“Any evidence of poison or other drugs? Rat poison? Fentanyl?”
“Nothing so far, but we’ll wait for final toxicology.”
“You think an unemployed woman living in a shelter bought the good stuff?”
“That’s a question for Inspector Lee and your client.”
“If you were a billionaire, would you get your stuff from a woman you met on the Internet?”
“I’m not a billionaire, and I don’t know where it came from.”
“Was King a regular user?”
“Needle marks on his arm indicated a high likelihood.”
“Do you have any other information about his overall health?”
“Generally good. He wasn’t overweight. Records from his most recent physical indicated that his blood pressure was slightly elevated. His cholesterol and blood sugar were high, but not extreme. He wasn’t taking any prescription medications.”
“What about other recreational drugs?”
“Not as far as I could tell. I’ll know for sure when we get the toxicology results.”
“How was his heart?”
“He had a stress test last year. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Completely normal?”
“He had a slightly irregular heartbeat.”
Oh? “How irregular?”
“Within a normal range.”
“Irregular enough to kill him?”
“No.”
We would find an expert who would express a contrary conclusion. “I haven’t seen anything about funeral plans.”
“King didn’t want one. The body was cremated. His ashes will be sent into space.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes.” Her mouth turned up. “A company called Elysium Space puts your ashes into a special box that they send up on one of Elon Musk’s SpaceX Falcon 9 rockets.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not. The rocket orbits the earth for about two years, then it reenters the atmosphere as a shooting star. They call it a ‘memorial spaceflight.’ You can track its path on your iPhone.”
“How much does this set you back?”
“A couple thousand bucks. I can get you the information if you’re interested.”
The world has changed since I was a priest. “No, thanks.”
* * *
Rosie’s voice was filled with bemusement. “They’re sending King’s ashes to the moon?”
I pressed my iPhone to my ear as I sat in traffic near the ballpark. “No, just into orbit.”
“Would you like us to make similar arrangements for you?”
“A simple pine box will do.”
“Having a good day?”
“Wonderful.” I gave her the highlights of our visit to King’s house and my discussion with Dr. Siu. “A lot of people were in the house that night, some of whom had access to the bathroom where our client says that King left the heroin.”
“Inspector Lee said that Lexy brought the stuff. Who do you believe?”
“Until I have evidence to the contrary, our client. I want to see the video. If it turns out that she’s lying, I’m going to be very unhappy.”
“Either way, how are you planning to deal with it?”
My ever-practical ex-wife. “Ideally, we’ll find evidence that somebody planted the heroin or tampered with it. If that isn’t convincing enough, we’ll argue that King left it there for Lexy.”
“That could still result in a manslaughter conviction.”
“It’s better than murder. Dr. Siu also said that King had an irregular heartbeat.”
“Enough to kill him?”
“I’m not sure. Hopefully, it will convince one juror that a little high-end heroin could have killed him accidentally.”
“That also could result in a manslaughter conviction.”
“It’s still better than murder.”
* * *
“Where are you, Mick?” Pete asked.
I gripped the steering wheel as I was driving toward the office. “Third and Bryant.”
“How would you like to have dinner in Palo Alto with Blackjack Steele and me?”
“Sounds lovely. How did you get the CEO of Y5K to dine with us?”
“I’m very resourceful.”
Yes, you are. “Does he know that we’ll be joining him?”
“Not yet.”
18
“PEOPLE WITH MONEY ALWAYS GET THE BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT”
Pete picked at his boneless fried chicken thigh in a green curry sauce. “What do you make of this place, Mick?”
I admired the presentation of my wagyu skirt steak garnished with baby carrots and fish sauce. “Lovely, but not my cup of tea.”
Bird Dog was a hot spot for Silicon Valley foodies. Billed as a purveyor of a fusion between Northern California and Japanese cuisines, it was housed in a remodeled auto repair shop in downtown Palo Alto. Its industrial-chic décor featured exposed brick walls, wooden tables, and track lighting mounted on beams. The bar was stocked with high-end booze from which urbane bartenders prepared new-age versions of old-style cocktails. The clientele was well-heeled and well-dressed. For a guy who thought it was a treat to go out for burgers at the Red Chimney at Stonestown Mall when I was a kid, it struck me as pretentious.
Pete always sat with his back to the wall so he could see the room. He wasn’t finished sharing his review of his chicken. “Twenty-seven bucks for fancy KFC? Seriously?”
“It’s an expense-account restaurant.” I took another bite of my steak. “You said Jack Steele would be here.”
“He will.”
I was looking forward to meeting the CEO of Y5K. “Did the parking valet tip you off?”
“The hostess.”
I should have known. “How much did that set you back?”
“More than the price of your dinner. It’ll be on your bill, Mick. In the meantime, eat your overpriced steak and follow my lead.”
Sorry I asked.
Pete pointed at the doorway, where Steele entered the restaurant accompanied by a younger man. They sported navy blazers, powder-blue dress shirts, and khakis. “Right on time—with matching uniforms.”
“Who is the other guy?”
“The venture capitalist, Gopal Patel. He was at King’s house, too.”
A young woman wearing a designer blouse and black slacks accompanied them to the maître d’s podium.
“That’s Steele’s daughter, Debbie,” Pete said. “She had an internship at Y5K last summer. She graduated early from Stanford a couple of weeks ago.”
“What’s she doing now?”
“Taking a little time off. We need to order more overpriced chicken. We may be here for a while. Act natural, be discreet, and let me do the talking.”
The hostess escorted Steele, his daughter, and Patel to the table next to ours. I surmised that Pete had paid the woman at the podium a premium to seat us next to them.
The paunchy, balding Steele looked more like an insurance salesman than a master of Silicon Valley. His wire-framed glasses were overwhelmed by a jowly face. His phony grin reminded me of the power partners at my old law firm where they’d smile to your face as they knifed you in the back. His daughter’s features were more delicate, complexion darker, manner dead serious. Patel’s demeanor was studious, his movements precise. He put on his reading glasses, pursed his lips, and examined the cocktail list.
A waitress with multiple facial piercings brought them sparkling water and an order of kohlrabi, a cabbage-like vegetable prepared with an apple and macadamia nut topping. Perhaps it tasted better than it looked.
Pete and I chatted about our kids as we tried to eavesdrop. Steele and Patel exchanged small talk. Debbie ordered a cocktail called a “Leave Britney Alone,” which the menu described as a combination of high-end rum, tepache, meyer lemon, and amaro.
The tenor of the discussion became more serious when Steele and Patel turned to Y5K.
“Our investment bankers want to put the IPO o
n hold,” Patel said.”
Steele remained upbeat. “Y5K isn’t one person, Gopal. We need to keep developing our product. There is demand for it—with or without Jeff.”
Patel was less sanguine. “Maybe.”
“It isn’t about personality.”
“It was for Apple.”
“The iPhone would have succeeded with or without Jobs.”
“It was his idea.”
Pete and I ate our second dinners as Steele and Patel discussed scenarios. They were concerned about negative press, nervous investment bankers, and even more nervous lawyers. They said nothing about the events at King’s house. They barely spoke to Steele’s daughter, who nursed her drink in silence.
Pete repeatedly made eye contact with Steele, who kept looking away. Finally, as the waitress poured Steele a cup of organic free-trade coffee, Pete started working his magic. He extended a hand to Steele. “I’m Peter Daley. You probably don’t remember me, but I was the assistant head of security when you were at TMA.”
“Of course, Peter. It’s very nice to see you again.”
Especially since you’ve never met.
“This is my brother, Michael.”
I was just a prop. I didn’t mention that I was representing the woman accused of killing his meal ticket. Steele would figure it out soon enough. I smiled and shook his meaty hand. He graciously introduced us to his daughter and Patel, who were also polite.
Pete spoke in a respectful tone. “I’m sorry for interrupting your dinner.”
“That’s okay, Peter.”
“I hope Mrs. Steele is doing well.”
The phony grin disappeared. “Actually, we divorced about two years ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
I had no doubt that Pete was aware of Steele’s divorce.
“It was for the best,” Steele said.
“It’s always difficult.” Pete turned to Debbie. “You must be in college.”
Steele answered for her. “She graduated from Stanford a couple of weeks ago.” He quickly added, “A semester early.”
Everybody with a kid at Stanford always manages to work that into the conversation.
Pete kept talking to Debbie. “Any idea what you might do next?”
“Looking at options.”
“Maybe you could work for Y5K.”
“I think it’s better to work for somebody other than your father.”
“Not a bad idea. I went into the family business. It didn’t work out so well.”
“Security?”
“Law enforcement. My dad was a cop. I lasted ten years, then I moved into private security.”
There was more to the story. Pete and his partner were fired after they used a little too much force breaking up a fight in the Mission. They arrested a young man who happened to be the nephew of a member of the Board of Supervisors. The kid’s family sued, the City caved, and Pete and his partner were tossed under a bus.
Debbie’s father spoke up again. “She hasn’t ruled out the possibility of coming to Y5K. She interned with us. At the moment, she’s taking the opportunity to do a little travelling, and she’s also taking a little time to deal with some, uh, health issues.”
Pete feigned concern. “Nothing serious, I hope.”
“She’ll be fine.”
His daughter didn’t respond.
Pete looked directly at Steele. “I’m sorry about Jeff King.”
“Thank you. He was a visionary.”
“You must be under an ungodly amount of stress.”
“We are.”
“They said on the news that he got some bad drugs at a party.”
“All I know is what I’ve read in the papers.”
Pete feigned concern. “Were you there?”
Steele nodded.
Pete looked at Patel. “You, too?”
“Yes.”
Steele’s daughter quickly distanced herself. “I was skiing.”
Pete was still looking at Steele. “I’m so sorry. That must have been awful.”
“It was.”
“Were other people from the company there?”
“A few.”
“How horrible. You didn’t see anything, did you?”
“I was gone before it happened.”
Patel added, “So was I.”
“That’s good,” Pete said. “I saw that they arrested a young woman. They said that she gave him heroin.”
Steele repeated his mantra. “All I know is what I’ve read in the papers.”
“Do you have any idea who she was?”
“No.”
“You didn’t see her at the party, did you?”
“No.”
Pete decided to leave it there. “I’m sorry for interrupting your dinner and talking about such a difficult subject.”
“It is what it is, Peter.”
* * *
“What did you think of Steele, Mick?”
“Excellent manners.”
Pete’s car was parked in front of the Apple Store on University Avenue. Pete was looking at his texts. I was checking e-mail.
Pete finally looked up. “Guys like Steele have nice clothes, firm handshakes, and fake smiles. They spew clichés about connecting the world. Then they cheat on their spouses, treat their employees like crap, and keep score by the size of their private jets.”
I sensed hostility. “That might be a bit of an over-generalization. His daughter was nice.”
“If she’s smart, she’ll stay away from Y5K and the insanity down here.”
“And the venture capitalist?”
“He’d stick a shiv in your stomach for one-hundredth of a percentage point in a Series B financing.” He put his phone into his pocket. “Don’t underestimate them, Mick. These guys are smart, calculating, and ruthless. And the scariest part is that if you put them on the stand, the jury is going to believe them.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“People with money always get the benefit of the doubt.”
* * *
The round-faced barkeep with the full head of bright red hair spoke to me in a familiar fake Irish brogue. “What’ll it be, lad?”
“That shtick works better for your father than it does for you.”
“What can I get you, Mike?”
“Anchor Steam.”
“On the house.”
My first cousin, Ryan Dunleavy, was the youngest of Big John’s four sons. His wife’s family owned Molloy’s Tavern, a watering hole in Colma across Mission Street from Holy Cross Cemetery, where my parents were buried. Molloy’s had been serving post-funeral libations for a hundred years. In the daytime, Ryan was the CFO of a payroll processing firm. A couple of nights a week, he worked the late shift at Molloy’s. I always stopped by when I was in the neighborhood.
“How’s business?” I asked him.
“Recession-proof.”
After people paid their respects to the deceased, it was customary to pay their respects to the House of Molloy. “Jeannie and the kids okay?”
“Fine.” We caught up for a few minutes. Then his expression turned serious. “I’ve been following your case. Did Sexy Lexy really give that guy a hot shot?”
“We think somebody else spiked the heroin.”
“Jerry Edwards at the Chronicle disagrees with you.”
“He always does.”
My iPhone vibrated. Nady’s name appeared on the display.
“How soon can you get back to the office?” she asked.
“Less than an hour.”
“Good. Inspector Lee sent over a list of people who were at King’s house. And he sent over some surveillance videos.”
19
“TOXIC MASCULINITY”
At ten-thirty on Thursday night, the conference room at the P.D.’s Office smelled of leftover pizza and stale coffee. The fluorescent light made Nady’s skin look pale as she sat on the opposite side of the table, eyes on her laptop. Pete was next to her, a cup of room-temperatu
re coffee in his hand. Rosie sat next to me, her attention focused on her iPhone.
Nady handed me a sheet of paper. “Inspector Lee sent over a list of the people who were at King’s house.”
Progress. Rosie and I studied it. King and Lexy were the first two names. Then came Steele and Patel. The fifth person was the head of security, Yoav Ben-Shalom.
Nady noted that two off-duty cops were working security outside. “They left early. And Pete already gave us the name of Tristan Moore, the marketing guy. Twenty-nine. Princeton undergrad. Columbia MBA. He’s bounced around a half-dozen startups.”
I kept going down the list. “Alejandro Sanchez?”
“Y5K’s Chief Technology Officer. Thirty. Stanford and MIT. He created the algorithm for their data storage upgrade.”
Smart guy. “Drew Pitt?”
Pete spoke up. “King’s best friend from high school in the New York suburbs. Forty-eight. Divorced. Lives in Atherton. Around the company, he’s known as The ‘Guy from Rye.’”
“What’s his job?”
“Nobody knows. Has a degree in computer science, but he rarely comes to work. His primary function seemed to be partying with King.”
“Did that include providing women?”
“Probably.”
“And drugs?”
“Possibly.”
The list also included the names of six women described as “invited guests.” I asked whether any of them worked at Y5K.
Nady answered. “No. Christina Chu is an associate at Patel’s venture firm. Lee thinks she invited the others.”
“Seems Patel’s firm may have been providing more than venture capital.”
Rosie was still studying the list. “By my count, other than King and Lexy, there were six men and six women at the party, not including the off-duty cops, the parking valet, and the kid who delivered the food. That’s at least a dozen potential suspects for a SODDI defense—if you’re inclined to go that way. It would help if you could place them inside the master bath to make a credible argument that one of them planted the heroin.”
Yup, that covers it.
She was still talking. “It would also be nice if you can demonstrate that somebody had a motive to kill King even though he or she stood to lose millions if the IPO was cancelled.” She stood up. “I’ll let you sort it out. I’m going home.”
Without another word, she headed out the door.
Higher Law Boxset, Volume 3 Page 59
