Dead Midnight (v5) (epub)

by Marcia Muller

  “Sharon?” Julia stood in the doorway, her first report in hand.

  “Come on in,” I said. “Let’s look that over and then get you started on your next assignment. It’s a skip trace on a woman named Jody Houston.”

  Friday

  APRIL 20

  It was raining heavily when I arrived in Dogpatch at eight A.M. I sprinted from my MG to the doors of InSite’s building, pushed through them, and took off my sodden raincoat before using the intercom. It was too damn late in the season for this kind of weather!

  When I went through the second set of doors I saw that the large room beyond was as chaotic as the previous afternoon. Several people stood in a row in a way that reminded me of a formal receiving line, with Max Engstrom at its head. J.D. wasn’t in evidence. Engstrom stepped forward, took my wet coat, and hung it on a nearby chair. Then he clasped my hands, and said, “Welcome, Ms. McCone. The game’s afoot.”

  I winced inwardly at his Holmesian imitation, but replied, “Yes, it is, Mr. Engstrom.”

  “Allow me to introduce some of the players—and my top people.” He handed me over to a woman of my height and build who stood beside him. “Dinah Vardon, our Web-Potentate.”

  Vardon nodded, shaking my hand with a strong grip. Roger’s former love was striking in a pale, severe way, her dark hair pulled back from her face and fastened at the nape of her neck. Her mouth was thin-tipped and humorless, and her gray eyes were shiny and cold; they reminded me of pebbles on the bottom of a stream, over which the currents wash but never move. Her face was devoid of makeup, and she wore all black—tunic sweater, jeans, boots. She didn’t speak, but I sensed she was taking my measure and cataloging the impression for future reference. I could understand why J.D. found her scary.

  Vardon passed me along to the man next to her. Engstrom said, “Jorge Amaya, our CEO.”

  Amaya—round-faced, black-haired, expensively attired in a dark suit—smiled at me, dark eyes dancing. “So we are to play games today, Ms. McCone. Delightful!” His Spanish accent imparted a melodiousness to his rather formal speech. When he clasped my hand, he gave it a little squeeze and winked at me. When I winked back, he looked pleasantly surprised.

  As I went along the line, Engstrom continued his introductions, appending each person’s self-created job title: Haven Maven (home section); Venue Vetter (entertainment); Gallivanting Gourmand (restaurant critic); Shaker and Baker (food editor); King of the Road (travel); Sherlock (research). When I expressed amusement at the offbeat titles, he preened and said, “Allowing the staff to name their own positions is another thing that makes their work enjoyable.”

  The introductions finished, Engstrom produced a whistle and blew three ear-piercing blasts. Apparently this was his customary method for getting his employees’ attention, because the room instantly became quiet.

  “Listen up, folks,” he called. “The famous gambit’s about to begin. This is Sharon McCone, ace detective. She’s got until midnight to unmask which one of you has the partial manuscript of a novel in your desk drawer. Thwart her any way you can, but remember this rule: You’re not allowed to lie to her. You can evade a question, refuse to answer, or mislead her, but you must tell the truth. So let the game, and your work, proceed!”

  After a lingering scrutiny of me, the staffers returned to what they had been doing.

  Behind us the door burst open and J.D. blustered through. “Sorry I’m late, Max. I—”

  “I hardly expected you to be on time, so we got started without you. As of now we’re on the clock.”

  J.D. shrugged out of his raincoat, draped it over the chair where Engstrom had earlier hung mine. Again he was wearing the lemon-yellow sweater; the fluorescent lighting rendered the clash with his hair even more hideous. He pulled a cassette recorder and notepad from his briefcase, fumbled with a tape. While he organized himself I said to Engstrom, “J.D. claims every journalist is working on a novel. Is it possible all the people here have partial manuscripts?”

  He smiled. “Ah, your first question, and I mustn’t lie. No. But I also must agree with J.D.; even I, at one time, harbored such an abomination—until I burned it. There was considerable competition among the staffers to be the target of your search. Eventually they drew straws.”

  “Then I’d better get started.”

  “Our offices will be your happy hunting grounds till midnight.” He made an expansive gesture and turned away.

  Bruce Dunn, the Gallivanting Gourmand, was a dedicated game player. He stonewalled me on every question, laid a trail of red herrings—which he said he preferred in cream sauce—and told me I should talk to Max Engstrom, who hadn’t burned the manuscript of his novel as he claimed. When I said that would mean Engstrom had violated the cardinal rule of the game, Dunn told me Max was a law unto himself and a natural-born liar. “It’s his nature.” Although he spoke pleasantly enough, I detected an undercurrent of dislike for the publisher.

  The Haven Maven, Lia Chen, was seriously annoyed at my intrusion on her work. “We’re running a business here, not a theme park—and Max should know that!” Then she began talking about her just-published book on feng shui, and asked J.D. if he would plug it in his article. He replied noncommittally, and she scowled and turned back to her desk, muttering about Max and his asinine ideas. A seriously disaffected employee, and a good potential source for inside information about the situation here.

  Courtney DeAngelo, the Money Mongrel, didn’t like her title, which Engstrom had given her when she refused to come up with one of her own. “What does that mean, anyway? I’m an accountant, for Christ’s sake. I try to balance the books and fend off creditors. With the current cash-flow problem, they ought to be spending less on fancy food and Mad Russians, or whatever it is they’re drinking this week. Then I might be able to pay the janitorial service.” I put her on my list of people to seek out for information.

  One of the tech department staff members took time out from trying to correct a faulty link between the magazine’s and an advertiser’s sites to tell me about the annual mystery-game cruise he took in the Caribbean. “I wait all year for it, and then I come home and start waiting all over again.” Was he happy working here at InSite? “As long as I’ve got problems to solve, I’m happy. Besides, the food’s great. I like to eat.” He patted his ample stomach for emphasis. A possible culprit for the game, but not a good source of information.

  Kat Donovan, aka Sherlock, was a nervous individual. As soon as I came up to her desk, the head researcher blocked my view of her computer screen and put the machine in sleep mode. She really didn’t have time for game-playing, she told me. She was behind in her work as it was. I bowed out gracefully, wondering if she was trying to clear her desk in time for a vacation; before she noticed me I’d seen she was scrolling down a list of cheap airfares.

  I worked the first floor systematically and by ten had come up with a lengthy list of disaffected staffers who might be induced to talk candidly about Roger’s tenure there. A breakfast buffet was set up in the area under the loft, and people had been making forays to it, carrying their plates and cups back to their desks. I decided to sit down there and observe office dynamics for a while.

  The spread was impressive; sweet rolls, bread, bagels, lox, fresh fruit, juice, coffee, tea. And yet the Money Mongrel couldn’t pay the janitorial service. I built a lox sandwich and took some fruit and coffee while J.D., who had been trailing me and ostentatiously taking notes, made a face and poured himself a small glass of juice. When we were seated at one of the round tables flanking the buffet he said, “I never tire of watching you stuff yourself.”

  I swallowed a bite of lox. “In my business it’s a good idea to eat when you can, because you never know when you’ll get your next chance.”

  “What about when you’re not working?”

  “Then I have to make up for the meals I’ve lost.”

  “I see.”

  “Ms. McCone?” Jorge Amaya, coffee cup in hand, stood beside me. “May
I join you?”

  “Certainly.” I moved my chair, and J.D. fetched another.

  Amaya sat down, smiling at me. “How are you enjoying our little game?”

  “Pretty well so far.”

  “Max has told me what you are really looking for—our saboteur.” When I didn’t respond immediately, he added, “Ah, you have no comment on that. But surely you must feel free to share your findings with me, the CEO.”

  “I have no findings yet.”

  “And no opinions?”

  “None.”

  “Max and I have discussed these disturbing incidents, and I have formed an opinion. He is putting too much emphasis on them. In the normal course of events equipment malfunctions and files stray. Do you not agree?”

  “Perhaps. I understand you were brought in by the Remington Group after they began investing in InSite.”

  He seemed startled at the change of subject. “… That is true.”

  “You’ve guided other firms to IPO, are an expert in the process?”

  “Correct.”

  “Exactly how do you accomplish that?”

  “It is not an exact science. Like individuals, companies vary. InSite, for example. When the Rowland Group began looking at it, it was small but had a solid business plan and a money-making idea. My function was to create a bigger package deal, one that will attract shareholders. Remington made the initial infusion of cash, then I tried to take it to the next level. But the paid-subscriber program I instituted didn’t become popular, and so far we have failed to interest the large advertisers. The burn rate of capital was extremely high when we received our mezzanine financing—”

  “Mezzanine?”

  He smiled as if I were a pleasant but not very bright child. “Intermediate financing. A second round. After that Tessa Remington and I agreed to slow the magazine’s growth and wait out the economic downturn. Which is the stage where we are now.”

  I glanced at J.D. He was surreptitiously taping the conversation. “Is the magazine in trouble because of Tessa Remington’s disappearance?”

  Amaya hesitated, compressing his lips. “You know of this disappearance from where?”

  “The Chronicle.”

  J.D.’s tape clicked off. Amaya glared at the recorder, made a chopping motion. “Leave that. We are speaking privately.” To me he added, “In your profession, you must encounter many disappearances. Tell me this—” His eyes moved away from me to Dinah Vardon, who had just come up to our table. “Ah, Dinah,” he said with a sly smile, “we were speaking of Ms. Remington.”

  She stared at him—a flat, unreadable look.

  Amaya appeared unfazed by her expression. “Perhaps you would like to join our discussion.”

  “I would like to talk with Ms. McCone and Mr. Smith, yes, but Max has asked that you meet with him in his office.”

  The CEO stood, nodding to us. “We will continue with this later, but now, when our esteemed publisher requests my presence, I must comply.”

  Vardon’s eyes followed Amaya to the stairway. I caught a conflicted expression there—contempt and anger, but something else that I couldn’t put a name to. She sat down in the chair he’d vacated and sighed deeply. “If Jorge hadn’t declared himself exempt from Max’s nonsense titles, he’d be El Maestro de Toroshit. So, are we having fun yet?”

  I said, “You don’t seem to approve of this exercise.”

  “It’s not up to me to approve or disapprove. If J.D.’s story lures more paid subscribers or interests more advertisers, we’ll start making money and finally get to this IPO everybody’s been jerking us around about. Then I’ll be happy.”

  “You have stock options?”

  “Up the wazoo.”

  “Do all staff members have them?”

  “Only Max’s anointed few. Let’s keep that off the record, huh, J.D.? The problem is, the staff grew too fast and neither Max nor Jorge was willing to slice the pie into a lot of little pieces. So they’re banking on people being young and gullible and not realizing till IPO time that they’ve been screwed and worked their butts off for nothing.”

  “And you don’t care about that?”

  “Why should I? I’m not willing to give half my slice to somebody else, either.”

  Brimming with compassion, Dinah Vardon was, but why should she be different than any of the other survivors of the collapse of the hot tech market? Would I have felt differently under the same circumstances? I’d’ve liked to think so, but maybe not.

  I said, “Mr. Amaya was talking about Tessa Remington’s disappearance earlier. What do you know about that?”

  Something flickered in Vardon’s eyes, but again I couldn’t identify it. “Very little except that she’s left this company in an untenable position. I’d just like to know what kind of game she’s playing.”

  “So you feel this disappearance is voluntary?”

  “Of course it is. I know Tessa; she’s sly and manipulative and will do anything to make a buck. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was in hiding on some offshore island where she’s got money stashed, waiting to make her next move.”

  “And what kind of move would that be?”

  “I couldn’t tell you that. I’m no financial wizard like her. But I will tell you this: if she doesn’t surface soon, we’ll all be polishing up our résumés.”

  “It’s that bad?”

  “It’s that bad, and I’ve said too much already.” She got to her feet and added to J.D., “If a word of this leaks out, Smith, you’re dead meat.”

  “She’s something, all right,” I said to J.D. when Vardon was out of earshot.

  “I’d love to know how she got that way.”

  “Roger’s brother Harry said something about a bad background and a fierce desire to better herself, but that doesn’t fully explain it. I’ve got a new hire in my office who could top any horror story Vardon might offer up, but compared to her, Julia’s a sweetheart.”

  He looked at his watch. “Well, we can’t sit here all morning psychoanalyzing the WebPotentate. What now?”

  “I want to check in with Engstrom, get some information on the employees I’ve isolated as possible troublemakers. I don’t know why, but I feel these incidents, plus Tessa Remington’s sudden disappearance, may have a connection to Roger’s suicide.”

  Halfway up the stairs I realized I’d violated J.D.’s dictum against saying anything in the building that might reveal my true purpose for being there. What if the buffet area was bugged and Engstrom had overheard our every word? But to my relief, the publisher was engaged in an argument; I could hear it as we turned into the hallway.

  “Goddamn it, Jorge, this is my magazine! I founded it, I guided it through the lean years. We’ll do things my way, or not at all.”

  I touched J.D.’s arm, pulled him back. Pointed to the far end of the hall, where the petite figure of Lia Chen, Haven Maven, stood listening.

  Amaya spoke in reasoned tones. “We are buried in unpaid invoices. The equipment is on the verge of obsolescence. The Web-site links are barely functional. The only tangible asset we have is this building—and it’s next to worthless—”

  “We have talent. We have direction. That should count for something.”

  Chen looked up, saw us, and stepped back into one of the offices.

  “Unfortunately, Max, talent and direction are of very little importance in the financial world. We have no choice—”

  “Bullshit! We have a choice, and it’ll be my choice— Jesus Christ!”

  A blaring noise had interrupted Engstrom’s last pronouncement. Now another sounded. Honk-honk-honk, like the alarm in a prison-break movie.

  J.D. shouted, “Fire!”

  Between the strident bleats I heard a hissing, and then the automatic sprinkler system switched on.

  “Shit!” J.D. grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the stairway. He pushed through the door and dragged me with him. Down below staffers either stood stock still looking up at the spraying water or grabbed their poss
essions and thronged toward lighted exit signs at either end of the building. I pulled away from J.D. as he started down the stairs.

  No smoke. No flames. Not even the hint of a smoldering electrical short.

  Footsteps thundered behind me. Max Engstrom and Jorge Amaya rushed down, grabbed my arms, and pulled me after them.

  “Wait!” I shouted. “There’s no fire. Your alarm’s malfunctioned.”

  Engstrom stopped, letting go of me and nodding in agreement, but Amaya kept dragging me toward the rear exit. The floor was slick, and we slid the last couple of yards, then burst into an alleyway where it was raining harder than inside.

  People milled about, talking excitedly, oblivious of the downpour. Engstrom came out, leaned against the building’s wall, panting. Amaya had let go of me, and when I looked for him he was gone.

  The fire department arrived quickly, cordoned off the entire block of Illinois Street, and evacuated everyone from the alley. J.D. and I stood in the crowd beyond the tape, watching as firemen entered the building. The rain continued unabated, but most people were so soaked they no longer cared.

  “My favorite sweater,” J.D. said mournfully, peeling the sodden wool away from his chest. “Good thing I bought a second, just in case.”

  “You have two of that?”

  Fortunately my astonishment didn’t register with him. “When I find something I really like, I always buy two.”

  Clearly the man was color blind.

  After a while most of the firemen departed and the captain of the squad took Max Engstrom inside. Jorge Amaya, who had been hanging around by the loading dock, followed them.

  J.D. said, “Max’ll probably want to hire you for real now.”

  “And that would put me in an extremely awkward position. It’s one thing to gain entrée to their offices by a ruse, but another to accept them as a client.”

  “Well, start thinking of an excuse for not taking him on.”