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Payne whistled softly. “I stand corrected.”
“Second, as to motive, I suppose it depends on how much one loses relative to how much one can afford to lose. And the Mob used to whack people in broad daylight all the time.”
“Damn it. You’re right again, of course. Jason’s voice just popped in my head. It is a stone to turn over. And likely a big one. What happened with the company?”
“According to the discussion boards, investors lost confidence.” He pointed to the chart. “Here, some people bailed at or near the top at a dime a share. Others lost money as shares collapsed back to around a penny. Many wrote online that they had given up on a return on investment. At this point, they would have been satisfied with just a return of investment.”
“So, what caused the stock to nose-dive?”
“Apparently the company could not provide proof that they (a) actually had a physical product that did what they claimed and (b) one that would be approved by the FDA. Medical device approval by the feds, from what I’ve picked up, is tough as hell. And without that, they had no marketable product. Remember the phrase patent pending? Well, that’s about what they have. Lots of paperwork filed with the U.S. Patent Office. And when certain shareholders asked for independent scientific proof the device worked, Benson said that the company would not show a product until their intellectual property was safely under their patent, then berated them as short sellers bad-mouthing the company in order to profit on the share price drop.”
“Sounds like The Wizard of Oz: ‘Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.’”
“Exactly. And when you get an idea of what the device is supposed to do, you really wonder . . . It’s futuristic . . .”
Payne gestured for him to go on.
“Remember those eyeglasses they came out with that let you surf the Internet? You essentially are wearing a computer and no one knows what you’re viewing.”
“Yeah. That was futuristic by itself.”
“This goes another step further. Instead of glasses, they’re like contact lenses. The surface of an eyeball is a sort of one-stop shop. It can give these special lenses your body’s vital information—temperature, pulse, et cetera. They claim the lenses can also monitor a person’s level of medication. It works with a mobile phone—specifically, a smartphone—”
“Which is actually just a small, powerful computer that happens to also work as a telephone,” Payne put in, tapping his on the bar.
“Right. And because it’s also a phone, it can send a report to your doctor. Let’s say you’re diabetic. The user puts an app on the smartphone that checks blood sugar levels and warns you before it’s too low or high. Or if you’re, say, schizophrenic, the app can tell if you’re on your meds—and, if not, then send a report to your doctor. They claim—again, key word claim—eventually the next level will be maintaining medication, so the doctor can send a command that administers your meds through another device.”
“Jesus. Amazing. No more crazies? Or, at least, fewer? That’s huge. So is reducing diabetic comas.”
Harris said, “And that, supposedly, is the tip of the iceberg.”
“What powers the lenses, and how do they communicate to the phone? I mean, you can’t really have wires hanging from your eyeballs.”
“Exactly. Good questions. And that seems to be exactly what the investors also want to know.”
“So it’s futuristic. And it’s incredible. But, then, so was the smartphone not too many years ago. Still, if there’s no patent and no FDA-approved device, it’s all speculation. Investors are gambling—arguably, more than usual.” He looked back at the chart. “What am I missing? What caused this spike in price at a dime?”
“News that there’s been some interest by much larger companies, which suddenly gave the device and company some credibility. The suggestion was made—Benson was accused of using a shill to feed it on the discussion boards—that NextGen was the target of a takeover, and, if that failed to go through, then that the bigger companies would license use of the technology. Sound like another penny stock tale, one that has a happy ending?”
“And it went down again today,” Payne said, pointing at the sheet. And then his eyebrows rose. “Maybe we should look into getting some shares. Damn, sure looks cheap now.”
“Might want to wait and see what happens when news of Benson’s death goes public,” Harris said, then grunted. “But, then, I’ve already warned you about taking investment advice from me.”
He took a long drink of his club soda.
“Right now,” Harris then said, “until we talk with Austin, it’s the best we have to go on. I also left a message for McGuire asking for a list, if there is one, of anyone requesting protection for the Camilla’s Kids event.”
Lieutenant Gerry McGuire, a somewhat plump, pleasant-looking forty-five-year-old, was the commanding officer of Dignitary Protection.
Payne nodded, and he said, “Let’s plan on being at Hahnemann when Austin wakes up tomorrow morning. See what we can get out of him. Then, if I don’t hear back from Mason Morgan—I’ve left voice mail messages on three different numbers—we’ll make a surprise courtesy call at his office . . . Anything new on the shooter’s van?”
“Well, the doers are still in the wind. Not a trace of the bastards. And not much in the van. There was a little blood in back—like, maybe, from a bloody nose. And the spent shotgun shells. And a burner phone, which Krow’s techs are going through.
“The security video files that McCrory got from the steak house cameras show the van turning off Walnut and parking at the driveway entrance about an hour before the shooting. The driver—a short, skinny white male—got out to put the orange cones at the front and back bumpers but was very careful to keep his back to the curb and keep his head down to conceal his face. All that can be seen of him is his clothing, including a black cap and gloves.”
“And the gloves suggest the crime scene guys will be shit outta luck on getting fingerprints off anything—the phone, the shells, the vehicle.”
“The plates that were on the vehicle came off another white Chevy van, ident
