Dig Your Grave

by Steven Cooper

Greta shakes her head. “I didn’t want to pull the girls out of school until I make funeral arrangements. Douglas flew to Atlanta to get his grandmother.”

  “Your husband’s mother?” Mills asks.

  She nods. “They’ll be here tomorrow. She’s devastated.”

  “Of course,” Mills says, lifting himself from the sofa. “We’ll be in touch to arrange a visit with your children. Thank you for your time.” He hands her his business card. “If you think of anything, anything at all that might help, please call. Even the seemingly most minor details, Greta, could prove to be an important lead for us. Something doesn’t seem right? You let us know.”

  “I will,” she says, rising to her feet. She offers a firm handshake to both of them. “I’ll have Lola show you out.”

  Jesus, some people. Jesus, some families. They’ve been riding in silence for several minutes now, thawing out from their visit with the ice queen at the Klink compound. Mills has been shaking his head the whole way.

  “Alex, please stop shaking your head, and say something,” Powell begs.

  “I’m dumbfounded.”

  “You and me both. The grandmother is devastated. Did you hear that?”

  “I did,” he replies. “But the wife, not so much. Not a tear in her eye. Not a frown on her face. That was a fucking weird interview.”

  “We’ve got to dig deeper with her,” Powell says. “There are stories there. Big, complex stories, I think. Like he was having affairs, or she was having affairs, or both of them were screwing around. This puts a mistress in play, or a boyfriend. Or anyone who could benefit from Davis Klink’s death.”

  “Like a child,” Mills says. “Who stands to inherit a fortune.”

  “I’m going with adultery.”

  “We’re forgetting the empty grave,” Mills points out. “If another body turns up, our theories, however shitty they might be at this point, are probably out the window.”

  “Unless it’s the body of Greta Klink.”

  7

  Mills is eating lunch at his desk when he gets a call from Shelly Newton at Illumilife. She says two of the chief executives have been freed up to meet with him at three o’clock. She says the whole company is in shock, that people are openly grieving. It’s as if the whole building is mourning, she says. But her voice sounds chipper. So at least he has that to look forward to.

  “Hey, Shelly, I have a question, if you don’t mind,” he says.

  “I hope I have an answer.”

  “Why would Mr. Klink’s daughter call him all the way from Flagstaff if she were sick? What could he do for her here? I doubt he bolted from the office to drive up to Flagstaff. That doesn’t make sense.”

  “I’m not sure she was calling from Flagstaff,” Shelly says. Then she laughs for a second and says, “You don’t know Jordan. She’s had a habit lately of sneaking off campus and coming back to Phoenix to party with her friends. Especially on the weekends.”

  “How does she get here? Does she have a car at boarding school?”

  “No cars allowed,” the assistant says. “But she has this boyfriend—”

  Mills takes a swig of water. “Name?”

  “Of the boyfriend? Hmm. I can’t recall.”

  “Try.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she says. “They come and go, you know.”

  “Go down the alphabet, or something,” Mills suggests.

  “Pardon me for saying this, but I think you’re overestimating the importance of the boy,” she replies. “He likely has nothing to do with this whatsoever.”

  “I’d rather overestimate than underestimate. It’s my job.”

  “Right,” she says. “Let’s see, Glen was a few months ago. Mohammed was before that, and that’s a name that’s easy to remember, right? She dated a Jack, but that was last year. And so was—what was his name?—Antonio? Oh, now I know! A is for Antonio. B is for Bradley. She’s dating a guy named Bradley.”

  “Last name?”

  “No idea, sorry.”

  He jots down a note to follow up about the boyfriend. “That’s okay, Ms. Newton. We’ll see you this afternoon.”

  Despite what his doctor said about watching his cholesterol, Mills hates these fucking lunches of salad and fruit. He looks at it with disgust and imagines, for a minute, a pastrami sandwich as thick as a suitcase. Unlike most men in midlife crisis, Mills is craving pastrami, not a Porsche. His joints ache, his hair is saltier, but he has no interest in proving his virility by jumping out of planes or fucking other women. How could he? He’s married to a collector’s item—a funny, sexy, smart, strong woman who gets more beautiful with age. Besides, he still gets morning wood, and that counts for something, even if Kelly shows more interest in her law reviews than in his dick.

  Illumilife Industries occupies a gleaming skyscraper on Central. Mills counts fifteen floors of glass and beams, but he’s squinting against the glare of the sun, so he might be off by a floor or two. A typical glass monolith, like so many others in the valley, the tower lacks its own fingerprint. Not so, on the inside. The lobby, a pyramid-shaped atrium, is a spectacle of refracted light. Two security guards stand behind a massive block of marble, upon it a sheet of raised glass, apparently their desk. Life-sized replicas of Illumilife’s products, however, form the true welcoming party. Apparently Illumilife Industries makes everything. Car and truck tires bounce up and down like yo-yos from an automated track high up in the atrium. Several bicycles, all somehow mechanized, climb the walls at different heights. A mobile of life-sized baby cribs dangles from the roof. The security guards, Mills can now see, are standing on treadmills, slowly walking to nowhere as they greet Illumilife guests. Shelly Newton appears from behind the bank of glass elevators.

  “Welcome,” she says. “Our foyer is quite the experience for newcomers.”

  “Your company makes all this stuff in here?” Powell asks.

  The woman smiles. “And more,” she says as she escorts them to an elevator.

  The elevator glides them to the executive floor, which lords over everyone. Up here, the floor-to-ceiling windows offer a 360 degree view of the valley’s mountains. Shelly leads them to a small sitting area that takes its minimalist cues from the Klink’s marble-and-glass Miracle Canyon home. From here they can see the arthritic fingers of Squaw Peak. The view is so detailed Mills can count the veins.

  “You’ll be meeting with our chief legal officer first,” Shelly says. “He’ll be with you in a minute.”

  Mills thanks her.

  Fifteen minutes later they’re still staring at the Peak. Mills can understand fifteen minutes. But he can’t understand thirty. As thirty minutes come and go, Mills figures there’s a certain narcissism embedded in the internal clock of a corporate titan that renders the schedule of anyone else meaningless; either that or there’s been an explosion at a tire plant in China. At forty-five minutes, a young millennial toothpick with hair down to her waist approaches them. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “Our executives are so crazy busy. It’s really hard to keep them on time. Peter will see you now.”

  She leads them into an office, a space larger than most studio apartments. The office features a living room setting; the official working desk of Peter Tribble, Chief Legal Officer (so says the name plate); a collection of museum-quality leather chairs at his desk; a wet bar; and one of those miniature putting greens. A man enters and closes the door behind him.

  “Peter Tribble,” he says with a British accent. “Chief legal officer. Pleased to meet you. Sorry for the delay. A meeting went over.”

  Handshakes all around.

  “Please join me at my desk,” he says.

  Mills eyes him before the man can sit down. He’s a short guy, probably no more than five-six, maybe five-seven. He’s youngish, late thirties maybe, younger than Mills would expect for a chief executive of a major company. Peter Tribble has small eyes, a happy, almost babyish smile. His skin lacks color, but his shirt (no tie) is turquoise, so that helps. He’s wearing white s
kinny jeans with a studded belt. No jacket.

  The man leans forward, ready to emphasize, as soon as he sits. “First, let me assure you, we’re all stunned to learn about what has happened to Davis,” he says. “We have not communicated this externally until we know that his next of kin have been notified.”

  “They have,” Mills tells him. “And it’s all over the news, so I’m sure it’s out there externally, if not by you.”

  “Fine, but that’s quite different than the arduous and painful task of messaging this to our stakeholders,” laments the chief legal officer.

  Mills goes poker face and stays there. This is how he deals with people who presume to talk from a marble pedestal. The accent doesn’t help.

  “You should know that as much as I want to help in your investigation, Detective Mills, my job is to also represent the best interests of the company.”

  Poker face.

  “So you may have questions for me today that I cannot, out of the best interests of the company, answer.”

  Poker face.

  “I will not be able to hand over any corporate records, or any documents whatsoever, without a subpoena.”

  Poker face.

  “That’s not to say we’d argue every subpoena in court, but we may have information that is either highly confidential, sensitive, or proprietary that we will insist on protecting.”

  Poker face.

  “That said, let me assure you that we want to do everything we can to help you apprehend a suspect.”

  It’s one thing when an American sounds supercilious, but when a Brit sounds supercilious, you want to punch him in the face.

  “Are you following me?” Tribble asks them.

  “What were you and Davis Klink fighting about on Friday?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You were overheard having a heated argument with the CEO on Friday afternoon before he left the building,” Mills says.

  The man lowers his head. “A good argument is good for business,” he concedes. “But, I’ll admit this was worse than most.”

  “You’re only admitting that to us because we have several witnesses who heard the shouting. Right?”

  He smiles. “Yes. Imagine so. We did have a serious argument. One of our executives might have done something that could have compromised the integrity of the business,” he explains. “This person came to me with the disclosure wanting to know if any law was broken or if the company would have legal grounds to terminate based on the questionable actions taken. Davis was furious that this person didn’t go to him first and that I didn’t tell him as soon as I learned of the problem.”

  “Does this person have a name?” Mills asks.

  “I’m not prepared to release that at this time,” the man replies.

  “In the best interests of your company?” Powell asks.

  “Precisely.”

  “What was the nature of the questionable action that this colleague told you about?”

  “I’m not prepared to answer that.”

  “In the best interests of your company?” Mills asks.

  “Precisely.”

  “If you end up on the witness stand, you will most definitely have to answer these questions,” Mills says.

  Tribble proudly sweeps his arm across the powerful landscape of his office domain. “This is not a courtroom, Detective. And I think it’s against your best interests to invoke the image of a deposition or interrogation.”

  The poker face yields to the fuck-you face.

  “I am documenting everything that is being said in this meeting, just as any good lawyer would do,” Tribble informs them.

  “How did your argument end?”

  “I suggested Davis speak to this person directly, to remove me as the middleman.”

  “Did he agree to that?”

  “Yes. Ultimately.”

  “Was he still fuming?”

  “He wasn’t happy,” Tribble says. “But you have to understand something about Davis. He could be raging at you one minute, and all is forgotten the next. He’s a perfectionist. But he’s also too busy to hold a grudge. I knew that we’d be back at work today and everything would be fine.”

  “But he’s not, and it isn’t,” Powell reminds him.

  “He had another blowout with another executive on Friday,” Mills says. “Was Davis having a confrontation with that colleague you referred to?”

  “I can’t say. I wasn’t in the room.”

  “Was it the chief human resources officer?” Powell asks. “We understand he chewed her out pretty good.”

  “You’ll have to ask her,” the man says. “I understand you’ll be speaking to her next.”

  “Eventually we will want to talk with the head of your security team,” Powell says. “Just to be sure Davis Klink was not facing any threats from individuals while traveling, or here at home.”

  “I assure you I would know about any such threats.”

  Powell shifts in her chair and leans in. “We will want to talk to the head of your security team.”

  “And the car service hired to chauffer Davis Klink around,” Mills adds.

  Peter Tribble, chief legal officer, stands, indicating the meeting has come to a close. “Speaking of cars, we’d like access to Davis’s vehicle. Just to be sure there are no confidential or sensitive documents. Has it been recovered?”

  “Yes, sir, but I’m afraid it’s not possible to give you access to it now,” Mills says, standing as well, their eyes locking. “The car is a crime scene.”

  “I thought Davis was found in a cemetery,” the man says.

  “He was. That’s not necessarily where he was killed,” Mills explains.

  “There are often multiple crime scenes in cases like this,” Powell says. “The scene of death is only one of many possible crime scenes. This whole office building could be deemed a crime scene. That would not be unusual.”

  The man turns pale, even for a Brit. His hands are shaking as he picks up the phone. “Stella,” he says, “our guests are ready for their next meeting.”

  Tribble scratches his chin as he leads them to the hallway. Something worries him. It’s all over his face.

  “Is something wrong, Mr. Tribble?” Mills asks.

  He shakes his head absently. “No,” he replies. “But I think it’s only appropriate that I sit in on your interview with Claire, if you don’t mind.”

  “We don’t,” Mills says.

  If you put Peter Tribble’s office into a 3-D printer and hit “Copy Now,” you would get Claire White’s office. The only differences are the views (his looks east to Camelback; hers looks south to the Estrella range) and the art on the walls (his has none; hers has extravagant hangings, crazy abstract, almost mural-like spectacles).

  “If you’re admiring the art,” the chief human resources officer says with a heavy brogue, “they’re all originals.”

  “Wow,” Powell says. “Extraordinary.”

  Claire White points to a large canvas to her left. “That’s a Picasso.”

  “No way,” Powell says.

  “I’m Detective Alex Mills, Phoenix PD. My partner, Jan Powell.”

  “Claire White,” she says, twirling a finger around a diamond necklace. “But you probably knew that.”

  “The accent?” Mills asks. “It doesn’t sound as British as Mr. Tribble’s.”

  “And it’s not. It’s Irish. Not even close, if I do say so myself.”

  Claire White asks them to have a seat on the sofa in her living room area. She sits opposite them, Tribble to her side. She’s wearing what some would call a smart pantsuit, teal.

  “I suspect you know why we’re here,” Mills says.

  The scarf draped elegantly around her shoulders takes it cues from the wild abstracts on the wall.

  “I do. We’re shaken to the core. Davis’s death is an unimaginable loss to us.” She leans forward, rests her wrists on her knees, and peers at them through her thousand-dollar designer eyeglasses. She says
, “It’s my job, as chief human resources officer, to console sixty thousand employees, and that’s exactly what I intend to do. Here at Illumilife we put you first, whether you are our customers, consumers, shareholders, or employees.”

  Mills leans forward to abbreviate the distance between them. “I notice you put employees last on that list,” he says. “That’s odd coming from the chief human resources officer, but I’m not judging.”

  “It’s our credo. At Illumilife we put you first. You are all equal, no matter who you are,” she chants. “That credo is written into everything we do. We are that kind of company. It is in the soul of everything we do. Now, what can I help you with?”

  His mouth a contortion of snark and disbelief, Mills fears what will happen when he parts his lips. Anything could come out. He takes a deep breath and says, “You were one of the last colleagues, if not the last, to speak to Davis Klink on this property. We’d like to know more about that conversation.”

  Long tresses of chemical blond curls frame her face. She pulls some of them behind a shoulder and says, “I don’t know how much I can tell you.”

  “Either tell us now or possibly at a deposition,” Powell says with a saccharine in her voice so artificially sweet that Mills can taste it.

  “Don’t let them threaten you,” Tribble tells the woman, who waves him off sharply, reflexively. No love lost there.

  “It’s not a threat,” Mills says. “And I mean that. We’re here seeking cooperation. We want to do what it’s in the best interest of Davis Klink. Not this company, not the Phoenix PD. Davis Klink.”

  Claire White nods and allows herself a rueful smile. “That’s admirable,” she says. “I guess it’s no secret that we argued before he stormed out of here.”

  “Was it serious?” Mills asks.

  “I wouldn’t qualify that,” Tribble says.

  “It was serious,” the woman concedes. “I might have made a mistake. I went to him to make amends.”

  “Can you tell us about the mistake?” Mills asks.

  She crosses her legs and, again, balances her wrists on her knees. Her bangles chime as they fall into place. “I might have sold some company stock during the blackout period.”