by Whitley Gray
“I think we interview Candidate Olivetti and dig for answers.”
* * * *
Olivetti Enterprises occupied the thirty-fifth floor of a glass-and-steel high-rise in downtown Denver. Beck eyed Zach as they stepped off the elevator into an acreage of a reception area done in shades of cream and navy. Eucalyptus scented the air, and a jazz version of a popular song played overhead. More like a hotel lobby than corporate headquarters. Beck’s whole apartment would fit in here several times over.
A waist-high counter dominated the space. The fine-grained wood had been polished to a high sheen, reflecting a huge vase of mixed flowers. Next to it, a gold nameplate said “Yancy.” A male receptionist. Beck smirked.
There’s something you don’t see every day.
A man with cropped platinum-blond hair popped up behind the desk, eyebrows raised. Looked about twenty, and…was that lip gloss? Beck’s gaydar went off. With a smile, he pulled out his badge wallet, flipped it open for Yancy’s inspection. “Detective Stryker. Special Agent Littman and I are here to see Mr. Olivetti.”
“Is he expecting you?” Yancy pursed his lips in a pink pout.
Pompous little ass. “If you mean do we have an appointment, no. Please let him know we’re here.”
Eyes narrowed, the man’s gaze roved over Beck. Apparently he came up lacking, as Yancy lifted his chin. “I’ll call Ms. Sweet.”
What the hell? “Who is Ms. Sweet?”
“Mr. Olivetti’s personal assistant. Please. Have a seat.”
Like hell. No way were they going to have a seat, unless it involved planting a boot in the seat of Yancy’s pants. This was a murder investigation, for chrissake. Beck folded his arms and leaned on the counter. “Look, Yancy. We’re the police. We don’t sit and wait. We want to see Mr. Olivetti. Now.”
Zach coughed and turned away.
Throwing ocular daggers at Beck, the receptionist made a call.
That’s okay, twink. Not going to hurt my feelings.
In less than a minute, a woman strode from a hall to the right of the reception desk. Beck raised an eyebrow. No hottie helper here. Ms. Sweet had to be over sixty. Clad in a black business suit, she wore her white hair piled on top of her head, a style that somehow softened her strict appearance. Old-fashioned elegance, mature and polished like a corporate Katharine Hepburn. Had to be Olivetti’s PA.
“I’m Ms. Sweet, Mr. Olivetti’s assistant.” She offered a hand. “How may I help you?”
Beck caught a trace of an English accent. A Brit? Beck shook with her. “Detective Stryker. This is Special Agent Littman.”
Zach shook hands. “We need to speak with Mr. Olivetti. Is he available?”
Ms. Sweet pulled free and clasped her hands. “Can I tell him what this is regarding?”
“Official business.” Did these people think they dictated the protocol? Whatever happened to the days of a police visit striking fear into the hearts of civilians?
Zach inclined his head toward the woman. “It’s a private matter. You understand.”
“Of course,” Ms. Sweet replied, sotto voce.
Beck held back a grin. Here was psychological manipulation at work. Leave it to Zach to turn on the charm. Ms. Sweet was old enough to be his mother.
The woman led them down a hall hung at intervals with magazine covers related to Olivetti Enterprises. They passed two secretaries and walked through a set of double doors to an office done in pale yellow and cream. Another large vase of fresh flowers occupied one corner of a substantial desk. Olivetti must have a huge floral budget, as in, I’m taking over your company; here’s a bouquet. In the background, another set of double doors. Must be the inner sanctum. Last summer, he and Dan had interviewed Olivetti at the hospital and the station, not at the business.
“If you gentlemen will please wait, I’ll let Mr. Olivetti know you’ve arrived.”
No point in arguing. Beck nodded. “Sure.”
Ms. Sweet knocked and entered. Beck caught a glimpse of ivory carpet before she shut the door with a resounding click.
Okay, he’d count to ten before pounding on the wood until Ms. Sweet admitted them.
“Beck,” Zach muttered. “Relax.”
“Don’t—”
The door swung open. “Mr. Olivetti will see you now.”
Olivetti’s voice carried from within. The words weren’t clear, but the tone resonated with authority. Ms. Sweet gestured them forward, and Beck stalked in, Zach beside him.
Damn. The corner office could accommodate the entire square footage of robbery/homicide. Sunlight flooded the space. Floor-to-ceiling windows on the south and east showcased a spectacular view of the Denver skyline. Creamy carpet reflected the color scheme of the paint and furniture. Silver-framed paintings broke up the pale walls. A rug in shades of blue anchored a grouping of leather furniture gathered around a low table. The room reeked of money and success. Beck held back a whistle. The medical supply business must pay pretty well.
Isaac Olivetti had his fingertips together as he spoke using an earpiece and paced in front of a desk big enough for four people. In his late forties, he’d accomplished more than most men dreamed of, parlaying a down-on-its-luck medical supply company into an international provider of state-of-the-art equipment. A big man in good physical shape, and his thick dark hair was starting to silver at the temples. Throw in the deep brown eyes, clean-shaven jaw, and a smile like a movie star, and Olivetti looked the part of politician. His conservative navy suit had a tiny American flag on the lapel. He had the kind of presence that took command of the room.
Pictures of Olivetti’s deceased wife and child were displayed in sterling frames on the corner of the desk. Olivetti nodded at Beck, a faint smile on his face. “The offer is good until midnight tonight.”
Corporate raiding in action. Beck permitted himself a sardonic smile. Politics was a natural progression for this guy: a shark moving on to deeper waters.
Olivetti clicked off and tossed the ear set on the desk before approaching them.
Here we go. Prepare to be slimed.
“Detective Stryker.” Olivetti offered his hand and raised his chin. “Nice to see you again.”
Not for long. Beck shook with him. “This is Special Agent Dr. Zach Littman from the FBI’s profiling unit.”
As he shook with Zach, Olivetti said, “The FBI is on the case?”
“We’re consulting.”
A slight pause, and Olivetti swept his arm toward the sofas. “Have a seat.”
Hmm. Didn’t Olivetti wonder why a supposedly closed case had merited FBI involvement?
In silence, a young woman brought in a tray laden with coffee, placed it on the table, and left. Olivetti poured. “How can I help you gentlemen?”
Glancing at Zach, Beck settled his cup on his knees. Let the maestro begin the probing of Olivetti’s psyche.
Zach parked his forearms on his knees, pressed his fingertips together. “As you may know, there’s recently been another home invasion.”
“Yes. Terrible.” Olivetti crossed his legs and took a sip from the small cup. On his left hand, a silver wedding band flashed. “I saw something about that on the news.”
Olivetti had already worked it into his campaign spiel. With great difficulty, Beck stifled an acerbic comment. He sipped coffee and waited.
Zach continued, “In the course of our investigation, some additional questions have arisen.”
“Oh?”
“The first invasion may hold the key.”
Olivetti raised his eyebrows. “Really. What can I do to help the FBI?”
“Is there anyone who might benefit from the loss of your family, Mr. Olivetti?”
“I covered this in detail with Detective Stryker and his partner last summer.” Olivetti pressed his lips into a tight line.
“Bear with me, sir.” Zach’s voice stayed level, posture relaxed.
No wonder he’d gone into psychiatry. Beck held back a grin and enjoyed the show, noting the tension
in Olivetti’s shoulders.
With a sigh worthy of a martyr, Olivetti said, “Lara had no life insurance. She wasn’t involved with anyone. And my daughter… No. She was five. I had nothing to gain.” Olivetti added another splash of cream to his cup.
The same well-rehearsed rhetoric he’d trotted out for Beck and Danny last summer. Beck leaned forward and set his coffee on the table next to Zach’s untouched cup.
Zach waited, attention on Olivetti. Into the silence Zach said, “Not you, sir. Someone else.”
One silver-threaded eyebrow hiked north. “And that would be…?”
“Who might want to hurt you by taking your family?”
Olivetti leveled an unwavering glare across the low table. “That’s preposterous.”
An odd response. God, the man was irritating. If Beck had handled the questioning, his temper would put in an appearance at this point. Zach remained implacable, not a ripple of frustration as he waited. Well, Olivetti, you’ve met your match.
Zach sat quietly and ignored his coffee.
After an interminable span of quiet, Olivetti brushed at an imaginary speck of lint on his cuff. “Such as disgruntled political opponents?”
“Someone in particular?” Zach prompted.
“Of course not.” Olivetti flicked his fingers in dismissal. “Richards is the only other serious candidate.”
Because no one else had more financial reserves to challenge the incumbent governor than Olivetti. Beck leaned back in the pillowy couch. The two independent candidates were no real threat, and Beck couldn’t picture family man and all-around good guy Governor Bill Richards getting mixed up in something like a multiple homicide. People could relate to the governor’s humble roots and down-home style. The guy radiated credibility.
Zach straightened but didn’t break the silence. An old interrogation trick. Beck had used it. Interesting to watch Zach steer Olivetti through this scenario, controlling every move.
The CEO stirred his coffee and gazed at the windows. “Of course, I’m not popular with some of our acquisitions. Not every company is eager to be bought out. Jobs are lost. I have corporate enemies, but I can’t imagine a buyout would incite murder.”
Beck took over the questioning. “Do you remember Alistair Greer?” After the second home invasion, the elderly couple’s son had briefly been a person of interest but had an unshakeable alibi for both crimes. Van had cleared him of involvement in the third case, but there was no reason Olivetti would know that tidbit.
A shadow crossed Olivetti’s face. “Mmm. That couple’s son.”
Interesting response. No urgent Did he do it? or Is he a suspect now? from Olivetti. Not the way most survivors reacted to the news of a possible suspect. More like the reaction of someone who knew Greer wasn’t involved.
Studying Olivetti, Beck said, “He worked for Elger United.”
“I know, Detective.” Olivetti took a sip of coffee and swung his gaze away. “And he lost his job when we took over Elger last spring.”
Along with a slew of other employees. Beck continued laying the trail. “About two months before the break-in at your place, correct?”
“We’ve been over this,” Olivetti snapped. “A sane person wouldn’t commit murder over the loss of an assembly-line job.” A touch of pink developed in the man’s cheeks, and he lifted his chin. “Most of those who lost jobs were laborers, not executives. Not that those jobs weren’t important.”
Imperious fucker. Still not asking about Greer, irritated but not curious. Beck held Olivetti’s gaze and waited.
“Did Lara have any enemies?” Zach’s quiet voice drew the CEO’s attention.
“No. She was well liked. Besides—”
A chime interrupted, and Beck jumped.
“Mr. Olivetti?” Ms. Sweet’s voice seemed to come from all sides at once. “I have your ten a.m. conference call.”
“Please have them hold.” Olivetti stood. “I’m sorry to cut this short, gentlemen, but I must take this.”
Arrogant asshole. Beck set his coffee cup on the tray and rose from the depths of the couch.
Zach dropped a business card on the table and got to his feet. “We’ll be in touch.”
“I’m sure.” Olivetti displayed a tiny smile that suggested further contact would be unwelcome as well as unpleasant.
Beck planned to have further contact.
* * * *
Damn cops.
Olivetti tossed his earpiece on the desk. Those bastards had broken his concentration, right before he needed to deal with the holdouts blocking the acquisition of his latest business target. Olivetti glared at the phone. Now he’d have to rethink the whole endeavor.
This supposed third home invasion had nothing to do with him, but it could ruin everything. Olivetti had spent too much time developing a unique premise with huge potential, and no way would he sacrifice that hard-won high concept now. A damn copycat, that was what this was. Olivetti came around the desk and stared out the window. The forest of buildings bestowed an artificial dusk on the streets of downtown Denver. A splinter of sunlight pierced the clouds, invading the office.
Detective Stryker didn’t appear mellowed by his encounter with a bullet. If that projectile had entered a few inches to the right, the investigation might have proceeded in an entirely different direction. Stryker’s harsh attitude and pit bull approach could be a problem. He’d sunk his teeth into Olivetti’s throat last summer, and appeared ready to do the same now. What did Greer have to do with it? Asking might’ve been a good idea, but what was the point?
A political enemy was an interesting idea. Olivetti could ask Levin about communications from crazies who might make a good patsy for the case. And Olivetti’s campaign had a mole inside the Richards headquarters.
Special Agent Littman had an insidious style, pulling Olivetti in new directions, teasing out tidbits. Tricky bastard. There hadn’t been time to consider his responses with that tag-team approach. Hard to say who was in charge—the FBI or the police.
Olivetti gazed toward the horizon. The police interviews last summer had been more straightforward.
On Olivetti’s first day of consciousness after the assault, the cops had appeared before the oatmeal. A study in contrast, the two detectives. Halliday had been tall and dark with hair military short, dressed conservatively in a pristine white shirt and dark pants, and smelling of Old Spice. Stryker had shown a forward-thinking fashion sense for a cop, wearing a pastel shirt and coordinating tie. Blond hair gelled into submission, and gray eyes that missed nothing. Those eyes had bored into Olivetti, digging for secrets. The two detectives had spoken with him at home two additional times before the incident that killed Halliday and Weaver.
Olivetti fisted his hands. Now here he went for another ride on the cross-examination merry-go-round, this time with the FBI riding shotgun. No doubt they’d be back. Stryker represented a complication then and now and Special Agent Littman even more so, with his psychological games and long silences.
Something about the FBI agent struck a chord of memory. Olivetti had seen the name somewhere. He’d conduct a private investigation of his own on Littman. When Olivetti checked out corporate CEOs, research never failed to turn up useful information. A little leverage went a long way. He pulled out Littman’s business card, ran a finger over the FBI seal. Soon, everything about Dr. Zachary Littman would be on Olivetti’s desk, including any signature weaknesses.
And then Olivetti would eviscerate him like a vulnerable company.
Chapter Ten
As the elevator descended the thirty-five floors, Zach leaned against the wall and studied Beck’s profile. The closed expression said, Cop. Do not disturb.
The door opened on the parking garage. A noticeable chill and car exhaust greeted them. Zach shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his trench coat. Their footsteps rang on the concrete, bouncing off walls and pillars, echoing. At the car, Zach hit the remote and unlocked the doors.
As soon as they s
ettled in their seats, Beck turned to him. “What do you think?”
Well, now. That was progress. Beck wanted his opinion. Zach stuck the key in the ignition and started the motor. “The guy is hiding something.”
“You think he did it?”
“No, not by himself, anyway. There’s too much evidence to the contrary.” Zach backed out of the parking space and steered toward the street.
“Do you think he knew the killers?”
“So far there’s nothing to suggest he knew Weaver. It’s possible he might’ve known the other invaders, but we don’t have a handle on the identities of those people.”
“What about his nonreaction to the questions about Alistair Greer?” Beck asked.
“You’d eliminated Greer. He might assume Greer wasn’t involved this time either.”
“Maybe.” Beck stared out the window and chewed his cheek.
“You have a theory?” Zach pushed the climate control button and got a blast of icy air. Should’ve let the thing warm up. He missed the heated seats in his own car.
“He didn’t ask for details about the case. He didn’t ask if Greer was now a suspect.” Beck shot a look at Zach. “Most families want to know what’s going on in the investigation.”
“True.”
Beck seemed lost in thought, staring straight ahead.
Clouds sucked the light out of the day. In the dim light, Zach wished for his glasses. Storefronts went by, an eclectic assortment of shops, apartments, and restaurants. A sidewalk café’s outdoor tables and chairs huddled beneath protective covers for the winter, umbrellas furled against the coming winter. A low-level headache warned of caffeine withdrawal. “Mind if I stop for coffee?”
“We just had coffee.”
“I didn’t drink it.”
Shaking his head, Beck said, “Java Joe’s. Turn right on the next cross street.”
This time of day the drive-through wasn’t busy, and Zach had his coffee within minutes. With the elixir of life in hand, he sighed in contentment. Joe made a mean mocha latte. “Where to, Detective?”
“Back to the precinct. Back to square one.”
