“I am a big believer in tradition,” said Lawrence. “I’m practically superstitious about it.”
“You have a drinking tradition?” I asked.
“I have lots of drinking traditions. I have a tall glass of kefir before an important negotiation, and then if it goes well, I follow it up with a shot of Jägermeister.”
“That’s a disgusting combination of beverages,” I said.
“Tradition is frequently disgusting,” said Lawrence, which was a fair observation.
“So you’re out because your negotiation went well,” I said.
“I haven’t finished telling you about the tradition,” said Lawrence. “If it goes very badly, I have bourbon on the rocks. And if it goes very, very well, I open a bottle of champagne.”
“The details of this are unnecessary to me.”
“If it goes very, very badly, I drink ouzo. Into oblivion.”
“So what are you drinking?” I asked.
“Bourbon on the rocks,” said Lawrence. “Did Vanetta get the bad news yet?”
“That Quintrell and Gary can’t make last week’s build work?”
“No,” said Lawrence. And now that I had been clued into it, I noticed music in the background—Steve Winwood, from the sounds of it.
“You mean about the second whistle-blower’s letter?” I ventured.
“Jesus, no. There’s a second whistle-blower’s letter? Garçon! Get me some ouzo.”
“Apparently so,” I said. “That’s partially why I’m checking on your whereabouts this morning.”
“What, Vanetta thinks I did it?”
“I doubt it. But it’s like Ronald Reagan said: ‘Trust, but verify.’”
“It’s like Winston Churchill said: Fuck you, Vanetta.”
I did not like being told off by Lawrence in this way, but neither did I feel that it was out of character for him. I suppose this could have made me suspicious—what was he trying to hide?—but mostly I thought that this was his general response to being called out on anything.
Also, I doubted that Winston Churchill had a lot of opinions about Vanetta one way or the other.
“So,” I said. “Like I was getting at—what were you doing earlier this morning?”
“I was on the phone with DE, actually. Getting the bad news that led me to this bar.”
I was getting off topic, but I was curious.
“Okay, fine, what’s your bad news?”
“Morgan Freeman is out.”
“He’s alive, right?” I asked, because at this point you never know.
“Of course he’s alive,” said Lawrence. “But his people say that he’s turned down the project. Apparently, he doesn’t do video games.”
This did not seem like the most terrible news I had heard in the past week, or frankly even the past hour, and I told this to Lawrence.
“Oh yeah? Wait until Vanetta finds out.”
I got off the phone with Lawrence and checked Archie’s office, which was empty. It was possible that he was still putting away sound equipment downstairs, although this would have required moving at a glacial pace. It seemed somehow more likely that he was at the Beechwood himself. I should have asked Lawrence to keep a lookout for him.
As it happens, I did not have Archie’s cell number helpfully printed out at my desk, probably because he was less inclined to disappearances than Lawrence was. So, I gave up on Archie for now, and headed back to Vanetta’s office to report.
Vanetta was clearly on the phone with DE, and from appearances, was having one of those conversations that a Bond villain henchman has with his boss shortly before getting bumped off. I could only hear one half of the conversation, but this is how I imagined it going:
Vanetta, actual dialogue: “It came as a shock to me as well, Frank.”
Man on phone, imagined dialogue: “AT OUR ORGANIZATION, WE DON’T CARE FOR SHOCKS, VANETTA. WE RELY UPON YOU TO BE OUR EYES AND EARS. PRAY THAT YOU DO NOT DISAPPOINT ME A SECOND TIME.”
Vanetta, actual dialogue: “We’re doing everything we can to solve this problem.”
Man on phone, imagined, cracking knuckles. “SEE THAT YOU DO. I’D HATE TO SEE SOMETHING … HAPPEN TO YOU.”
“We’re working on it right now. I can promise you that there won’t be another letter.”
“EXCELLENT. YOU’VE ALWAYS BEEN MY FAVORITE, VANETTA. I’D HATE TO … STOP DOING BUSINESS WITH YOU.”
“Of course, sir. I’ll keep you abreast of the situation.”
White cat, in man’s lap: HISS.
Vanetta put down the phone and stared at me, although her face was, for once, completely unreadable. She was looking at me, but in a dreamy and oddly assessing way, as though my head were a Bob Ross painting. I didn’t much care for it, actually.
“You all right, boss?”
I actually called her boss, and this came out in a goon-like manner, as if I were suddenly from New Jersey and the next phrase out of me would have been “you want I should whack this guy?” I guess my James Bond fantasia had put me in a mood.
“I’m fine,” said Vanetta, sounding Not Fine. “DE is not happy about the leak, but I had expected them to be not happy about the leak. Why should they be?”
“They want someone’s head, I take it?”
“You take it right,” said Vanetta. “No one fessed up to it, did they?”
“No,” I said. And thinking over it, I was doubtful that anyone had actually done it. Tyler had the means, I suppose, but no particular motivation, and I didn’t think that he was that great an actor. Gary and Quintrell certainly had the impression of people who had been working all morning, and besides which, Quintrell HAD WILLINGLY COME HERE FROM JAIL, and thus did not seem like the sort of person inclined to complain about working. Quintrell could be fired, and he would probably still be working. Lawrence could have done it but seemed genuinely surprised by the news and had no motivation besides.
That just left Archie, which was possible, hypothetically, but also felt like the sort of theory that a cop would use on some awful Netflix documentary about a wrongfully imprisoned man. You could technically line up the facts so that it worked, but if you spent much time thinking about it at all, it was bound to fall apart. Even more so if you played dramatic music behind it.
I told all this to Vanetta, even the Netflix part.
“We know it’s someone from here, though,” she said. “It must be a spouse.”
“There aren’t a lot of spouses,” I said. “Quintrell’s got some sort of proto-girlfriend that he sees on a semimonthly basis. Tyler is imminently single. Archie’s ladyfriend is you—”
“Among others—” said Vanetta.
“I don’t know what Lawrence’s situation is, but he doesn’t seem like someone you’d fight to spend more time with.”
“Ha!” said Vanetta. “And also, true.”
“That just leaves Gary’s wife.”
“Call her,” said Vanetta.
“That seems really invasive,” I said. “And would that even be legal? Like, from a Human Resources standpoint?”
“CALL HER,” said Vanetta again. “I’ll email you her phone number. Her name is Maura, I think. Or Laura. Maura or Laura.”
This conversation sounded like a nightmare, but I was getting reasonably good at nightmares these days.
“You realize that whoever wrote the whistle-blower’s letter could be someone who already left,” I said. “Cynthia, or Jason, or whoever used to work here before me.”
Vanetta sighed. “Of course I realize that. But this isn’t even really about figuring out who the writer is. It’s about assuring DE that we’re doing everything we can to figure out who the letter writer is. I’m not ready to start harassing old employees.”
“Gary’s wife it is, then,” I said. At least I had legit work to do.
“Actually,” said Vanetta. “I just remembered. It’s Cora.”
“Great,” I said. “Although I’ve got some bad news from Lawrence. Morgan Freeman does not d
o video games.”
Vanetta said nothing and sat down. I had expected fireworks from her, at least a raised voice, but she was completely quiet for a long moment, whereupon she slowly got into her chair, and said, very quietly:
“I want to be alone.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Gary’s wife was named Adalbjorg, which emphatically does not rhyme with or even resemble Laura, Cora, or Maura. This is the quality of information I’m working with. I learned this by asking Gary before I made the call, which perhaps wasn’t terribly artful, but there’s nothing wrong with the occasional direct approach.
I was not keen on this conversation, even before I knew about the wrong name, because it felt like a shakedown, and while I was getting shakedown money from Emily, I was not getting it from Vanetta. Also, I find that I like a little more time to gear up for a shakedown. It’s the sort of thing that you want to mentally prep for. You can’t just show up and threaten someone. You’ve got to psych yourself up, maybe listen to an appropriately violent playlist.
I just went and called Gary’s wife.
“Hello,” I said. “Is this Ms. Bright?”
“Yes,” said a voice, which I will note was youthful and unaccented, because these might not be the associations you form for the name Adalbjorg. “Who is this?”
“This is Dahlia—I’m the new receptionist over at Cahaba Apps.”
“Oh,” said Adalbjorg, concerned, “everything okay over there? Lawrence hasn’t drugged my husband again, has he?”
“Wait, what?”
“If he has, just let him sleep it off like last time.”
“No one has drugged your husband.”
“Oh, well, good. Everything else fine?”
“Yes,” I said. “Twenty-four hours without a murder. Longer probably.”
Adalbjorg laughed at my joke—not uproariously—but a light chuckle of the perfect length. “You can only go up from there.”
This was not wholly true. I’d already been worried at various points that Archie, Lawrence, and improbably, Morgan Freeman had somehow gotten murdered this morning, and so I certainly did not think that upward progress was an inevitability. Although I went along with the idea.
“Why did Lawrence drug your husband?” I asked.
“Oh, it was just some mix-up. You know Lawrence.”
I did not know Lawrence, apparently. I would want to follow up on this.
“So,” said Adalbjorg, “What’s going on?”
I wasn’t sure exactly how I wanted to play this conversation. I’d had some ideas, but it had depended upon what kind of Adalbjorg had picked up the receiver:
Nervous, anxious Adalbjorg, at which point I would assume her guilt and press hard.
Indignant, irritated Adalbjorg, at which point I would tread softly.
Swedish Chef Adalbjorg, who would speak with an indecipherably thick Icelandic accent and periodically say things like “bjork, bjork, bjork.” At which point I would question mark, question mark, question mark.
But I had gotten a friendly “Is my husband drugged again Adalbjorg,” which certainly wasn’t one of my initial sketches. So I settled on a new angle.
“Listen,” I said, using my most earnest voice while also lying through my teeth. “I’m not supposed to be calling you, but I wanted to give you a heads-up.”
“A heads-up about what?”
“There was a new whistle-blower’s letter this morning. It just came out. And apparently, the top brass think that it’s you.”
“Why would they think that?” Adalbjorg sounded more bewildered than indignant or suspicious.
“This new letter definitely came from our office. And it’s from a spouse,” I said—which wasn’t exactly true—“and you’re the only spouse. Everyone else is single.”
“What about Jason’s wife, Carla?”
“Jason got fired,” I said.
“What about that accounts guy—what was his name—Derek? Didn’t he have a live-in boyfriend?”
I had never even heard of Derek, or his alleged live-in boyfriend. “He doesn’t work here anymore either.”
“Jesus, they cut Derek?” said Adalbjorg. “I didn’t realize how cleared out that place had gotten.”
“So, did you send it?” I asked.
“No,” said Adalbjorg. “I try to make nice with everyone. At the Christmas party I spent the whole time talking to Derek. He’s really gone?”
Fuck Derek. He was a dead end.
“I guess so,” I said, trying to figure out a way to get this conversation back on track.
“I liked him,” said Adalbjorg. “But he didn’t get along with Lawrence, I suppose.”
“You didn’t write the whistle-blower’s letter?” I asked again. I had expected more of a vociferous denial, but I got the impression that Adalbjorg regarded Cahaba as a place that was only mostly real. Maybe that sounds silly, typed out, but it’s a thing that happens. Occasionally, my brother, Alden, will try telling me about TA’ing at the University of Maine, and while I’m willing to listen, the stories come infrequently enough that they feel vaguely fable-like. It’s hard to take them seriously, and I love my brother, obviously.
“Of course not,” said Adalbjorg. “If Gary lost that job, it’d be a real inconvenience.”
“A real inconvenience” was her word choice. She did not sound like someone on the brink of financial ruin.
“You’re not upset about him working so much?” I asked.
“He’s more upset about it than I am,” said Adalbjorg. “I mean, I love my husband, of course, but since Pieter was born everything’s been kind of surreal anyway. My mother says I’m nesting. It’s almost sort of nice to have the time alone with the baby. I think he’s more upset about it than I am, always going on about ‘Cat’s in the Cradle.’ The song. Not the string. Gary sings a lot, you know.”
This did not need to be said.
“What were you doing at 10:43 this morning?” I asked.
“Eating a mango-lassi parfait. Why, what happened at 10:43?”
I thought this question would have been self-evident, but I wasn’t sure if Adalbjorg was playing dumb or just genuinely didn’t understand what I was getting at.
“I’m checking to see if you had the opportunity,” I said honestly.
“Oh!” said Adalbjorg. “Like an alibi! Aren’t you industrious? Well, I would think so. I mean, it’s just yogurt with oats on it, really. And mango. And some cardamom. You make it the night before and leave it in fridge.”
While this sounded delicious, it was once again not what I wanted to pursue.
“So you can’t prove you didn’t send it?”
“I guess the biggest obstacle is that there’s no Internet here.”
“You mean it’s down?”
“No, I mean we don’t have Internet.”
…
“You mean it’s down?”
“No,” said Adalbjorg, now moving slowly as if I were the stupid one, “I mean we don’t have Internet access here.”
“But like on a cell phone,” I said.
“I don’t have a cell phone. We have no Internet.”
I’d been shot at by trees, knocked off a steamboat, and been hired as industrial spy, and yet this was the least believable thing I had ever heard.
“How old are you?” I asked.
“Thirty-six,” said Adalbjorg. “Gary’s got a few years on me.”
“How do you live?” I asked. “And wait—your husband develops games. He’s a programmer!”
“We started doing it during the election—I just got so tense, I didn’t want to follow it anymore. So we started cutting cords. We said we were going to go back after November, but then you get used to it. Then I got pregnant, and I’m kind of a hypochondriac anyway; it just seemed that my life was easier without WebMD in it.”
“How does Gary work from home?”
“He doesn’t,” said Adalbjorg. “And why should he?”
“Right,” I said, a bit sh
aken. “Well, I just wanted to give you the heads-up.”
“Thanks, I suppose,” said Adalbjorg. “But I’m not too worried. I’m sure they’ll figure out who the culprit really is. And if you could send Derek’s contact information home with Gary, I’d love to catch up with him.”
If I had determined anything from talking to Adalbjorg, it was that this was a wild-goose chase. No one had reacted in a suspicious way, and there was no smoking gun. Moreover, it was entirely possible that the letter writer was a former employee that I had never met—or worse, the spouse of a former employee I had never met—who was just trolling the company because they were pissed off about being fired. This seemed entirely reasonable. And I didn’t have the time, or frankly interest, to hunt down and interview Derek’s live-in boyfriend, whether Adalbjorg liked him or not.
So, I decided, in lieu of any other productive course of action, to go back to the source.
I read the letter again, this time with the benefit of not being shocked, to try to suss out some sort of clue that would indict someone. Turns out, clues abounded.
Two days ago, a DE employee was murdered—straight-up murdered—on-site at their offices. Police came, coroners arrived, autopsies apparently done. While this poor woman’s body was rotting away in the storeroom, staff were expected to stay and program. Even as the police arrived, even as the situation became increasingly and apparently wrong—stay and code, because the company demands.
There were a few things wrong to wonder about here. First of all, it was awfully definitive about there being a murder. It was a drug overdose, which was probably a murder as far as the police thought. But it could have been a suicide, potentially. The lead suspect had been released, after all. “Straight-up murdered” felt curiously confident and made me wonder, briefly, if the letter writer was the person who killed Joyce. How else could they be so sure about it?
Second, it alluded to the fact that Joyce wasn’t an employee of Cahaba, which was not a piece of information everyone had. It made it much more likely that the writer was still working here, or was at least keeping very well-informed.
Lastly, and most oddly, the staff didn’t stay in all day. Vanetta had let people go home. Some people had chosen to stay, but it wasn’t mandatory, and she didn’t stay herself. That was the oddest and strangest bit about this bit of whistle-blowing. It was whistle-blowing on a thing that didn’t exactly happen.
The Questionable Behavior of Dahlia Moss Page 17
