by Lois Winston
Then I noticed all the cat hairs on the front of my suit and decided to make it twenty-five minutes earlier. I knew I’d need another five minutes for brushing all the fur off my clothes.
The doorbell rang and said feline and I went to answer it. After looking through the peephole, I opened the door wide and smiled at Tío.
“Buenos días, Tío!”
He shook the rain off a black umbrella, closed it, placed it under the eave outside the door, and entered stamping his feet.
“Ah!” he said as he took the Furry One from me and placed him on one of his broad shoulders.
Perfectly at home, the kitten balanced himself as he nuzzled the man’s ear. Keeping one hand up on the kitten’s body to prevent a fall, Tío strode the room looking around. “¿Dónde está el libro?”
“Where’s the book?” I repeated in English, puzzled. “What book? Oh, the Eliot book. Right here, Tío.”
I opened my handbag and took out the small, orange and black book.
“Unfortunately, I fell asleep last night before I finished reading it. But I promise to at lunch, so tonight you will know his new name. I have a couple of ideas,” I added mysteriously, “but I want to pick just the right one.”
“Bien,” Tío nodded, knowing that with me a promise was as good as done. “Mi querida.” He changed the subject hesitantly, as he looked earnestly into my eyes. “Your mama has asked me to move in with her permanently, now that Eva is gone, and you three are all I have left.”
I stared at Tío hardly believing my ears. It had never occurred to me Mom would make such a generous and thoughtful offer as this. I had wondered what he would do with the rest of his life now that his beloved wife was dead, but I never imagined…
Tío continued speaking, interrupting my whirling thoughts. “Last night your mama and me, we talk, and she said she thinks this is a good thing. The house is big—”
“And sometimes she gets lonely, Tío,” I interjected.
“Sí.” He nodded in agreement. “We do not say this is for always. This is just to try, to see. I may miss San Jose, my friends, and the life I had there, even though your Tía is no longer with me. Someday I may return to Mexico, too.”
“You would be nearer to Richard and me, Tío, if you stayed here. Think about that.”
His dark eyes bored into me. “That is what is on my mind, mi Sobrina. I do not want to do anything to upset you. You have your own life. Ricardo and I, we have already talked, but you, Liana, will this be too much for you? La verdad, por favor.”
He knew only too well my fierce sense of privacy. Only a man as good and unselfish as he would want to know the truth even if it might hurt him or not be what he wanted to hear.
“Oh, Tío,” I choked as I threw my arms around his neck, enveloping the purring kitten as well.
“I think it’s wonderful, just wonderful. Let’s go out to dinner tonight to celebrate, all four of us.” I kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll call Mom and Richard. Maybe even his new girlfriend will come. My treat.”
"You approve?”
“I approve!” I half-shouted. We laughed and hugged again.
“Bien, bien! That is good.” He shook his head. “But no celebrations in restaurants when you have the greatest cocinero de México in all of the Bay Area,” he said proudly. “Besides, your hermano and his novia are busy tonight. We are thinking tomorrow night.”
“Whatever you say, greatest Mexican chef in all of the Bay Area,” I repeated with a laugh. “Works for me.”
“I will make tamales, Veracruz style, and other dishes, muy sabroso. You, your mama, Ricardo, and Victoria will come to the big house. I cook everything. We are going to have a fiesta.”
“Qué bueno! Una fiesta!” I felt happier than I had in a long time.
Tío took the kitten off his shoulder with a gentle hand and gazed at it in mock severity.
“Except you. You cannot come. But you will be here learning your new name and playing with the many toys your new mistress has not so wisely purchased for you.”
~*~
Shortly after nine a.m., I arrived at the place in Palo Alto where I have spent much of my life, 655 Forrest Street, Palo Alto, California. The three-story building, which houses D.I. is actually built on an angle facing the two corners of Forrest and Gilman. The exterior is of the same gold-beige sandstone that Stanford University’s older buildings were constructed of before the quarry petered out, so to speak, in 1950. Between 1890 and 1950, nearly every façade in and around the campus was constructed of stones quarried on Leland Stanford’s eight-thousand acre farm, so I can only hope nobody was too surprised when the supply ran out one day.
The Honor Blythe Building, named for a turn-of-the-century society matron, is one of the few non-campus buildings constructed of this sandstone to remain standing. It’s more than eighty-five years old, and its longevity is due largely to the bank that’s been on the ground floor since 1924.
Modernized internally as the years went by, it still retains the original outside facade and was declared a historical landmark in the mid nineties, mostly due to Lila’s bulldogged efforts.
Green ivy covers much of the structure now. In between the sidewalk and on either side of the building, two outwardly curved, brick parapets create a crescent shape allowing for a small, cobblestone courtyard, shaded by a two hundred-year old California Native Oak.
Centered in this courtyard is a round, three-tiered stone fountain. Vivid blue and green colored mosaic tiles line each basin and birds drink and bathe in the cascading waters.
In the bottom, larger bowl, four small goldfish dart in and out of mossy plants. Wrought iron benches placed around the perimeter allow people to sit, rest, and whatever. It’s quiet. It’s peaceful. It’s a small bit of calm in an otherwise busy little town.
The windows in the building are the original hand-blown, beveled glass, and the irregularity of the panes catches the sun’s light on all but the gloomiest of days. Inside the lobby, two stained glass light fixtures gleam in warm sepia tones, as they stand on either side of the doorway.
These, and the complementary stained glass ceiling of the lobby, were designed and executed by Tiffany and Company. Not too shabby.
Hurrying across the cobblestone, I scattered the birds fluttering about. I was anxious to talk to Richard about what he might have found on the tapes, as well as Mom about her generosity to Tío. I raced up the polished alabaster staircase, too impatient for the antiquated elevator to creak down to the ground floor.
Not that I take the elevator, anyway. For one thing, as I always tell a client when I escort him or her to the lift and then head for the stairs myself, the elevator can only hold about one and a half people comfortably.
If two or more want to go to the second or third floor, they get to know each other extremely well during the trip. This always gets a laugh.
The second thing is—and it’s something I don’t like to talk about—I find the elevator to be so old and decrepit, no matter what Building Services says to the contrary, that the rattles of its ascent terrify me. I have this fear one day it might shudder to a stop somewhere between the second and third floors, and I might die a lingering death trapped inside. In any event, climbing stairs is good for you. Ask any doctor.
I had run up to the third floor at such a breakneck speed, I had to stop for a moment to allow my heart rate to fall. Then I walked across the burgundy-colored, plush carpet toward the double doors of D.I. with the same feelings of ownership and pride I always have.
Gold leafing on black ebony doors read simply:
Discretionary Inquiries, Inc.
Data, Information, and Intelligence
Room 300
I turned the ornate brass handle, and the door opened on silent hinges into a world that was more of my life than I cared to think about. Before me, the atmosphere of the open reception room, filled with workers and clients alike, conveyed its usual, quiet importance.
The setting often made newcome
rs and employees speak in whispered tones, which I find maddening because I can never catch half of what anybody’s saying. I think this odd behavior is due mostly to a combination of the thick carpeting, the heavy French furniture and the oil paintings of dead people hanging about on wood-paneled walls.
To me, the place projects the feeling of a small museum or mortuary. I’ve felt this way ever since we moved here over a dozen years ago.
That was when Silicon Valley boomed, and the business had expanded to five times its size in less than a year. Dad admitted to me the decor intimidated him, but Mom was convinced this kind of ambiance gave clients confidence. So far she has been proven right, even with the Silicon Valley crash of a few years back.
However, I believe most of our success is due to Richard—weird, but wonderful, Richard. My brother is a computer programming genius from whom all things flow. He created and designed our in-house program that is so unique in its approach to investigations it has brought D.I. light years ahead of the competition.
Having stated that, however, Richard’s true gift is in statistical compilation. He can link seemingly unrelated data and find answers where someone like me would just see a forest of numbers. Once he links the data, and explains it to the rest of us, everyone says: “Oh, yeah! I should have seen that,” but nobody ever does before Richard.
It was around his fifteenth birthday that he broke the operations of a black market computer empire. During the previous five years, millions of computer disks were being stolen from several major Sunnyvale manufacturers, relabeled and sold to unsuspecting small businesses across the world.
Buried in layers of dummy corporations and phony addresses, the “new bad boys of high crimes” had eluded the police who seemed capable of only snaring a few errand boys on bicycles.
In desperation, three of the hardest hit companies banded together and offered a huge reward for any information that would lead to the capture of the brains behind it all. Richard was enticed. He considered that you couldn’t just walk away with hundreds of pounds of software; you’ve got to carry it in something.
He searched online records for any information about the thousands of cars, trucks, vans, motorcycles, and even helicopters that had been in those areas during the specific times of the robberies.
Block by block, he expanded the search to each succeeding outlying street, as he wrote off the preceding one. It was a mammoth undertaking, but he was determined to solve the problem.
He worked on it during any spare time he had, weeks on end, checking, crosschecking, entering, and analyzing. He was relentless.
Finally he found the link: a Dodge Caravan with two unpaid parking tickets. Research found both tickets were given out about six blocks away from two of the companies that had suffered huge losses.
The owner of the van was one of a three-brother team that was using “Wet, Wet, Wet and Now Dry Plumbing” as a front for a booming business in pirated software. Richard’s dogged approach broke the case and earned for D.I. $1.2 million in fees, plus international recognition.
After that, Richard had been offered several lucrative jobs across the country, some asking him to name his own figure. He wasn’t interested.
It wasn’t just that he worked in his father’s business; it was a family business. Dad had trained Richard, believed in him, nurtured his talent, and turned him loose with what was then state-of-the-art equipment.
Richard had carte blanche at D.I., and it was the only place he felt thoroughly comfortable. Because of Richard’s talents, even Lila forgave him his eccentricities and ratty work clothes. For Lila, that’s a lot.
I think I’ve mentioned anyone who works for D.I. adheres to the dress code or finds him or herself another job. The dress code, among other things, dictates suits for both men and women. The women can wear dresses only if they are “classic” in style, which means modest but expensive. “Ladies” can wear slacks if they are part of a slack suit, and of course, stockings and heels must be worn at all times.
Ties are mandatory for men, even if they come into the office directly from the field. Anyone dropping by D.I. would swear they had gone back in time to circa 1960. Idiotic, but there you have it.
Stanley, the receptionist and a man particularly astute in fashion sense and pecking order, keeps assorted ties and jackets for the men and silk scarves, belts, and jewelry for the women on hand.
You can borrow from these accessories once. The second time, you’ll be hauled into Lila’s office for a firm but lady-like reprimand. If it happens a third time, your services probably won’t be “needed” anymore.
As everyone is on a retainer contract, it’s quite simple not to use the services of a particular agent when a job is over. However, D.I. pays some of the highest fees in the Bay Area, so most agents are happy to comply with this unusual policy.
Unfortunately, my close relationship to the CEO does not make me an exception to this hard and fast rule. Or any other rules, come to think of it. Richard, however, can wear his sweats, jeans, or come buck naked to work, as long as he stays out of the front offices and Lila’s sight. I guess you could say I come from an eccentric family.
I smiled and waved at Stanley, who gave me two mornings’ worth of mail and a friendly nod without missing a beat in the conversation he was having with a potential client. I passed him and called out the names of the two latest file clerks, Brenda and Carl.
On general principles, I try to develop a good working relationship with anyone in that position, so I made a point of saying hello. When they saw me, vacant stares were dropped and smiles occurred. After that, they sighed and returned to the bottomless stacks of paper before them. My heart skipped a beat because I recognized the signs. One or both would probably give notice any day.
No matter how often one takes them out to lunch, one can’t get past the fact their everyday job consists of categorizing and filing hundreds of original, work-related papers. It gives the word “tedious” new meaning. If an original isn’t filed correctly, it might be lost forever in one of a thousand other files. Here’s the catch-22, if a person is smart, he or she is bored silly within three days.
If they’re not smart, they can’t learn the complex filing system and that’s unacceptable. So, historically, we’re either terminating them, or they’re terminating us.
The Board has addressed the constant turnover repeatedly, but we haven’t found a solution yet. It’s a mind-numbing job, but a legally necessary one. Even paying eighteen fifty an hour with benefits hasn’t kept someone in it for more than nine or ten months. Poor Stanley, who is in charge of hiring and training this sorry lot, has been given a series of bonuses and a constant supply of Advil, as a result.
I opened the door to my office and breathed deeply. Until I got into this sanctuary, I never took in or let out a full breath. My office is done in a modern Mexican look, not unlike my apartment.
It is light and simple, with accents of pure colors and papier mâchè works by Sergio Bustamonte. I love it.
Lila doesn’t like any of the offices to be stamped with an individual personality, though. She wants each one to look pretty much the same, white and gray with touches of burgundy. You know, corporate.
I argued I was the daughter, part owner, and after all, rank hath its privileges. On this issue, I was ready to create an ugly scene in front of the Board, if necessary, no idle threat to my mother.
The “Board” consists of Mom, Richard, me, plus the in-residence CPA, Ms. Packersmythe, and the family retainer, James Talbot. Ms. Packersmythe is probably one of the most foul-tempered people I’ve ever met in my life.
She moves like a Hummer in overdrive and, for some unknown reason, thinks corduroy should be eradicated from the earth. We keep her around because she’s loyal, terrific with numbers and tax loopholes, and the IRS is scared to death of her.
Mr. Talbot, surely the world’s oldest practicing lawyer, is nearly deaf and refuses to wear a hearing aid. He’s still as sharp as he was when
he handled my grandfather’s estate way back when.
The best part is, he knew Mom when she was “in rompers,” as he is so fond of shouting, and he is not one bit intimidated by her.
It’s quite a group. Needless to say, my mother backed down on going to the board about my decorating style, but to this day has never set foot in my office, an unexpected bonus.
I threw the mail down on the already littered desk, picked up the phone and dialed Richard’s four digit interoffice number. Richard always checks the number of the incoming call before picking up. Most times he doesn’t pick up. This morning he answered on the first ring.
“Hola, Lee. Que pasa? You okay?” he asked anxiously.
“Hi, Richard. Esta bien. I’m just fine,” I assured my younger brother. It was the first time the firm was involved in a murder, and my kid brother tends to be very protective of me, murder notwithstanding.
I smiled into the phone. Even though I was three years older, I felt, in some ways, as if Richard had been born older. We did most of our growing up together at D.I., having become involved in our early teens, so we are very close, but in an atypical way.
“Did you get the tape I transmitted last night? Sorry I couldn’t send more than three hours worth.”
“Working on it. Working on it,” he replied.
Regarding the aforementioned tapes, the standard practice for our type of surveillance was that every other hour for at least one twelve-hour period, the agent would record the license plate numbers of all vehicles, as well as names of businesses and residents of buildings, all within a two-block square of the objective. Then you are supposed to send these tapes on to Richard.
Richard’s job is to compile and analyze this information with the help of the program he’s created. It’s tedious work for everyone except Richard, who loves it, but it often yields surprising results.
“Don’t have anything for you yet, Lee. That’s some gorgeous girl you got on tape yesterday. Hey, does Lila know you’re still working on this job?” He changed subjects abruptly, as usual.
