Where The Bodies Are Buried

by Janet Dawson

  I left the computer on, as though I planned to return. After all, it was only a few minutes after four, and I was supposed to work until four-thirty. I moved toward the door, keeping the strap of my purse close to my body, holding it on the side away from Nancy.

  Once out of Cube City, I rounded the corner just as Gladys came out of Patricia’s office. She gave no indication of having seen me. I headed for the stairwell. No way was I going to get caught in an elevator. And no way was I going to let Buck Tarcher get a crack at me.

  I hurried down the stairs, my feet tapping a frantic rhythm on the linoleum-covered risers. On the first floor I pushed through the door and quickly scanned the reception area. No sign of Tarcher. I was afraid he might be waiting for me, that Nancy might have called to let him know I was on my way down.

  By the time I got out the front door of the Bates building, I felt as though I’d been holding my breath all during my exodus from the fourth floor, all the way down the stairs. I released it in a sigh, and took in another lungful as I started walking.

  The jig was up, in more ways than one.

  Thirty-eight

  IT WAS TOO EARLY FOR DAVID VANITZKY TO MEET ME at the bookstore where we’d had our initial encounter last week. When I got to the store, I went upstairs to the café and nursed a latte and a piece of cheesecake while I waited, examining the note I’d smuggled out of Hank’s office. The letterhead was that of one of the pension plan fund managers, which made the implications of the words I read plain.

  I used my cell phone to call my office and retrieve my messages. One of them was from Al Dominici. When I’d talked with him Sunday afternoon, he’d sounded too sprightly to be a retiree. But he’d told me he’d gotten fed up with the changes at Bates since the leveraged buyout.

  “Those guys from Rittlestone and Weper may know how to put together a deal that’ll make ’em rich, but they don’t know diddly-squat about running a food business,” he said. “The bottom line’s more important to them than safety. When Nolan Ward ignored my recommendations about some problems we were having in one of the plants, I decided it was time to get out of there.”

  I’d laughed, then explained why I was calling and asked for his help. Maybe he’d gotten the information I was after. I punched in his number.

  “I did what you asked,” he said, sounding as energetic as he had the day before. “I checked with a couple of my buddies in the Alameda and Contra Costa County health departments. They both got reports of salmonella cases in August, from doctors who treated eight of the people on that list of names you gave me. One case was pretty serious, a kid who wound up being hospitalized in Walnut Creek. Eight out of eleven means it’s probably just the tip of the iceberg.”

  “So they’ve started investigations,” I said.

  “Yeah, but like I told you yesterday, it takes time. I don’t think anyone’s contacted the company yet. The next step is to talk with the doctors, to determine which species of salmonella they’re dealing with. Then they’ll interview the people who got sick. Most of the time the investigators don’t have any idea what caused an outbreak until they trace it back. Now that I’ve mentioned the possibility that it’s ice cream, my friends are going to call health departments in some other counties, to see if they’ve got reported cases. Then the investigators will go to the stores, buy some of the products with those batch numbers, and do some testing.”

  “What would Nolan Ward and Patricia Mayhew do if someone suggested recalling the products,” I asked, “without any hard evidence of salmonella?”

  “They’d have a meeting,” Al said. “To talk about the pucker factor.”

  “Pucker factor? What the hell is that?”

  “Risk analysis. That’s where you sit down and balance the cost of keeping the stuff on the shelves as opposed to the cost of pulling it. If the expense of a voluntary recall is high and the risk of liability is low, they’d probably keep it on the shelves. But salmonella? That puts the risk through the ceiling. I can’t believe they’d ignore it.”

  “I don’t know that they did,” I told him. “I need more information.”

  “I know one thing for sure,” he declared. “If I was still working in production, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. I’d have gone straight upstairs to Jeff Bates and had that product pulled by the end of the day.”

  I disconnected the call, wondering how much bad news it took to make Patricia and Nolan pucker. Then I looked up and saw David stride through the front door to mingle with the rest of the after-work shoppers. By the time I got downstairs, he was at the biography shelves, leafing impatiently through a thick trade paperback about Winston Churchill. I stopped beside him, eyeing a recent book about Humphrey Bogart that I wanted to read. Then I glanced up and down the aisle where we stood, looking for eavesdroppers and observers. I spotted a secretary who worked in human resources, heading this way.

  “We can’t talk here,” I told David in a low voice. “Let’s walk.”

  I turned and headed out of the bookstore. I waited near the flagpole at the foot of Broadway. David showed up a few minutes later. I set off again, with David following about ten feet behind me as I strolled along the walkway at the water’s edge. I kept walking until I reached the ferry terminal and the Franklin Delano Roosevelt Pier at the foot of Clay Street.

  The next ferry wasn’t due to leave for San Francisco until five minutes to six, but there were a dozen or so people on the pier. No doubt some were waiting for the ferry, but others were exploring the pier and the rest of the waterfront. I quickly scanned them and didn’t see anyone I recognized from Bates. I walked along one side of the pier, then stopped and leaned forward against the wooden railing, looking down at the City of Oakland fireboat and the water lapping against the pilings.

  David stepped up beside me, his back to the railing. I moved away from him, toward a nearby bench, then turned to face him. He’d loosened his tie, and now he unbuttoned the top of his crisp white shirt, showing a few gray hairs sprouting from the neck of the T-shirt underneath.

  “I think you’d better tell me the other reason you wanted me to spy on Hank Irvin.”

  He ran a hand through his unruly gray curls and tried to intimidate me with his predator’s eyes. “Never mind that. I don’t think you had any intention of doing it anyway.”

  “After Friday afternoon’s events, spying on Hank is a little like locking the barn door after the horse is long gone. I’ll bet the walls of that barn are feeling a little shaky right now. Do you still know where all the bodies are buried?”

  He narrowed his eyes and stared at me. “What are you getting at?”

  “Answers to questions such as why are very important to me. Also who, what, where, when, and how.”

  I reached into my shoulder bag and pulled out one of my business cards. I handed it to him. He squinted in the afternoon sunshine as he read it, then he raised his eyes and stared at me.

  “J. Howard Investigations? What the hell does this mean?”

  “It means I’m a private investigator.”

  He looked at me incredulously. Then he leaned against the railing, threw his head back, and laughed, loud enough to garner some looks from the other people on the pier.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said finally, shaking his head. “I must really be losing my edge. Time was, I’d have spotted you right away.”

  Suddenly his bony face changed, like quicksilver. Humor vanished and he was deadly serious now. His hand snaked out and clamped around my wrist. “Who hired you?”

  Two could play the physical game, and I wasn’t afraid of a scrap. I moved my arm, bending his far enough back to cause discomfort. He released me. When he spoke again, his tone was calmer, but not by much.

  “Who hired you? Was it Yale Rittlestone? Or maybe Hank?”

  “A dead man.”

  He glared at me, not getting it. Why did he think the two men he’d named had set an investigator on him? It looked as though David had more to worry about than the rest
of the sharks swimming in the corporate waters over at Bates.

  Wheels turned in David’s head, then light dawned in the gray eyes. “For God’s sake, you’re talking about that paralegal who fell out a window a couple of weeks ago.”

  “His name was Rob Lawter. He didn’t fall. He was pushed. And someone beat him up badly before he went out that window.”

  “Murder,” he said. “And you think somebody at Bates... Well, why should I be surprised at murder?”

  “Seen a lot, haven’t you, up to and just short of murder?”

  He didn’t answer my question, or his own. Instead, he circled around me as though he wanted to examine every angle. “So, you’re working for a dead man. That doesn’t sound like a growth industry.”

  “I’m not interested in growth. I’m interested in justice. And finding some answers. I’ve still got a few bucks left on the dead man’s retainer check. I intend to keep looking until I find out who killed him. And why.”

  He assessed me with his gray eyes. “I’d hate to have you birddogging my tail.”

  “You’ll find me doing just that, if I don’t get some answers.”

  Now he raised his eyebrows, half-amused, half-serious. “You think I killed him?”

  “If I did, you’d be in jail. I have friends down at the Oakland Police Department.”

  “How does this affect our business relationship?” A sly smile crept over his face.

  “We don’t have one.”

  He chuckled. “Oh, yes, we do, Jeri. Especially if you want to continue your little charade as a secretary in the legal department.”

  “My little charade seems to have reached the end of its usefulness. Buck Tarcher’s had his gimlet eyes on me since last week. He wanted to see me in his office this afternoon. I ducked out without dropping by to see what he wanted.”

  “I’ll handle Tarcher,” he said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’ll tell him I hired you. Which I thought I had.”

  “You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you. I could have sworn your perch at the top of the corporate ladder was a little shaky after Friday afternoon.”

  “It could be.” His face closed up, and I sensed the quiet hush of receding bravado.

  “Come on, David, level with me. Why did you want me to keep an eye on Hank? Why did you ask if he or Yale Rittlestone hired me? Why didn’t you ask about Frank Weper?”

  “Because I’ve worked with Frank Weper for fifteen years. I know him pretty well.”

  “You’re sure?”

  He glowered. “Yes, damn it, I’m sure.”

  “Then where is he in this picture? He seems to be missing.”

  “That’s because he’s been kept out of the picture. By Yale.” I must have looked skeptical, because David elaborated. “I had a feeling Hank was in Yale’s pocket, ever since they brought Hank on board from Berkshire and Gentry. But I didn’t expect what happened Friday afternoon. Yale’s not following the script.”

  “So there was a script.”

  “There always is,” David said. “Frank and I have been doing these buyouts for years. We usually follow the same pattern.”

  “One that had you stepping into the CEO job at Bates.”

  He shook his head. “Only as a fallback position. If that were the case, I’d be running every company we’d bought. The deal was that if Jeff Bates and the company performed the way we hoped, we’d leave Jeff in place as CEO. The last time I talked with Frank, that’s what he wanted to do.”

  “You’re telling me Weper knew nothing about the Friday afternoon massacre?”

  “Hell, no.” David struck the pier railing with his hand. “Frank’s been in Florida since last week. His daughter got married Saturday, and he only got back to the office in Chicago this morning. I assure you, he was not happy to hear about this.” David glanced at the fancy Rolex on his wrist, then put his hands on his hips. “Right now he’s on his way out here. I’m picking him up at SFO in about three hours.”

  “What about this El Paso move? Is that part of the script, too?”

  He shrugged. “There was some talk about moving the company out of the Bay Area, even out of state, to cut costs. El Paso wasn’t specifically mentioned. It makes good business sense, though. Those Sheffield plants are newer, and the laws in Texas less restrictive.”

  “Tell that to the people you’re going to throw out of work,” I snapped. “Jeff Bates says there was some talk of expanding operations into the western United States. Is that true, or was it just a story he was fed?”

  “I think it was something Jeff wanted to do. Maybe Yale encouraged him in that line of thinking. I don’t know.”

  “So it wasn’t part of the script. What about the money that seems to be missing from the Bates pension fund?”

  David widened his eyes. “How the hell do you know about that?”

  I smiled as I quoted his own words to Hank Irvin. “‘There’s blood all over the floor. Mopping it up ain’t gonna be pretty. In fact, you and I are gonna get blood all over our hands.’”

  “Did you have your ear to the door?” he asked, a challenging note in his voice. “How much do you know?”

  “Enough. It sounds as though someone is playing with the retirement plan money. To the tune of more than a million dollars. And if the feds find out, you’re all going to be fucked. I believe those are your words, as well. I had my ear to that door, too. Who is it?”

  “The evidence points to Ed Decker,” David said. “But I’m not sure. He’s the senior vice president in charge of human resources, so he’s got the clout to play footsie with the fund managers. That’s why I brought Tonya Russell in from Chicago, to keep an eye on him.”

  “Which cost a very nice lady named Laverne Carson her job,” I said. David just looked at me, as though he didn’t see how one related to the other. “You really don’t get it, do you? People aren’t just pawns to be moved around a chessboard.”

  “Okay, I’m a coldhearted, corporate son of a bitch,” he said. “I admit it. But what does that make you?”

  “Someone who peeks through keyholes and steals pieces of paper, I guess.”

  I pulled out the piece of paper I’d found in the locked drawer of Hank’s desk. I held it up so David could see it. “Can you think of any reason why Hank should receive a personal note from the manager of the fund that’s losing money? Particularly with a date in August.”

  David took the note and looked at it closely, shaking his head. “No, I can’t.”

  “When I overheard you talking with Hank last week, it sounded as though he didn’t know anything about the situation, until you took him into your confidence. Am I right?”

  “You are,” David said slowly. “He acted as though that was the first he’d heard of it.”

  “But it wasn’t, according to this.” I fingered the edge of the note. “I think Hank knows more about that million-plus dollars than he’s letting on. Why else would he be communicating with the fund manager? He had me type a separation agreement for Ed Decker. Were you aware of any plans to fire Decker?”

  He shook his head again. “Only if we found out he engineered the pension fund losses.”

  “Looks like Decker’s being engineered as the fall guy,” I said. “Hank’s covering his tracks and shifting blame to Decker. He drafted that agreement before you told him about the pension fund. And Eric Nybaken signed off on it. So whose idea was it to get rid of Decker?”

  I’d been wondering whether Yale Rittlestone’s fingerprints might be found on what David referred to as the pension fund losses. From the look on his face, he was now entertaining thoughts along the same lines.

  “Whose idea was it to move Tonya from human resources into legal?” I asked.

  “Hank’s. I argued against it.”

  “Then she must have been getting close to finding out the truth. So Hank and Yale had to get her out of human resources. It’s a theory, but that’s my best guess as to how it lays out. As for proving it, well, that could be a lit
tle tougher.”

  “How does this help you find out who killed that paralegal? Rob?...”

  “Lawter. Let’s put it this way,” I told him. “I know a little bit about a lot of things. Several of them have the potential to put Bates and its top executives, including you, in one hell of a lot of trouble. Capital T trouble with various governmental agencies, as well as the people who work for the company and the people who buy Bates Best products. Rob knew too much about one of these scenarios, and it got him killed. It’s a question of determining which one. The pension situation is one possibility. But I have another scenario that’s looking better. I just need more time.”

  “What you need is my help,” he said. “Such as keeping Tarcher off your tail. So you’re still working for me.”

  “Not bloody likely,” I said, prepared to argue. Then I looked past his shoulder and drew in a breath. “It’s Patricia Mayhew. She’s coming to catch the ferry.”

  “She must be going over to Yale’s place in the city,” David said. “You know she’s sleeping with him.”

  “Yes, I had figured that out. If she sees us together...”

  “She’ll think I’m living up to my reputation as a roué and a ladies man,” he finished, “skating as always on the sharp edge of a sexual harassment charge. Might as well take advantage of it.”

  He moved toward me. One of his arms went around my waist. Like a pair of lovers, we strolled away from the railing into the shelter of the stairs, where we couldn’t be seen from the ferry dock. From the corner of my eye I saw Patricia join the others waiting for the ferry, which had just docked. I lost sight of her as several passengers got off the boat. Then I saw her again as she and the others walked up the gangway and onto the boat.

  “She’s aboard,” I said.

  But David didn’t release me. Instead he turned toward me and pulled me against the length of his body. His mouth came down on mine.

  He had a soft mouth for such a hard case. I kissed him back, feeling a surge of guilty pleasure. I hated to admit it, but David Vanitzky was bad-boy sexy. The lure of the guy with the dangerous smile was, for me, somehow more attractive than the safe guy next door.