“I met Vince at Lynthorpe,” I said, “the college in New England he graduated from. I’m guessing he’s not back yet.”
“He could have hitched a ride on someone’s private plane.”
That’s the kind of response that always did, and always will, separate me from my ex and his friends. A private plane. Of course, silly me.
Dickie called out to the man he’d been chatting with when we arrived, “Alex, seen J.P.’s dad today?”
“Not yet,” Alex said, ambling over. “But if he’s around, we’ll know it soon enough, especially if J.P.’s team wins.”
The woman with the diamond smiled, although her mouth twisted in a sign that the scenario annoyed her. “If he’s here, he’ll make sure we’re all aware of his golden boy’s brilliance. Who knows? We might even see some of the lowlifes who hang around J.P. hoping to get their money back.”
“Money back?” I said, thinking this didn’t sound at all like the smooth Vince Margoletti I’d just met.
“Rumor has it J.P.’s in over his head with gambling debts.”
“No,” Dickie said, “can’t be. Not with a father like Vince to cover him.”
Just then, the local team scored and we paused to clap. A minute later, when the period was over, I watched Vince’s son ride back to a long horse trailer, hop off his horse, and whack his mallet against the side of his boot while the groom led the horse, its sides heaving, away and a second groom walked over with a fresh mount. Someone handed him a water bottle and I did a double take. It was Vince, and he was beaming and saying something. I sidled over to Peter, who was now chatting with the diamond lady, and tugged on his sleeve. “Father and son at 11 o’clock,” I murmured. Peter and I turned in time to see Vince reach out to slap his son approvingly on the back as J.P. turned away to mount up.
The champagne was still flowing as the last chukker wound down, although I was reluctantly passing on refills since I had to drive farther down the Peninsula after the match. The players dismounted near the horse trailers, and a few accepted towels from their grooms and scrubbed their faces before wandering over to meet the onlookers. Vince made his way along the sidelines to our group and the woman with the diamond ring, who seemed to shrink back in her chair as he approached. I stayed close enough to listen and watch, but not close enough to get sucked in. So far, the senior Margoletti hadn’t noticed me. Vince did exactly what she had feared. He replayed J.P.’s goals, his toughness on the field, and his riding skills, move by move. All she could do was agree in monosyllables every few minutes.
Peter edged into the group, sticking out his hand to shake Margoletti’s. A few minutes later, the polo-playing son walked into the tent area and Peter got his introduction. The two of them began to chat. Dickie glanced at me, then came over and took my arm. “We have to rescue Deirdre. I figure you have some kind of agenda with the big man anyway.” Before I could object, Dickie was saying to Vince, “I think you know my former wife, Danielle O’Rourke?”
Vince turned, seeming genuinely surprised to see me there. “Of course. What a coincidence. I guess you decided you didn’t have to stay at the college. Have you finished your review yet?”
I was rethinking my decision to pass on more bubbly as I made what I hoped were soothing comments to Lynthorpe’s major donor. While I was complimenting Margoletti on the Anselm Kiefer canvas that I had seen in the magazine spread, his son broke away from Peter and stepped over to us.
“Has my father been bragging about how much money he paid for the Jeff Koons sculpture?” he said by way of introduction. “Or maybe about the auction where his agent beat out some sheik’s for a set of Warhol movie star prints?” Without the helmet on and closer up, I noticed that he was good looking, with the same tan that was so sexy on the South American players. His large jaw was offset by thick hair that curled well below his ears but was perfectly cut. His voice was louder than his father’s, but his laugh, which began right after his question, was jarring. It sounded like a donkey braying. He stopped laughing as abruptly as he started, and upended his champagne flute, gulping the delicate wine down like water. To be fair, he had played a hard polo match on a hot day, but the sharp look his father gave him and the agility with which the younger man snagged another full glass from the tray on the table made me wonder if he might like wine almost as much as I like chocolate and might be as susceptible to it.
Vince recovered his smooth manners and introduced us, explaining to J.P. that I was reviewing the gift at the request of the trustees, and that Lynthorpe would be making the public announcement of the deal in a day or so, a slight exaggeration meant for my ears, no doubt.
“A day or two?” J.P. said, sounding surprised and looking at his father. “So, feeling generous, Dad?” Abruptly, he raised the glass in a mock salute, then gulped down most of the wine.
“J.P. seems to think I’m giving it all away,” Vince said. “I’m trying to convince him there’s plenty left. Enough to go to Argentina to the players’ camp and to keep a string of ponies, anyway.” His smile was tight.
“Allowance, Ms. O’Rourke,” J.P. said in a cheerful voice. “Unfortunately, I don’t have my father’s talent for business, although I’m working on it. So, I beg rides on Alejandro’s private plane when he isn’t carrying a bunch of girlfriends to and from camp, and stay with Dad here in the States the rest of the time. You should know you’re getting the best in this deal.” Again, the jarring laugh.
“It’s not for me, not even the museum I work for,” I said, hoping for a quick exit from this father-son argument. “It’s for Vince’s alma mater. Did I hear right that you went to Lynthorpe too? It’s a beautiful campus.”
“J.P. has put his degree on hold,” Vince jumped in to say. “If you’re going to be an A list player, you have to put in the time and the discipline earning your place on the team year round. You’re moving up fast, J.P.” He reached out an arm to pat his son’s shoulder, but the younger man moved slightly beyond his father’s reach while seeming only to focus on the glass in his hand. Vince’s arm fell to his side before he raised it again, cocking his elbow to peer at the same fancy watch I had noticed in President Brennan’s office. “We have to leave, I’m afraid. J.P. got in late yesterday and he’s flying off first thing tomorrow. I hope to see you again, Ms. O’Rourke. You have my card and you’ll get in touch if you have any questions?”
Vince walked quickly over to the woman with the diamond ring and kissed her on both cheeks while explaining J.P.’s tough schedule. J.P. squinted at his father, then turned to me. “So, it’s a done deal, the money and the art?”
“Well, not quite yet. We’re moving as quickly as we can, though, because both President Brennan and your father want to close right away. It’s only paperwork and the college has assigned someone to help me gather and vet it. Should be soon.” I smiled reassuringly, although I wasn’t sure from his comments that this actually was going to please him.
As his father continued his rounds of the people under the canopy, shaking hands and kissing the women, J.P. said, “How well do you know him, my father, I mean?” He took off his sunglasses and I saw that his eyes were so dark they were almost absent of color, much like his father’s. “You know how he made his money?” One corner of his mouth lifted in what could have been a smile.
“In general. Nothing specific,” I said, wondering where this was going. “Are you an art lover too?” Was he pouting because he wanted the Warhol?
The young man held up his glass as if to toast me, then drained it. “Oh yes. You could say that. In fact, I can’t live without it.” And with that, he was off, striding across the turf to another tent across the field from which came a little scream as a guy in white slacks aimed a foaming bottle of bubbly at a girl in a large-brimmed hat.
CHAPTER 10
As planned, Peter hitched a ride back to San Francisco with a couple he knew while I headed farther south into Silicon Valley to meet with Suzy’s cousin who was working, Valley style, on Sunday. Highwa
y 280 threads its way south from Palo Alto’s rural west side into what was once an agricultural paradise and is now, at its bottom end, almost completely paved over. The road itself is graceful and beautifully planned, with long curves that give drivers ample time to absorb the breathtaking landscapes shaped by the San Andreas Fault and the pastures studded with live oaks. Ghostly white fog banks frequently pour over the crests, and down the slopes of the soft hillsides. This heavenly view extends for almost forty miles, but ends rather abruptly when the road flattens and the new world order begins. Crisscrossed with multi-lane highways, low-roofed business complexes and mirror-finished shrines to some of technology’s biggest icons, Silicon Valley is either a dream or a nightmare, I’m not sure which.
I was looking for an address midway between Santa Clara University’s tile-roofed campus and San Jose International Airport, a red dot on my GPS in the middle of a grid of long blocks that all looked alike. Ethan Byrnstein had told me to look for a tan stucco building surrounded by palm trees, but I was beginning to think he had been joking after I swung in and out of three huge parking lots that looked like what he described. I checked my coordinates and called his cell number and learned I was only a couple of blocks away.
“I wish you hadn’t said it was tan,” I said, laughing as he let me in the glass door a few minutes later. “I think every building in a ten mile radius is tan. For next time, this one’s cream.”
He looked at me blankly. Men and decorating details? Not a close match.
“Suzy told me you’re on the track of something mysterious,” he said in a booming voice as we walked down a long corridor lined with empty, pale blue, chest-high cubicles. “I told her there’s no place like Silicon Valley for intrigue and gossip, never mind some of the most calculating people you’ll ever meet.” He chortled.
I explained I was trying to finish what should have been a simple assignment for Lynthorpe. “My job is to assure them a gift contract they’re ready to approve protects the college’s interests. Because the donor is prominent and has a mixed reputation, I want to include a side note to the president and the board about his standing in the community, so they’re ready for any criticism they might get.”
“You mean, in case the money’s tainted or even stolen?”
“Probably more subtle than that, but, yes, I want them to understand if questions might be raised...Whoa, this is Dilbert territory,” I said as we marched along. Most of the space was empty, but I heard voices coming from one area, and a young woman in cargo pants and a Stanford red tee shirt passed us at one point, saying hello to Ethan as she did.
Ethan did not live in a cubicle. He had a corner office, the sign of his stature as an active board member of the software company he had invested in. The venture capital firm he represented was one of the smaller ones along famous Sand Hill Road in Palo Alto, but its stature was growing, he explained, because a couple of their picks had performed exceptionally well recently.
“Suzy will be glad to hear it,” I said, then bit my tongue. He might think she had been criticizing his prowess.
He only smiled and said, “As will my wife. But this is a high risk, high reward culture and you have to know that going in. Okay,” Ethan said, as he waved me to a chair. “I can guess that the college won’t turn down the money. People will overlook a lot when there’s big money at stake. Who is it and how much is on the line?”
He whistled when I told him, and again when I told him about the art collection.
“Well, they’re sure playing in the big boy pool, but I’m guessing you already suspect that. What can I tell you?”
I explained that I had access to plenty of information about Vince Margoletti, but that it had to be part of my job to get a picture of his capability of writing the big check to support the new art gallery construction in a timely manner. It also fell to me to privately advise the president if the donor was likely to become entangled in any unsavory legal or ethical issues.
“Any more, you mean?” Ethan said, rocking back in his chair. “You’ve read the publicity about the stock price scandal, I assume. He didn’t come out of that one blameless.”
“Yes, I skimmed it and will pass it along to Lynthorpe’s chief, although I’m guessing he’d rather eat worms than read it and have to factor it into his decision.”
“I ate worms once,” Ethan said, looking at the ceiling thoughtfully. “In Africa. Fried in some kind of batter. Not half bad.”
“Margoletti’s role in negotiating the deal for the CEO and the board members was only described sketchily,” I said, to bring Ethan back to the here and now, “but I saw the accusations by one entrepreneur that he was cheated out of his own original idea.”
He nodded. As we talked, I silently thanked Suzy for the tip. Ethan knew quite a bit about Margoletti, in part because he and the other founding partners of the company in whose headquarters we sat had briefly used Margoletti during their incorporation work. “We changed lawyers pretty quickly,” he said, frowning as he fingered a toy robot on his desk. “Margoletti had a habit of thinking he should make decisions for us. He was constantly reminding us that he was more successful than any of us. It was one Friday surprise after another for the few weeks before we pulled back.”
I raised my eyebrows, not sure what he meant.
“One time he wanted his name added to a couple of our patent applications.”
“Is that legal?”
He shrugged. “It’s up to the person or company filing the patent whose names are on it. Anyway, the next call was to bring a new guy onto the team, an engineer of his choosing. Stuff like that.”
“And the problems with the suggestions?”
“A new company stands or falls on its control of patents and licenses. If the founders of your company have patented a valuable piece of intellectual property, they stand a chance of controlling the market for their product at least for a while. Think about the drug industry and gene modification patents. You don’t spread that unique competitive advantage around. Frankly, I was surprised Margoletti had been successful getting a handful of other founders to let him get that close in the past. My board and our founder said no and decided Margoletti wasn’t the right attorney for us if he didn’t understand that.”
“How did he take it?”
“Like you’d imagine. Pissed off, told us we had little chance of succeeding without his help.”
“Sounds like a threat.”
“We took it as his assessment of our naiveté.”
“So, what happened?”
“When our new attorney contacted him for the files, he danced around for a week. Lucky for us, our new lawyer was a junkyard dog and the matter got settled when he threatened to report Margoletti to the bar association.”
“Did Margoletti do anything illegal?”
“No, but like you said, our new lawyer hinted that Margoletti had worked a couple of deals in the past that left some suckers in the lurch.”
“Margoletti stole their ideas?”
“Privately, I wouldn’t bet against it. Took them on as clients, then dumped them on some pretext and hooked up with a competing firm that claimed the idea and submitted patent applications pronto.”
“If that’s widely believed, how come he’s still operating? What you’re describing sounds illegal to me. I’d think his name would be poison by now.”
“Good question. It’s hinted at, not often spelled out in public for one thing, and while a few people have threatened to sue, not one conflict has actually gone to trial. Second, he’s rich and powerful, and he can hurt you with a few well-chosen words in this town. People who don’t like him stay away from him, but he can be seductive. There’s always some newcomer who’s so full of dreams of riches that he’ll buy into Margoletti’s siren song of how they’ll create the next Apple together.” He paused. “This is all background, right? I’m being pretty candid here.”
“Completely. I’m trying to get a picture of the guy, wondering if the money he’
s giving his alma mater may taint the school later on.”
“Look, he’s already on the boards of a handful of charitable groups. If you look around, you’ll find out he’s giving money, doing guest teaching at Stanford and UC, stuff like that.”
“So you’re saying he’s not about to do anything sketchy?”
“He’s at the time of life when he wants to polish his reputation. He has all the money he needs. I’m guessing Forbes lists him as a billionaire next year. He’s not evil, just not someone I’d trust with my revolutionary idea. If I had one,” he chuckled. “After all, I’m a V.C. too and I have the same goal of making money from other people’s genius. I hope I can do it without leaving a trail of unhappy people behind me.”
“Okay, then let me throw one more question at you. And this is confidential on my end too. Any chance the stock he holds in private companies might not be worth all that much?”
“If his companies are in later stages of private funding—big partners weighing in with major investments on a product, not an idea—his stock will be valuable when it goes public. You know he can’t unload it all right away? There’s a waiting period to unload that type of pre-public stock, but unless it tanks right after going through its IPO, the initial public offering to all potential stock market investors, his stake should be okay.”
We chatted for a few minutes about Suzy and her latest one-person exhibition in Oakland. I got up when a guy who looked like he belonged in high school, wearing shorts and a rumpled shirt, rapped on Ethan’s door and poked his head in to say someone wanted him to come look at a PowerPoint report. He had the kid walk me back to the front door, which was a good thing since I’m not at all sure I would have found it on my own.
Mixed Up With Murder Page 7
