shoot down Sam’s suggestion of coming here, but I never imagined a busy CEO would actually make time for us. It made me wonder if the journal was a lot more important than I’d realized.