by James Calder
Mike made a you-don’t-want-to-know wave. “Too much. I went to the mat with Rod over this. They got major Series A equity, three seats on the board, their own CFO, a boatload of warrants, big-time attachments—and that’s in addition to what we gave up to Plush. Rod’s argument was that Algoplex could go nowhere without him, so there was no danger of losing control. Meanwhile the upside was robust for both companies. He was right, of course, about himself being the indispensable man.”
Mike stopped, cracked his knuckles, and went on. “Some execs suffer from an inflated sense of their own value. Did I say some? Most. I’m not like that, Bill, I’m a team player. I’ve got some skills and some experience, but there are twenty other guys who could do my job. Except for one thing: Rod trusts me. Trusted. He was right to, and he was right about his value to our company. He really was The Man, which meant that he was right even when he was wrong. We gave up too much, but then again, it’s probably true Sylvain would have walked. Rod felt this was our main chance.”
“How exactly does the key-man clause work in this case?”
“It was meant to protect both sides. It insures Rod’s stake in the company, but it also says that if we lose Rod for any reason, Sylvain has the option of getting out or of buying 30 percent of his stock for next to nothing. Losing Rod was as big a risk for them as it was for us. People sometimes call it the hit-by-the-bus clause. No one foresaw losing him this way.”
“So they could gain by Rod’s loss.”
“They don’t see it that way. Their nightmare, of course, is that they pour money into a company that can no longer deliver without Rod. After spending half the night with my engineers, I’m convinced we can deliver. Rod laid down a solid blueprint. We just have to carry it through. I said this to Sylvain today. If they want to bail, it’s on them. I’m sure not giving up more of the company.”
Mike had switched into competitive mode. I’d noticed this at the Frisbee game: He was everyone’s best friend until play started. Then he didn’t care who he knocked over to get into the end zone. “Was Rod insured?” I asked.
“You bet. He was a good man. Algoplex was his child. He didn’t want to leave it orphaned if the unthinkable happened. If the insurance comes through, it’ll keep us going until we find another deal, in case Sylvain does back out.”
“The insurance must have some conditions.”
“Yes. Which means we need to clear up this ridiculous idea that Rod killed himself. I’m counting on you for that, Bill.”
“What do the police say? The autopsy was scheduled for today.”
“The police put time of death between ten and eleven Wednesday night. The cause was exsanguish—well, he bled to death from the stab to his carotid artery. The main theory is that a burglary was in progress and Rod surprised them. Detective Coharie figures there were two guys. No fingerprints, which supports the idea they had some experience. But at the same time he keeps harping on the fact that the lack of prints could also mean there was no one else in the house. There was no sign of forced entry, either, so he won’t rule out Rod doing it to himself. It’s unlikely, he admits, but he’s heard Rod was psychologically unstable. Who would have said that?”
The possibilities came to mind quickly. “Rupert Evans. Maybe even Connie Plush. Rupert’s the one with the biggest motive to blame it on the victim. But I have to admit, Mike, Rod was bent out of shape about Alissa.”
Mike looked down. His lip quivered and his voice grew soft. “There’s no way you can convince me he’d do such a thing to himself. Yet the police say they can’t find clear evidence that anything was stolen.”
“What about his laptop? He took it home with him every night.”
“Right! But they said there’s no proof he did that night. Well, it’s not in Rod’s office, so where else would he have left it? Anyway, it doesn’t discount the robbery theory. If the robbers were interrupted, they’d just grab what they could and get out.”
“You still have to wonder—why only the laptop, all the way downstairs? Why not the high-end stereo stuff in the living room?”
“Portability,” Mike answered. “Look, don’t lend credence to the suicide idea.”
“Did they do a toxic screening?”
“Yes. No drugs, nothing.” Mike gripped the back of his chair. “I find it infuriating that a couple of sleazeballs ended Rod’s life like this and we’re talking about whether he might have done it himself. I want to wring their necks, Bill. Personally.”
“I know the feeling. Listen, I don’t think Rod killed himself, either. He supposedly wrote this note, but there was no pen near him. What did he do, put it away before he bled to death? Even Rod wasn’t that neat. No, I think the note was a fake and we should look closer to home. It’s more than a coincidence this happened at the very moment Rod was supposed to be reunited with Alissa. Did you remind the cops to get after Wendy?”
“I did. Coharie wrote it down and all, but . . . he seemed skeptical of that avenue, to tell you the truth.”
“Well then I need to talk to him. I don’t understand why he hasn’t called me himself.” I glanced at my watch. It was after five. “Is he still in?”
Mike shrugged and handed me Coharie’s card. I found out he’d left for the day. I left my number, and also told Mike to have him call me. “What about Rod’s estate?” I said. “Who’s benefiting there?”
“Primarily his mother. She’ll keep the assets right here at Algoplex. She instructed me to do what Rod would want. He’s got some money going to Caltech, his alma mater, and to a couple of friends for their startups. He also”—Mike gave a little laugh—“left some money to be passed out as bonuses to the employees. That shows what a good guy he was. I haven’t decided yet whether to ask people if they want to reinvest it.”
“There’ll be some kind of service for him, I assume.”
“Yes, a memorial service on Wednesday afternoon,” Mike said. “The funeral itself will be back in Columbus next weekend. I think I mentioned his mother will take his ashes back with her. She’s at a hotel. I’ll give you the number.”
“Thanks. Then I’ll get going.”
Mike came forward to give me the number and shake my hand. It was a warm, firm shake, as his always were. He looked me in the eye. “Bill, you don’t need to tell Rod’s mother about the Alissa stuff and—and all that, right?” I shook my head and he pulled me closer. “I feel like it was my fault for bringing Alissa into his life. I just wish Rod had been able to confide in me. He was like a brother. I feel I could have prevented it.”
“Yeah. I thought I was in the right place Wednesday night. Obviously I wasn’t.”
Tears suddenly burst from Mike’s eyes. His mouth turned down and he sobbed on my shoulder. I patted him on the arm, then on the back. He put a hand to his face and pulled away. “Sorry, Bill. I’m tired. I should call it a day and hit the showers.”
I went out the door feeling an odd envy at Mike’s emotion. A reservoir of tears brimmed in my eyes, too, but I couldn’t release them. They pressed against my forehead, as if the force behind the dam was what drove me forward. Perhaps I was holding them back on purpose, to keep the pressure strong, so that when the dam broke it would produce relief instead of disaster.
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I had to run back up to my flat in San Francisco to dress. The entry in the SG planner had said the dinner was at a high-priced restaurant in Atherton. I put on a suit and tie—the suit had needed a good roll with lint tape—and looked as respectable as a camera jockey could look while lying in wait for Rupert. What I’d do when he arrived was another matter. I’d gotten good at charging into the middle of situations and making a nuisance of myself. It’s a cameraman’s job: To make a living, I had to pretty quickly get over any delicate feelings about putting a lens in someone’s face. Besides, I’d been driving with my eyes closed ever since the dot-com debauch had derailed me from the path I’d meant to be on. I had no particular plan tonight except to put myself in a position to learn so
me things and get out alive.
I arrived only fifteen minutes early and was relieved to see no one I knew. The bar was busy with the usual Silicon Valley after-work crowd, some in their business suits, some in their khakis and running shoes—casual Fridays was a redundancy at certain companies. I lurked among them for a moment until the maître d’ left her post, then snuck a peek in her book. There it was: Evans, party of five, for seven-thirty. I buried myself back in the bar crowd, ordered a beer, and kept an eye on the door. They were a loud bunch, mostly marketing and finance types,
their faces fresh and clean. The engineers would be dining elsewhere, drinking beer instead of martinis, topping the food with ketchup instead of confit.
Seven-thirty came and went. I thought Rupert had pulled a switch on me, but he was only fashionably late. He led the way in, saying something that made the maître d’ giggle and blush. I worked my way to the other side of the bar. He and Trisha had a booth in a hidden corner of the restaurant. There was no nearby table from which to eavesdrop. I’d have to be more meddlesome than usual.
Three Sylvain bankers arrived a few minutes later, fully equipped in three-piece suits. I grabbed my beer and gestured to the maître d’ that I was with them. The last one in line turned, recognized me from the dinner on Monday, and promptly got a confused look on his face. I smiled and raised my bottle.
“What’s up tonight?” I said, dropping into step behind him.
“The usual, I guess.” He was the youngest of the three, with pale blond hair and a few red spots on his cheek.
I stuck out my hand. “Bill Damen, in case you forgot.”
He twisted to shake and walk at the same time. “Kevin Simpkins. I didn’t realize you were on the inside.”
“On special occasions.” He slid into the booth and I slid right in after him.
Rupert’s eyes bulged when he saw me. It was one of the few times I’d seen him lose his composure. A waiter showed up before Rupert could evict me. I asked for another beer. Rupert fumed. “Cancel that,” he said. “And bring a security man, please.”
I said, “Don’t tell me you left Gary home alone.”
Trisha took charge. Her bones were thin as a bird’s, but her eyes were those of a hawk more than a sparrow. Her shoulders were sharp and her features angular and well-preserved. She gave the waiter a glittering smile to match the stones on her neck. “There’s no need for security. I’ll have a cosmopolitan.”
Rupert opened his mouth, but Trisha put the words into it. “Bring him a cosmo, too.”
He was speechless for a change. Only a big sister could do that. “You must be the oldest in the family,” I said to her.
“Old? Is that what you meant to say, Bill?” Her voice was a rich purr, slightly curdled.
“Wise. That’s what I meant.” I turned to the guys next to me and said, “How’s the financing for SG going, Kevin?”
He looked to his colleagues, who glanced back at Trisha. That in itself was valuable information. “This is purely social,” Trisha said. “No business of any kind.”
I looked at the square faces of the bankers, then at Trisha’s jewelry, a carat or two beyond gaudy, and Rupert’s Gene Meyer tie. Trisha’s dress was a luscious chiffon, with ruffles on the shoulders that gave an impression of big red wings. I asked Kevin how he met her. He stammered out something about his wife and social circles that was clearly invented on the spot.
“Bill, it’s not polite to embarrass guests,” Trisha interrupted. “Now, you know our business perfectly well. Why don’t we talk about something else before our drinks arrive and you leave?”
These guys were clients, she was implying. So why was their date with the big cheeses instead of Silicon Glamour “associates”? There was one thing I knew for sure we all had in common. “I don’t know if you’ve heard the details about Rod’s murder,” I said. “It was incredibly brutal.”
Everyone nodded as if they did know the details. Rupert folded his hands and put a look of concern on his face. “The poor fellow. Shocking a man could do that to himself.”
I acted surprised. “Oh no, they’ve ruled out suicide. Someone went in there and murdered him.”
Trisha pursed her lips. “It’s a shame. That used to be such a safe area. It’s terrible how standards are falling.”
“You know, Connie Plush said exactly the same thing,” I replied.
The only way I knew Trisha’s smile was fake was that it was too big. “Connie’s a lovely woman.”
“So we’ve heard,” Rupert added hastily.
“You provide Plush with models for their marketing, right?” The guess was based on what Rod had told me about Alissa.
Trish gave a noncommittal smile and sipped her drink. Rupert looked away. The faces of the Sylvain guys showed no puzzlement, only hesitation; they were still waiting for cues.
“We know a lot of people in common,” I went on, shooting in the dark. “I saw Connie today and she said nice things about all of you. She particularly admires your style, Trisha.”
“I’d imagine so. She married that funny man—what was his name?”
No one spoke up. It was as if they were afraid to say the wrong thing.
“Donald, isn’t it?” I suggested.
Still the table was silent. No one corrected me. The waiter appeared with a tray of drinks.
“Good-bye, Bill.” Trisha tapped the underside of Rupert’s elbow. He stood, and she gave a lift of the eyes to the Sylvain men. They stood and crowded me out of the booth.
The waiter retreated. “Do you have another table, sir?”
“I’ll take it myself,” I said, picking up the beer from the tray. I raised the glass. “A toast,” I said, and paused for the waiter to hand out the other drinks. When Trisha lifted her pink cone, the rest followed suit. “To those who deserve justice. Here’s to Rod Glaser.”
Everyone drank tentatively. It was hard to tell whether this was due to guilt or to fear of Trisha. They acted as one, like puppies watching Mom. I turned as if to depart, then swung back to Rupert. “I can save you some trouble with the police. They’re awfully interested in your relationship with Rod. There’s no reason for me to keep quiet about his connection to you anymore. I’ll come by to talk to you about it.”
The threat had nowhere near the effect I wanted. “Don’t worry, Bill, the police are taken care of,” he said serenely. He was back in charge. He looked away from me and made a witty remark to his guests as they sat down again.
The busboy arrived and I had to move so he could distribute water. I took my beer back to the bar. A few sips later, a man emerged from behind the bar and informed me that it was time to leave. He was big enough that I had no choice but to agree.
But I had gotten one answer for my trouble tonight. Rupert’s comments about the cops confirmed my suspicion that he’d been the one whispering about Rod’s instability. Still, I left with a lot more new questions. I hoped Alissa’s friend Erika would begin to answer them tomorrow night.
13
You can’t control when people are going to call you. It’s one of the reasons email seems so agreeable, even if it only adds up to written voicemail. Email suggests an ongoing correspondence; delay is built in and therefore acceptable. Voicemail continually makes you feel as if you’re missing out on things.
What I missed out on was the chance to speak person-to-person to Wendy. She left the message Saturday morning while I was on the phone with Jenny. Jenny was my ex-girlfriend. We were together for seven months. It had verged on getting serious, but we parted ways two months ago. We were in post-relationship limbo now, talking infrequently, wondering who’d be the first to announce they’d met someone new. I knew I hadn’t, so when she’d called last week to set up dinner tonight, I wondered if I was about to receive some news. It would be painful to hear, but I didn’t regret the breakup: As bright and sparkling and enterprising as she was, our approaches to life were too divergent.
My hope had been for the dinner to be the first
step in becoming friends. Now I hoped that when I explained that my client of the moment had turned up dead, she’d understand why I had to break tonight’s date. I thought she might even be a little amused by the fact that Wes and I were going out with two “associates.”
She wasn’t. There was a long silence after I broke the news. “Hello?” I said.
An intake of breath came over the line. “Well, that’s just pathetic, Bill, if you have to go to these lengths to avoid seeing me.”
“Rod was murdered, Jenny. This woman Erika was close to Alissa.”
She took another breath, then let it out. “Well, I have to hand it to you, you were right about Sheila and what killed her at my dinner party. But that doesn’t automatically turn you into Sherlock Holmes. Don’t tell me you’re too dumb to realize what these girls really are.”
“There won’t be any sex. That’s spelled out in the contract. SG is about creating an image, casting a glamour.”
“Glamour is not your area of expertise, Bill.”
“I’m a babe in the woods,” I admitted. “But it’s interesting to watch how it works. I have a feeling I have to decipher the code to get to the bottom of Rod’s murder.”
“Get to the bottom of it,” she said with a trace of sarcasm. “You never trust what’s on the surface, do you? There’s always something deeper, and by God you’ve got to dig it out. But then you find out there’s a new layer, a deeper cause, and you get obsessed with that. And then another, and another, until you go all the way to the bone. And it’s hollow at the center. Remember how you used to complain when I put on makeup, as if I was some fashion victim? Well, I like putting on my face; it’s fun, it’s creative, it puts me in control. You never understood that. You can keep going deeper and deeper and deeper, to whatever layer you want, Bill. It’s still surface. You’re always right back at the top layer, and all the digging in the world won’t bring back your friend.”
A sudden abyss yawned in my mind. She’d put our differences in a nutshell. It was clear to me that neither of us had absolute truth on our side. The truly frightening thing was that she might be right in this case. There might be no deeper truth and no rhyme or reason to Rod’s bloody death.
