Dad also assumed what he called my “secret mission“ to find out anything fishy going on at Mutant Wizards gave me a head start over the police in finding the killer. He didn't seem to understand that to date, my so-called sleuthing efforts had been completely useless.
“Now, now,“ he said. “You're too modest. Just let me know if you think it's time to gather all the suspects so you can reveal the solution.“
I was about to explain how unlikely it was that I would be revealing the solution anytime this century when the switchboard blinked again. Another reporter. We'd been getting quite a few calls from reporters – who seemed to think, from the questions they asked me, that anyone whose job included answering the phone must automatically be an idiot.
“No, I will not give you Mr. Langslow's home number,“ I was telling the latest Woodward-and-Bernstein wannabe when I noticed that Roger was once again lurking beside the reception desk. “I can take a message, and if you rephrase that last remark a little more politely, I just might remember to give it to him. What was that? Thank you – the feeling is mutual.“
I hung up, closed my eyes, and counted to ten. When I opened them again, Roger the Stalker was leaning against the wall by my desk. He wasn't a relaxed leaner. The way he hunched his shoulders forward made it look as if he had been ordered to lean and found touching the wall vaguely distasteful.
“Yes?“ I said. “Anything I can do for you?“
He frowned as if this were a trick question.
“While you're thinking, do you want to make yourself useful?“
He shrugged. Was that a yes or a no?
“It's almost time to feed George; you want to take care of that?“
He glanced at George, pried himself awkwardly off the wall, and left.
Good riddance.
Of course, that meant I still had to feed George myself, eventually.
Later, I thought, answering another line.
“Meg! What's going on?“ shrieked a voice. I winced as I recognized the caller – Dahlia Waterston, Michael's mother.
“What in the world are you doing with my poor baby?“
“Michael's fine,“ I said. “He's out in California, remember? In fact, I just talked to him a few minutes ago, and he says the filming's going very well.“
“Of course Michael's fine,“ she said. “I meant Spike.“
“Spike's fine, too,“ I said. “He had a nice breakfast and a long walk, and he's sitting right here at my feet.“
“I knew it – you're still bringing him into that death trap!“
“It's not a death trap. It's a perfectly ordinary office,“ I said, and then winced at how inaccurate that was. “Anyway, you can relax. We iiaven't had any dogs killed. Just humans. Just one human, actually. So you don't have to worry.“
She didn't seem to be worried about my presence in the office, of course. I put her on hold, answered another call, and then returned.
“Sorry,“ I said. “Busy day.“
“I want to talk to him,“ she said.
“Talk to whom?“
“Spike. I want to talk to Spike. Put the phone near his face so he can hear me.“
Okay. I leaned down and put the phone to the wire at the front of Spike's crate.
“It's for you,“ I said.
He opened one eye, saw that I wasn't holding out food, and closed it again.
I could hear Mrs. Waterston's voice chirping out endearments. He ignored her, too. I gave it a couple of minutes and then took the receiver back.
“Is that okay?“ I said.
“He's not speaking to me,“ she said. “Is he ill?“
“Just asleep.“
“Are you sure he's really asleep? What if he's being slowly poisoned by carbon monoxide fumes?“
“We have a bird in the room,“ I said. “Remember how they used to keep little canaries in the mines, to detect gases before they affected the miners? I'm sure if we had any toxic fumes, it would affect the bird before Spike.“
Actually, George was as big as Spike, and I'd bet he was more impervious to toxic fumes than most humans, but it sounded good.
“I still don't understand why he won't speak to me.“
“Let me see if i can wake him up a moment.“
I put her on hold and fished out a doggie treat. Slowly, because several other lines interrupted me by ringing while I was doing it. I could see Spike perk up when the treat box rattled. Then I reached down with the treat and scraped it against the wire of the crate.
As I suspected, this set him off. I balanced the receiver on my bandage, punched the phone button, and let him bark for thirty seconds or so before lifting the receiver back to my ear again.
“Okay?“ I said.
“Hello?“ came a voice. Not, alas, Mrs. Waterston's voice. I glanced at the switchboard – damn, I'd punched the wrong line.
“I was trying to reach the accounting department of Mutant Wizards,“ the voice continued. “Do I have the wrong number?“
“I'm so sorry,“ I began.
“What was that?“ the voice asked. “That barking.“
“That? Oh, that was the Vets from Hell development team,“ I improvised. “What a bunch of cutups – but you know what those game developers are like. Let me connect you with Accounting.“
Then, of course, I had to apologize to Mrs. Waterston for keeping her on hold, and repeat the trick on Spike.
“He sounds healthy,“ Mrs. Waterston said when I finally let Spike have the treat and put the phone back to my ear.
“If you're really worried, I could send him back,“ I offered. “Dad's up here doing some consulting on the new game; he'll be going back Friday at the latest – I could send Spike back with him.“
“No, no,“ she said. “I think we need to follow the allergist's instructions to the letter, or it won't be a valid experiment.“
“And how are your allergies?“ I asked. The allergies were the reason she'd saddled Michael and me – well, for the moment, just me – with taking care of Spike for the summer. Spike had been accused of causing, or at least exacerbating, her allergies, and the allergist wanted to supplement the skin tests with a trial separation from her beloved fur ball, to see if her symptoms improved.
“A little better, I think,“ she said. “Of course we'll have to see once the ragweed starts.“
I sighed. I had a sinking feeling the verdict on Spike as an allergen would be guilty, and Michael and I would be stuck with him permanently.
“Give him a big kiss for me,“ she said. “And please keep an eye on him; I'm not sure what I'd do if anything happened to him!“
With that, she hung up.
Big kiss, my eye. Spike had finished his treat and was gazing up with an air of wide-eyed innocence that might have fooled someone who didn't already have scars from his teeth on several of her extremities. No way I was going to let her saddle us with Spike permanently. If she decided she was allergic, I was going to have to find another home for him.
Of course, the only person I thought might possibly be gullible enough was Rob. And I doubted if Mrs. Waterston would even consider allowing Spike to relocate to any institution run by the Virginia Department of Corrections. So if I wanted to pawn the little monster off on Rob… yet another reason to concentrate on finding out who really killed Ted.
But first I had to figure out a way of getting away from the damned switchboard. I needed a patsy, someone gullible enough to take over the switchboard while I strolled around sleuthing.
Was there anyone here that gullible?
Dad strolled in.
“How's it going?“ Dad asked.
“Great!“ I said. “At least, now that you're here. I need your help!“
“You've got it!“ he replied. “What can I do?“
“Mind the switchboard for a little while.“
His face fell. I could see he was trying to think of an excuse.
“I don't want to ask just anyone,“ I said, dropping my voice to a conspira
torial whisper. “We need to have someone here who'll notice if a suspicious call comes through.“
“What kind of suspicious call?“
“Precisely!“ I exclaimed. “If I could define suspicious, anyone could do it.“
Showing him how to operate the switchboard took a little longer. Strange that most of the vapid young women the temp agency sent over managed to grasp the rudiments of operating the switchboard far faster than a man who had graduated from medical school near the top of his class. But eventually I decided he was ready to solo, and hurried off. I had a feeling his enthusiasm for serving as a human wiretap would fade rather quickly, and I wanted to get as much done as possible in the time I had.
Given all the interruptions we'd already had this week, I didn't want to bother anyone who seemed to be doing actual work. So I headed for the lunchroom. Sure enough, I found half a dozen of the staff hanging out there. Better still, they were already talking about Ted. I fixed myself a cup of coffee and joined the edges of the group.
Unfortunately, my arrival silenced them.
“Don't let me interrupt you,“ I said. “Go back to whatever you were saying.“
They all looked uncomfortable.
“Unless, of course, you were saying uncomplimentary things about me, in which case, you'd better change the subject.“
“Actually, we were saying uncomplimentary things about Ted,“ Frankie volunteered over the nervous laughter. “Kind of a rotten thing to do, I guess.“
“Getting murdered didn't make him a saint overnight,“ I said.
“Tell that to the Caerphilly Clarion,“ the usually silent Luis murmured, gesturing with the front page of the rag in question.
“Yeah, listen to this,“ Frankie said, snagging the paper from Luis:
“He was a gifted programmer,“ said Mutant Wizards spokeswoman Elizabeth Mitchell. “He has made a significant contribution to our upcoming release, Lawyers from Hell II, and I think I speak for the entire staff in saying that his loss will have a profound effect upon all of us.“
“Like maybe we can get some work done without having to dodge water balloons,“ Keisha grumbled.
“And maybe we'll actually get credit for our own work for a change,“ Frankie said. He propped himself against the wall, his height allowing him to achieve a Jack-style lean that was reasonably authentic – until he surrendered to the temptation to tuck one foot behind him like an advanced yoga pose.
“Are those the main things everyone had against him – the practical jokes and hogging credit for other people's work?“ I asked, a little disappointed. It sounded like the Ted I knew, but neither sounded much like a motive for anyone to murder him.
“If it was just hogging the credit, yeah, that was irritating, but we just blew it off,“ Frankie said. “I mean, we figured everyone knew who really did the work, and if Ted wanted to pretend he was some kind of supergenius, let him. He wasn't fooling anyone. At least that's what we thought.“
“Until year-end bonuses came out,“ Keisha put in.
Much head-shaking.
“The amounts everyone got were supposed to be confidential, see,“ Frankie explained. “But in a place like this – word gets around.“
“Yes, I imagine it does,“ I said. “Especially if whoever's supposed to keep the bonus amounts confidential is foolish enough to put them in an unencrypted file on the network.“
Several people looked sheepish.
“Rumor has it Ted got way more than he had a right to get,“ Frankie went on. “And some other people got way less as a result.“
“What other people?“ I asked.
“I think Jack was the most hurt,“ Frankie said.
“The jury selection logic was all Jack's invention,“ Luis put in. “And the cross-examination sequence – in fact, the whole courtroom module would never have gotten done if not for Jack. Everyone knew that.“
“And Ted claimed credit?“ I asked.
“Yeah,“ Frankie said. “Ted was always getting up in meetings and grandstanding about how he'd fixed this and he'd thought up that. Nobody realized anyone believed him.“
“I'm sure Rob didn't realize – ,“ I began.
“Exactly!“ Frankie said. “That was the whole problem. We know Rob thought the accounting people knew what they were doing… but they didn't. They fell for Ted's bull – uh, Ted's blarney. If you get a chance, tell Rob that he needs to keep an eye on them this year. Or better yet, decide on the bonuses himself.“
A chorus of agreement greeted this statement. I nodded, while wondering to myself how Rob managed to lead such a charmed life. I happened to know that Rob had decided on the bonus amounts himself. He'd dithered about them all through the Thanksgiving weekend, trying to decide how much to give for seniority, how much for team spirit, how much for spectacular individual contributions. Accounting may have figured out how much Mutant Wizards could afford to give out and done all the final calculations, but the percentages were Rob's doing. Not that I was going to tell the staff that. Still, was it a motive for murder?
“I'll keep it in mind,“ I said. “People are still pretty resentful eight months later, I see.“
“The closer we get to the initial public offering, the more people are going to resent it,“ put in Rhode Island Rico, the graphic artist. “Bad enough Ted got such a honking big pile of cash to wave around in January… but knowing he could get thousands – maybe millions – more than he deserves when the IPO happens… man! He didn't steal any credit from me, but it still burns me up, how much more he gets than he deserves. I can imagine how ticked off people like Jack are.“
“Yeah, working like they did, only to see a jerk like Ted reap all the benefit,“ Luis said.
I sighed. I wasn't sure I liked the way this was going. Yes, I was looking for suspects other than my brother. Not that I expected to find Ted's murderer myself – I don't share Dad's conviction that solving murders in real life is as easy as it seems in the mystery books he devours by the dozen every week. But I did want to present the chief with a couple of plausible suspects other than Rob. His growing legal team didn't anticipate any difficulty getting Rob acquitted if the DA tried to charge him with Ted's murder, but in the meantime the trail of the real killer would be growing colder and colder.
But I wanted to point the chief to a plausible alternative subject, and I had a hard time believing Jack Ransom fit the bill. And I didn't think it was just because I liked him. He was one of the few genuinely sane people around the office, which made him, in my mind, one of the least likely suspects.
Or was I too influenced by selfish motives – specifically, my investment in Mutant Wizards? Was that coloring my thinking, making me deliberately shy away from steering the police toward a key employee like Jack at this critical time in the development of the new game? At least he seemed to be key, and fairly high ranking. The only organizational chart I'd ever seen was ten months out of date, and Rob had allowed people to choose their own creative job titles, which meant I had no idea how the firm was really organized. Was a Unix Crusader – the disgruntled ex-staffer – more important than Keisha, the Cyber Goddess? Would Frankie, as Programming Warlock, report to Luis, the Senior Software Guru, or vice versa? I had no idea, apart from observing how they treated each other, of course.
When Frankie suggested something, people shrugged. When Luis suggested something, people listened. When Jack suggested something, people scrambled to do it.
But even Frankie appeared to perform a key role, if the number of people who complained when he played hooky was anything to go by. Which led me to another, more useful thought. Now was certainly a bad time to throw any obstacles in the path of the development team. Unless, of course, you wanted to cause Mutant Wizards the kind of problems that would result from a missed deadline on the new game. Was it possible that someone had killed Ted not for any of his many unpleasant characteristics but merely as a way of sabotaging Mutant Wizards? Who would have a motive to do that? Obviously not Rob or any o
f the other Mutant Wizards staff I knew and liked, since they all, like Rob, had a major stake in the company's success. It would have to be someone who had it in for the company – another strike against Liz's bete noire, the disgruntled ex-staffer? Assuming, of course, that Ted's death would cause obstacles. No way to know without asking.
“So how badly will Ted's death hurt our deadlines, anyway?“ I asked.
Apparently this was the topic du jour. The group erupted into a flurry of incomprehensible technical jargon, until I called time-out.
“In English, please, someone,“ I pleaded.
“Losing Ted won't hurt us all that much if the police would just bring back bis computer so we could get his damned files,“ Jack Ransom said. Having arrived, apparently, in the middle of the argument, he was leaning against the doorjamb, taking everything in. The several people who had been propped against various walls or articles of furniture leaped to attention. I wasn't sure if they wanted to look alert in his presence or just felt too embarrassed to exhibit their inferior leans in the presence of the master.
“From what we saw the last time Ted showed us what he was doing, he'd effectively finished the module he was working on,“ Jack went on.
“Finished it all wrong, though,“ Frankie put in.
“I have no doubt he ignored all the technical standards, as usual,“ Jack said, pushing away from the doorway and heading for the coffee machine. “And, as usual, someone else will have to clean up behind him. Probably you again, Luis; you've got that down to an art.“
Crouching Buzzard, Leaping Loon Page 9
