Splicer was all about being recognized. His chance for a Nobel prize."
"You look puzzled."
She started to answer, then hesitated as if she knew the explanation would be futile, but she tried anyway. "The last five years have been hell for Jeff. He was very hard on himself, very driven. Then everything changed and he started to feel close to it, close to getting what he wanted - with Malcolm Grieves, the coding prodigy onboard. He envied people like him, people who could make things, could invent things. He didn't act like it, but he was in awe of Grieves. Then when Grieves left, he reacted like a jilted lover. Enraged and despondent , he used to say to me. He must have picked that line up from some late-night movie. He would joke about it sometimes, but basically he went crazy. He also literally gave up. And then, out of the blue – he says they solved the big problems and Splicer was ready? Did you see Rosenblatt doing cartwheels?"
Otter shook his head.
" GeneFab has had the atmosphere of a funeral parlor for the past year. So what Jeff said just didn't make sense."
"He must have known something no one else did,” suggested Otter.
"Exactly. And now we'll never know what it was.”
CHAPTER 15
Quinn looked strangely out of place behind a slab of teak the size of a billiard table. The surface, unblemished by paper or phone or a gold plated pen, glowed with a dark impudence. David Quinn was small in stature with thick overly long gray-streaked hair. Jayne guessed about fifty, trying to look thirty-five. He wore a faded Adidas shirt, frayed at the sleeves, jeans and expensive track shoes. Quinn never worked Fridays, but he always appeared at his office dressed like some rich university student, holding court with his partners who sat across from him, feeling uncomfortable in their three piece suits and starched collars.
Jayne stepped into his office through the open door and walked over to the wall of glass overlooking the lake. She watched a tug struggle against an easterly in the distance, two men up front huddled against the wind and spray of Lake Ontario. Quinn hung up his phone and turned in his chair.
"Jayney. God, it’s great to see you again.” She turned to him, watched him finish with the laces on his runners.
"Playing tennis with Shelby?" Shelby was one of Quinn's partners, a fat and balding corporate litigator.
"No, as a matter of fact, with someone you should know about."
"Great. I'll join you then."
"Your desk is clear?" Normally he would have eagerly accepted her invitation. Today he was hedging. Jayne shrugged.
"We like to stay away from the office on Friday afternoons. Keeps us away from the process servers."
Quinn just nodded, pressed his lips together and sat up. He took a pen out of his desk and tapped it absently against his perfect white teeth.
"So, who should I know about?" she asked.
"Shay Redfield."
Jayne tried to cover her surprise. "She's keeping his last name?"
"Her maiden name is Zalakowski or Zaglakoski or… she likes the new name better."
"Who's her lawyer?"
Quinn glanced up quickly at her, then smiled innocently. Ahhh thought Jayne, your look of trust presentation . A good courtroom lawyer develops an inventory of glances and reactions designed to build rapport with a jury. But after a decade of theatrics, the looks become your own. They insinuate themselves into your everyday vocabulary of expressions. On one knows anymore where Quinn began and the defense lawyer ended?
"I'm helping her out,” he answered cheerfully.
"Not concerned about a conflict of interest?"
Quinn winced. "Shay has spoken to me in confidence about a matter that involves you."
"I'll bet."
"Jayne ... do you know more about what I'm about to tell you than I do? But then, wasn't that always the case? What do you know about Shay Redfield?"
"I have a report that you and her are ... involved ."
Quinn's facial muscles tightened. "What a cliché. That report is incorrect."
"It comes from the