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CONKLIN DROVE US northeast on Bryant Street toward the Bay Bridge and West Berkeley, a mixed-use residential/commercial area separated from the bay by the Eastshore Freeway.
As we drove, the car radio chattered, dispatch and squad cars urgently tracking the chase of a hit-and-run driver in the Financial District.
Conklin closely followed the chase and also negotiated traffic while I manhandled my phone. I jumped from news link to news link, cruising for information about the FinStar, a fully loaded floating ocean liner under siege.
I found snippets on YouTube—video clips like the one Yuki had sent, truncated and poorly shot, and also taped phone calls from terrified, clueless passengers who’d managed to get out calls before their phones were confiscated.
These postcards from the front were like random pieces of a table-size jigsaw puzzle, giving only ambiguous hints of the big picture.
And then there was breaking news from a passenger’s cell phone. A CPA from Tucson, Charles Stone, had hidden in a storage container on the sports deck. He called his brother in Wilmington, who taped the call.
Said Stone: “These guys spoke American English. Or I guess they could be Canadian. I don’t know. They’ve taken a bunch of hostages to the Pool Deck. I heard a burst of gunfire. Tell Mollie that I love her. I love you, too, bro.”
I looked up as Conklin was backing our Crown Vic into a spot between two vehicles parked in front of a modern two-story office building with clean lines and a stucco facade. I was so preoccupied with the thoughts of the passengers on the FinStar that I was almost surprised to see we were still in California.
We entered the building, which had high ceilings with exposed timbers and lots of windows letting in the bright morning light. The reception area was devoid of advertising posters and other incidentals, which told me that this was a practical workplace and that the staff here had no contact with consumers. We presented our badges to security at the desk and took an elevator up one floor.
A young man with a black faux-hawk and a guarded expression was waiting for us. He said, “I’m Davo. Donna just got out of her meeting. Stick with me.”
Conklin and I followed Davo, who opened a locked door and led us down a yellow-carpeted corridor to Donna Timko’s sanctum, as spacious and as open as the entrance on the ground floor.
Timko stood and came forward to greet us.
She was a very large woman, obese, actually. She wore a flowing blue dress to just below her knees, an enviable diamond bracelet, and a radiant smile. She looked as kind as she’d looked when we’d seen her on the video screen at the executive meeting.
She said, “It’s good to meet you in person. I am so glad you could come.”
I don’t know what Donna Timko saw in my face, but here’s what was in my mind: I didn’t want to be there at all.
CHAPTER 52
I DID MY level best to wrench my thoughts away from my friends on the FinStar as Timko shook my hand and asked, “Would you like to see the facility? I’m in love with this place and have very few opportunities to show it off. You could even say that I have none.”
Oh, no. Not a tour.
Timko told her assistant we’d be back in fifteen minutes, and Conklin and I joined Timko on her rounds. She started us off with the executive offices, introduced us to staff, and showed us the plans for the introduction of Baby Cakes, a new product that would be rolling out within the next six weeks.
Next stop was the sparkling stainless-steel test kitchens, fragrant with sugar and spice.
“We’re very focused on Baby Cakes right now,” Timko told us. “The promotion for this product is going to be huge, and none of our competitors have anything like it.”
Baby Cakes were the size of big-button mushrooms, each one a single mouthful of a premium flavor combination of cake and frosting to be packaged in six-cake variety packs with a price point of $1.99.
Conklin was like the proverbial kid in a candy shop. He taste-tested mocha cakes frosted with marshmallow and a bunch of tutti-frutti ones topped with shredded coconut and I don’t know what else.
He was being affable with a purpose.
Making friends inside.
Almost unnoticed, I took up a position between a mixing station and a huge fridge and watched the cheerful elf chefs with confectioner’s sugar on their gloves and noses. I wondered if one of them could be salting cake batter with micro-encapsulated belly bombs.
We returned to Timko’s office and assembled in her sunny seating area, banked with potted greenery under a skylight.
“So now that I’ve had my fun, what can I do to help you?” the product-development chief asked us.
“We need your informed opinion on what’s behind the bombs, Donna,” Conklin said. “Why do you think Chuck’s is being targeted?”
“I’ve thought of nothing else since the get-go,” said Timko. She reached into her handbag for an e-cig and puffed until the end of it turned blue. She seemed to be considering how to say what was on her mind.
