Where The Bodies Are Buried

by Janet Dawson

  “What’s that?”

  “Your paycheck. Courtesy of Bates Inc., by way of Woods Temporaries. Next week make sure I don’t have to come looking for your time card.”

  I laughed. “It almost seems as though I shouldn’t take it. Since I’m on an assignment.” She made a move to take the envelope away, and I grabbed it. “On the other hand, the building management just upped my rent.”

  “Mine, too,” she said, shaking her head.

  I opened the envelope and took out the check that represented the two days I’d worked at Bates last week. It was pitifully small. “Damn, by the time the feds and the state take their bites, there’s hardly anything left. Why should I be surprised, though, with the self-employment tax I have to pay every year.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Ruby said. “You should lower your withholding, especially now that you’re buying a house. When is the housewarming, by the way?”

  “Sometime after I move in and unpack. And since I haven’t even given ’em the down payment yet, I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves.” I looked at my office clock. I needed to leave in just a few minutes in order to make it back to Bates by one-thirty. “I hope I’m not going to be doing this Bates gig for much longer.” And I wasn’t sure how long, especially after this morning, I could keep up the pretense of being the temp. “Do you suppose your friend Laverne could do us a favor?”

  “Depends on what it is,” Ruby said. “She doesn’t know about you.”

  “And I don’t want her to know about me. I need some information on a couple of Bates employees. One of them is current, Leon Gomes. The other is a man named Charlie Kellerman. He doesn’t work there any longer, and I think he was fired for misconduct.”

  Ruby thought for a moment, frowning. “With Kellerman, I could say a friend of mine was thinking about giving him a job, and could Laverne tell me anything about him. On Gomes, since he still works there, I don’t know whether she’ll be able to tell me anything.”

  “Don’t push it. I don’t want to put you at risk.”

  She nodded. “I appreciate the thought. But in for a penny, in for a pound. Leave it to me. I’ll see what I can do.”

  I got back to the legal department a minute or so after one-thirty and set to work again. The next three and a half hours went quickly, and at five I was out the door again. Before I went back to my Franklin Street office, however, there was something I wanted to do.

  Seeing all those birds, and the parrot, in the backyard of my new house had given me an urge to identify them. There was a large chain bookstore over at Jack London Square. Surely they’d have some sort of bird book I could use as a reference. So instead of retrieving my car from the Bates parking lot, I set out on foot toward the bookstore.

  As I reached the Embarcadero, I suddenly felt a prickle on my neck. There was that eyes-on-my-back feeling again. I was being watched. Before I crossed the wide street, I looked to my left, as though looking at traffic. I didn’t see anyone following me from the Bates building.

  On the other side of the Embarcadero I walked the block from Webster to Franklin, then around to the front of the bookstore, which faced the buildings along the estuary. It was a big barn of a place, and I wasn’t familiar with the layout, so I wandered the aisles for a moment, searching for books about birds. A field guide, or some such thing, that would help me tell the difference between a sparrow and a finch. Maybe I should figure out what kind of parrot I’d seen flying around with the pigeons while I was at it.

  I found the section with books on nature and animals and examined the titles. There it was again, that prickly feeling. I was definitely being watched. I pulled one of the books from the shelf and flipped open the pages as though I were examining it. Then I turned to my left, head down, using my peripheral vision to sweep the interior of the bookstore. Nothing there. I placed the book back on the shelf and chose another volume. I turned to my right, pretending to read the pages of the book.

  Now I saw David Vanitzky’s head and the shoulders of his dark gray pinstriped suit. He was in a nearby alcove full of magazines and newspapers, about ten feet away, sauntering casually along a rack of business publications. He carried a couple of paperbacks in his left hand. Was he buying them, or was it camouflage?

  I turned back toward the shelves and replaced the book. Then, right in front of me, I saw what I’d been looking for: Birds of San Francisco and the Bay Area. I pulled it from the shelf and leafed through it. Then I heard a voice next to me.

  “Are you into bird-watching, Ms. Howard?”

  I glanced to my right. Vanitzky had loosened the knot in his dark gray silk tie, and the bloodred ruby tiepin glowed in its gold setting. He looked elegant, as relaxed as a well-fed cat.

  “Reference material, Mr. Vanitzky. What about you?” I glanced at the books he held. From the names on the covers I identified them as mysteries.

  His eyes met mine and held them with his gaze. “Oh, I like a good detective story now and then.”

  Damn. Was he on to me? I looked at his sharp-featured face, searching for any indication that his reference to the books was an oblique reference to me. The chilly gray eyes gave nothing away.

  I smiled noncommittally. With the bird book in my hand, I walked toward the cash registers arrayed at the front of the store. He fell into step beside me.

  “You don’t seem the bird-watching type,” he commented, his voice friendlier than his eyes had been.

  “You don’t know me,” I told him, with a sidelong glance. I stopped at one of the cash registers, waiting for the clerk to finish with the customer in front of me.

  “No, I don’t.” He turned to face me. His eyes had warmed up a bit. “Let’s remedy that. Care to join me for a little after-work libation?” He jerked his pointed chin in the direction of Jack’s Bistro on the other side of Broadway.

  I hesitated a second. Then I nodded and moved to the counter, where the clerk rang up my purchase. Vanitzky stayed behind me, close enough for me to get a whiff of the predator. Just who was stalking whom? I wanted information. Having a drink with him seemed like a good opportunity to get it.

  But I was betting he wanted something from me. He must have had a reason for following me here. No way did I think this was a chance encounter. I recalled what everyone had told me about Vanitzky’s reputation with women. Was the elegant shark in the gray suit putting the moves on the office temp? Possibly. The pheromones were definitely in play. Maybe that’s what was in the wind. But there was something else going on besides a male-female attraction.

  With our book purchases in hand, we walked from the bookstore, across the plaza at the foot of Broadway. Jack’s Bistro was located just this side of the Waterfront Plaza Hotel. The hotel was more upscale in its present incarnation, but it used to be a more utilitarian place called the Boatel. One night about eighteen months ago I’d had a confrontation not far from here, with a killer who had a gun. Both of us had wound up in the dark cold water of the estuary.

  I pushed away the thought of that night as David Vanitzky held the door for me. Inside, the decor was striving for the look of an Italian trattoria. The restaurant windows opened on the estuary. In the bar I saw glass-topped tables and wrought-iron chairs with padded seats. Neither Vanitzky nor I was there for the view, however. We took a table near the bar. He ordered Scotch. I opted for a glass of chardonnay.

  “Are there any specific birds you’d like to watch?” he asked, picking up the book I’d just bought.

  “Not really.” I gazed at him steadily. “I just like to know what I’m looking at.”

  “Do you?” He smiled as the cocktail waitress delivered our drinks. When she headed back toward the bar, his eyes followed her, as though he couldn’t resist assessing the sleekness of her figure.

  “Thanks for the wine, Mr. Vanitzky.” I picked up the glass and took a sip. Just what the hell was he up to? I felt as though I’d joined the ballet and I was tippy-toeing around the stage of the Paramount, trying to get a grip on my p
artner.

  Now the gray eyes slewed back toward me, twinkling with amusement as he reached for his Scotch. “Oh, call me David. And I’ll call you Jeri.”

  “Are you in the habit of having drinks with secretaries?”

  “Depends on the secretary.” He knocked back about half his drink and set the glass down on the surface of the table. “You’re an attractive woman. Do I need another reason?”

  “Depends on the reason.” I took another sip of wine. “I’ve heard stories about you.”

  “Already? You’ve only been working at Bates a week. Stories about my business acumen? Or my success with women?”

  “Stories about your ego, maybe.”

  “Ouch. A well-placed shot.” He saluted me with his glass. Then he swallowed the rest and signaled the cocktail waitress for another. “I won’t ask you where the stories came from.”

  “Just what is it you want to ask me?”

  “How long do you plan to work at Bates?”

  I shrugged. “I understand they’re shorthanded in the legal department. So I guess I’ll stay as long as they need a temp.”

  “Temp doesn’t pay all that well. Interested in earning more money?”

  His voice lowered as he spoke, and he leaned forward. Now he looked like a predator again, with his lean face and his hawk’s beak, with his gray eyes like a raptor’s looking for prey. I found myself leaning back, involuntarily, as though I wasn’t sure what he’d do with me if he caught me.

  “Just what sort of proposition are you making... David?” I picked up my glass and fortified myself with wine. I wondered if his secretary was about to retire. On the other hand, the intimate tone in his voice made it sound as though he had something carnal in mind, such as getting me into the sack. I wouldn’t put it past him.

  I chose my words carefully. “You’re right, temping is a short-term option. If you’re talking about a more permanent job, I might be interested. Is there a position available in executive territory? Perhaps in the office of the chief financial officer?”

  “I’d rather you stayed right where you are.” His voice turned soft and deadly, and there was a wicked gleam in his eyes. “In the legal department, working with Hank Irvin. As long as you report back to me.”

  Twenty-five

  “YOU WANT ME TO SPY ON HANK IRVIN.”

  I stared at him, considering the implications of what I’d just heard. From the way he’d led up to it, I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if Vanitzky had asked me for a date. I was almost disappointed that he hadn’t. I’d been enjoying the dance so far. But the relationship he’d just proposed offered some intriguing possibilities.

  Vanitzky wasn’t one to beat around the bush, now that his cards were on the table. He leaned back, fingers tracing a pattern on the side of his glass. The seductive intimacy evident in his voice a few minutes earlier gave way to the clipped tones of the corporate shark. He seemed quite confident that I’d do what he asked.

  “That’s precisely what I want you to do.” He raised the glass to his lips and swallowed some more Scotch. “I’ll make the compensation worth the risk, of course.”

  “Why?” Go ahead, I thought. Drop the information in my lap. He didn’t say anything, so I gave him some encouragement. “Does this have something to do with the possibility that Hank Irvin will be the next general counsel?”

  “You know about that.” He didn’t frame the words as a question. In fact, he wasn’t even surprised that I knew.

  “I heard it on the grapevine,” I said, with a deprecating shrug. “Secretaries hear lots of things.” And the Bates grapevine was working overtime these days.

  David laughed. “Exactly my point. Secretaries run the whole damn outfit. Corporate America would collapse without them.”

  “If that’s the case, why aren’t they paid better?” I couldn’t resist the barb, especially after that tiny paycheck I’d received earlier today.

  “I’m prepared to remedy that inequity. Handsomely.” His voice insinuated intimacy. After all, we were about to become partners in crime. “As a secretary, you’re perfectly positioned to gather information.”

  “Oh, yes. Secretaries are invisible, almost like office furniture.” I sipped wine, watching his face over the rim of my glass. I was beginning to understand how he’d risen so high in the cutthroat corporate world. This guy didn’t miss a chance to slip the knife into the back of the guy on the next rung up the ladder. “As a temporary employee, of course, I have no loyalties to any particular person, or department.”

  David’s eyes twinkled. “I see we understand each other. I knew you were sharp the minute I laid eyes on you.”

  I set the glass down and ran my finger around the rim. “How much money are we talking about?” He named a figure that was more than tempting. I tilted my head to one side, as though I were considering asking for more. “Just what do I have to do to earn that? Is there something Hank’s done that piques your interest? It seems to me I need to know what’s going on, so I’ll know what to look for.”

  He looked at me as though he was assessing just how far he could trust me. “You know Hank used to work for a law firm in the city, Berkshire and Gentry.”

  I nodded. “I’ve heard of them. Quite large. Lots of important clients. Including Rittlestone and Weper.”

  “And I used to work for Rittlestone and Weper.”

  “Still do, don’t you? You, Nolan Ward in production, Tonya Russell in human resources, and all those other Rittlestone and Weper graduates who moved to Bates after the LBO.”

  He studied me. “You have learned a lot in your week in the legal department.”

  “Isn’t that why you’re interested in me?” I challenged him with a stare.

  He smiled. “I work for Bates now. Of course, Rittlestone and Weper own a controlling share of Bates. So I suppose in a roundabout way I do work for R&W”

  Of course he did, even if the chain of command wasn’t as direct as it had been before. David was Frank Weper’s former assistant, a high-level player over at Rittlestone and Weper. He probably still reported to Weper.

  Or maybe David Vanitzky didn’t have any loyalty to anyone but himself.

  I drank some more chardonnay, wondering why David didn’t trust Hank. From what I’d heard on the company rumor mill, Hank made the move from his partnership in that big law firm, at R&W’s behest, for the express purpose of taking over as general counsel from Alex, who might not be ready to retire. But if R&W wanted Alex out, they’d make it happen.

  And if R&W got rid of Jeff Bates, the current chief executive officer, I was now looking at the man who was going to succeed him. Unless whoever was behind David on the corporate ladder slipped a shiv between his ribs.

  Did David suspect Hank of being the man with the knife? It sounded as though Rittlestone and Weper’s point man didn’t trust Berkshire and Gentry’s point man. Could this presage a bloody power struggle was going on behind the scenes at Bates?

  “Do you think Hank is interested in something other than Alex Campbell’s job?” I asked.

  Now it was David’s turn to shrug. “Finding out what Hank’s career plans are is your job.”

  “Suppose someone finds out I’m collecting information for you. I’d lose my job. What about you? Aren’t you worried someone might retaliate?”

  “Retaliate?” He laughed, but his smile didn’t extend to his cold eyes. “Anything’s possible. But you see, Jeri, I know where the bodies are buried. Too damn many of them.”

  From the look on his face, I was certain he’d buried a few of them himself. And his knowledge of where the bodies were buried might just be the reason someone wanted to bury David Vanitzky.

  “What makes you think Hank wants to climb higher up the corporate ladder?”

  David narrowed his eyes. “I’m an ambitious man. I recognize the symptoms when I see them.”

  “If Hank is making a move, he must have someone in his corner who’ll back his play,” I said. “Who do you think that
might be?”

  “Let’s not mention any names right now.”

  “I see. Playing your cards close to the chest.”

  David smiled. “Always a good idea,” he said, “in a high-stakes game.”

  “Just how high are the stakes?”

  He didn’t answer. Instead he gulped down the rest of his Scotch and stared at the glass as though he was debating the wisdom of having another.

  “Suppose I find out Hank’s career plans are more ambitious than you think they should be. What happens then?”

  His hand tightened on the glass as he growled, “I’ll get out my shovel.”

  My enlightening after-work libation with David Vanitzky was very much on my mind as I unlocked my office door that evening, wearily contemplating another hour or so of catch-up work. The red light on my answering machine was blinking rapidly, so the first thing I did was take down the messages. Most of them related to other ongoing investigations, but two were about the Lawter case.

  The first was from Sally Morgan, the neighbor who’d heard noises in Rob’s apartment the night he went out the window. The second was from Rob’s niece Robin Hartzell. She told me it wasn’t a good idea to call her. She’d try to reach me again later, she said, either here at the office or at my apartment. I looked at my watch. Six-thirty. She probably had to get away from the house in order to get in touch with me.

  I picked up the phone and called Sally Morgan. After I’d identified myself, she said, “I thought you should know there was a woman here today, asking questions about Rob.”

  “Really? When did you see her?” I leaned forward in my office chair and picked up a pencil, moving my lined yellow pad into position.

  “I took the day off because I had a doctor’s appointment and some errands to run. I got home about two o’clock and saw her in the hall, trying to talk with Charlie Kellerman. Then she started asking me questions. Like what happened the night he died, and whether anyone else besides the police was asking about it. I didn’t tell her about you.”