by Joel Goldman
He had come down the stairs and into the living den, barefoot, wearing yesterday's chinos and an undershirt, rubbing his chin stubble. I looked at Lucy who blushed and kept her eyes on the floor.
"Sure," I said. "Check the cabinet under the sink in my bathroom."
"Thanks. Any chance you got a spare toothbrush to go along with it?"
I nodded. "Same place. Keep the razor and the toothbrush but do me a favor and leave the towels, okay?"
"No problem. Hey, Luce," he said to her. "I'm going to take a quick shower."
He grinned at me, mouthing Simon Says, and disappeared up the stairs.
"Luce?" I asked her. "Since when are you Luce? What is he, Sim?"
She took a breath and planted her hands on her hips. "He's nice and really smart, both of which are a change of pace for me so don't give me a hard time. Besides, it's been a while."
"Just tell me he didn't ask you to play Simon Says." She blushed again. "Okay, never mind," I said closing my eyes and covering my ears. "I don't even want to know."
"Luce, honey," Simon called from upstairs. "Can you run up here for a second?"
She took the stairs two at a time. I heard her giggle and a door slam as Roxy and Ruby raced in from the backyard, their paws muddy and wet. They slammed into my legs, ran circles around me, and flew back to the kitchen, a sure sign they hadn't had breakfast.
I followed them, poured their food, and watched them chow down. "Well," I told them. "Life goes on."
They didn't look up. When they finished eating, Roxy nipped at Ruby's hind legs, Ruby chasing her through the doggie door into the backyard. The banker's box with Simon's files was on the kitchen counter, the files still in alphabetical order except for one labeled Peggy Murray that lay on top. The names on the other files were typed on labels that had been neatly applied to the folders. Peggy's name was handwritten, proof it was a late entry.
Inside her file were printouts from a blog titled The Milo Harper Files authored by Jamie Del Muro who wrote that her mission was to expose the truth about Harper. She gave a laundry list of his sins, everything from stealing the idea for the social networking Web site that made him rich to engaging in insider trading of the stock in his company. The home page of the blog carried a dedication that read For my sister, Peggy Murray. No Retreat! No Surrender!
According to Del Muro, Peggy Murray came up with the idea for what became Harper's Web site, building the first version of the site while she was a student at Stanford and dating Harper. They both quit school to work on the Web site. Then Peggy had a bike accident when she and Harper were riding together on a country road alongside a gorge. According to the police report, which Del Muro included on the blog, Harper claimed that Peggy lost control of her bike going down a steep hill and fell a hundred feet to her death. Del Muro accused Harper of running her off the road so that he could have the Web site to himself. Later, Peggy Murray's parents accepted Harper's gift of stock in the company, which proved to be worth more than a million dollars when it went public. Del Muro accused her parents of taking blood money and being accomplices after the fact to the murder of their daughter.
No doubt Harper knew all about Jamie Del Muro and her blog and his lawyers would be ready when Jason Bolt played this card. Under normal circumstances, I expected Harper to brush the whole thing off as the rant of a crazy person. But these circumstances weren't normal. Dead bodies were piling up around Harper and his institute. Bolt was right about one thing. Harper wouldn't want Jamie Del Muro's story hitting the papers where it would get more play than in the blogosphere. And if the public interest got ginned up enough, an ambitious prosecutor might reopen the investigation.
The better question was whether the story was true, whether Peggy Murray was the first victim of Milo Harper's whatever it takes credo. If she were, Harper wouldn't have broken a sweat over ruining Kate's practice. I added those questions to the ones I had about Harper accessing Delaney's, Blair's, and Enoch's dream project files before and after their deaths.
Even though the institute was closed for the day, I was certain Milo wasn't taking the day off. I'd only been on the job for three days but it was time for a performance review. His, not mine.
Chapter Forty-eight
Lucy and Simon were on the sofa in the living den, feet up on the coffee table, bare toes touching, when I came downstairs after showering and shaving. Lucy's hair was wet. Simon's bald pate was glowing, radiating heat.
It was her house. I was just living in it. She wasn't my underage daughter and he wasn't the bad kid who'd led her astray. I knew all that but still felt like I'd walked in on Wendy and the pimple-faced boy who took her to prom so he could get in her shorts; my problem, not theirs.
"Simon, are you still on the clock?" I asked.
He craned his head toward me. "Punched out last night, boss."
I joined them, standing near one end of the sofa. "I read Peggy Murray's file. Did you know her when you were at Stanford?"
Simon sat up, feet on the floor. "'Course I knew her. We were like the Three Musketeers. We had classes together, lived in the same dorm freshman year. She was what we called geeky hot. I had a crush on her but I didn't have a chance against Milo so I settled for swimming in their wake."
"Any truth to Jamie Del Muro's story?"
"Peggy worked on the Web site with Milo. I did too, for that matter. Milo always told me it was his idea. I never had a reason to doubt that."
"And the bike accident?"
"Milo said she lost control of her bike. The police agreed. What else is there to say?"
"Any of that sound familiar?"
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that's what the KCPD said about Regina Blair. It was an accident. And they also said that Tom Delaney committed suicide."
Simon planted his hands on his knees, his face coloring. "Give me a break, Jack. Jamie Del Muro is a whack job. She started this crap when Peggy died and she's kept it going all these years. Her parents disowned her, for Christ's sake! You can't paint Milo with that brush."
"Then why did you put all her crap in a file for me to read and why did Lucy write her name on the wall?"
Lucy put a hand on Simon's arm. "We struck out on the rest of the background checks," she said. "You told Simon to dig up anything he could find on Harper. When he told me about Peggy Murray, I told him we had to tell you even if it was bullshit."
"Think like a cop, Lucy, not like someone who just got out of the shower with one of Milo's musketeers, and tell me how you know it's bullshit."
She jumped to her feet, squaring her shoulders. Simon grabbed her wrist and she shook it off. "I know it the same way I know you didn't kill Walter Enoch and you didn't help Wendy steal five million dollars."
"That's isn't what you know. It's what you believe. There's a difference."
Simon stood. "I know Milo and that's good enough for me."
"Well it isn't good enough for me."
I grabbed my car keys and headed for the institute. It felt good to be behind the wheel instead of buckled into the passenger seat.
I passed a grocery on Sixty-third Street. The parking lot was jammed and people were streaming out of the store with full carts, trusting the weatherman's forecast more than the sun-spackled sky, not weighing the difference between what they knew and what they believed about the coming storm before stocking up. They were preparing for the worst while hoping for the best, same as me.
My cell phone rang. I fished it out of my pocket and saw Joy's name on the caller ID.
"Hey," I said.
"Did I catch you at a bad time?" she asked.
It was the same reflex question she asked whenever she called after our son Kevin died, most of those times bad times. After she left me, we softened toward each other until Wendy disappeared, her death another blow to our relationship. In spite of everything that had happened, we both acknowledged a lingering connection, kept alive through Roxy and Ruby. The dogs gave us a safe way to stay in each
other's lives, sharing canine custodial duties, neither of us willing to explore why that was important or why we could manage that but nothing else.
"No, this is fine. I thought you were going to be gone all week. Are you back in town?"
"I'm coming home tonight. I'll pick up Roxy on my way from the airport."
"No problem. Where are you anyway?"
"Houston," she said, her voice fading.
"You okay?"
"I'm just tired. My plane gets in around eight."
"Don't count on it. We're supposed to get hammered with a snowstorm."
"Well, I'll get there eventually. How's Roxy?"
"She's great."
She hesitated a beat, her voice hopeful. "Maybe Ruby can come over for a play date next week."
"I'll check her calendar but I'm sure she can squeeze you in."
She brightened, her voice rising an octave. "Thanks, Jack, for taking care of her. I'll see you tonight or tomorrow."
I wasn't surprised to find Milo Harper in his office. He was at his desk, his back to the door. Sherry Fritzshall stood at his side, one hand on his shoulder, both of them staring out the window. They turned when I knocked. His face was grim, hers ashen. I repeated Joy's question.
"Is this a bad time?"
Harper waved me in as Sherry gave his shoulder a final squeeze and walked past me without a word.
"I told her," he said. "About the Alzheimer's."
"Why now?"
"I had to. My latest memory lapse just cost me a couple of million bucks on a deal I thought I'd made but I hadn't. I thought I could outrun it if I just ran fast enough but I can't."
"What are you going to do?"
"A couple of billion dollars complicates life. It will take a while to unwind everything, figure out what to keep or get rid of, and who's going to manage it. Sherry screwed up the institute's building security but she's good at straightening things out and she's all the family I have. I need her so I had to tell her. So," he said with a weak smile, "what can I do for you?"
We jump into the middle of other people's lives, expecting them to be waiting for us, surprised when they're too busy with their own problems to make time and space for ours. In a more perfect world, this would be a time to leave Harper alone but that wasn't the world we lived in.
"I ran into Jason Bolt yesterday. He was parked out in front looking at the real estate like he was getting ready to take over the title."
"What did he want?"
"He said he was sending you a settlement offer on Delaney and Blair that would only be on the table until the end of the week."
Harper laughed. "I give ultimatums. I don't take them."
"Bolt knows about what happened with Corliss at Wisconsin and he said to remind you what happened the last time you took him on and to tell you that he knows about Peggy Murray. He thinks that will motivate you to settle in a hurry."
Harper laughed again, shaking his head. "Peggy Murray! Damn. You know what's funny about Alzheimer's? The old memories last the longest. Some stuff is just too hard to forget."
"I know about her too."
He straightened, hands on his desk. "Bolt told you?"
"No. Simon did. He's one of the people I hired to help me. I told him to do a background check on you. He printed out the story on Jamie Del Muro's blog."
His eyes widened. "You hired Simon Alexander to investigate me? Why would you do that?"
"I had him run background checks on anyone that had a connection to Delaney, Blair, and Enoch. You're on that list."
"For Bolt's lawsuit," he nodded. "That's what Bolt will do. I guess it makes sense for you to know what Bolt knows."
"I didn't do it because of the lawsuit."
"Then why do it?"
"Delaney, Blair, and Enoch were dead. Anne Kendall was the fourth and Leonard Nagel makes five. I want to know why."
Harper rocked back in his chair, my meaning registering with him. "Everyone is still a suspect, is that it? Including me? Jamie Del Muro is a lunatic."
"Then why haven't you sued her for libel and slander and shut her Web site down and taken every penny she has?"
"I wanted to but my lawyers talked me out of it. All that would do is draw more attention to her. She'd like nothing better than for me to sue her. I'm a public figure which means people can say practically whatever they want about me. Besides, she's not the only one who takes shots at me. Like the song says, money can't buy me love. If I sued everyone who made up shit about me, that's all I'd ever do. Jason Bolt will have to do better than that to bring me to the table. You should be digging up dirt on Delaney and Blair, not me. What have you found out about them?"
"Delaney was murdered. Blair almost certainly was too. Probably by the same person who also killed Walter Enoch and Anne Kendall."
He smiled. "Great! Then I'm off the hook and Jason Bolt can pound sand."
Harper had a singularly egocentric outlook, more concerned about Jason Bolt's lawsuit than the likelihood that a serial killer was working his way through the institute.
"Why did you access Delaney's, Blair's, and Enoch's files in the dream project?"
"I told you. That's how I keep track of the research projects."
"There were two hundred and fifty volunteers in that project. You picked the three that were murdered and you looked at their files before and after they were killed. How does that happen?"
He rose, coming around to my side of the desk, getting in my face. "How do you think it happens?"
"You tell me. Was it an accident like Peggy Murray's bicycle running off the road after she designed your Web site or a coincidence like Kate Scranton's practice going under after she turned you down?"
Chapter Forty-nine
"So that's what this is about? Kate Scranton?"
"It's about a lot of things. She's one of them."
"I hope you're sleeping with her. Otherwise, you're blowing the job of a lifetime for nothing."
"And you're blowing the chance to convince me I should take you off my list of suspects. I'd say that gives you more to worry about than me."
"Me? A murderer? First Peggy Murray and now four more people. I'd have to be one of the all-time great serial killers."
"More like one of the ordinary ones. You have to at least get into double figures to be one of the great ones. Serial killers sometimes go years between binges. It will be easy enough to find out if there were any other unsolved murders around Palo Alto around the same time Peggy died."
He took a step back, squinting at me. "You're serious, aren't you?"
"You're about to find out how serious."
He put his hands up and then wiped his mouth with one, holding me at bay with the other.
"Okay, okay. Peggy first. We worked on the Web site together. It's hard to say who came up with what. We were kids. We didn't know the first thing about intellectual property rights or anything else. Later, when the company took off, I made a deal with her parents, giving them stock for Peggy's contribution to the Web site. They had lawyers and I had lawyers. It was an arm's length deal."
"And what about Peggy's bike accident?"
He stuffed his hands in his pants pockets and circled the room, stopping at the windows overlooking Brush Creek, turning back to me, his voice soft, his throat full.
"We'd been out riding all day. Peggy was as competitive as I was, maybe more, always trying to beat me. Didn't matter if it was about getting the better grade or getting to the bottom of the hill first. She took off down this long steep hill, really kicking it. There was a blind curve at the bottom, no guardrail, and a long drop. It was the first time we'd been on that stretch, so we didn't know. I was drafting behind her. We hit some loose gravel and spun out and both of us lost control. I laid my bike down but she flew off the road. She broke her neck and I got a bad case of road rash."
His narrative matched the police report Jamie Del Muro had posted on her blog. I studied him, looking for the practiced recitation of someone expecting
to be accused only to be betrayed by a liar's tics and twitches, seeing instead a face grimacing with pain, gone pale from a memory relived.
"I think about her everyday," he said, his voice a whisper, his eyes wet. "And I have nightmares about the accident two or three times a week. That's why I funded the dream project."
"Maggie Brennan says you threatened to cut off the funding if she and Corliss couldn't prove that people could learn to control their nightmares with lucid dreaming."
"The institute is a not-for-profit but that doesn't mean I'm in business to lose money. I'm rich but not rich enough to fund projects that don't produce results."
"How's the dream project doing?"
"Not great. I tried the lucid dreaming techniques and they didn't help. I met with Corliss at the end of November. I told him he had three months to produce results or I was going to pull the plug. That's why I looked at those videos. I wanted to see whether he was making progress."
"Why Delaney's, Blair's, and Enoch's videos? Why not any of the others?"
"I didn't pick them. I told Corliss I wanted to see some representative videos. Those were the ones he suggested. He said they were a good cross-section of different types of nightmares. After they died, I went back and looked at their videos again."
"Why?"
"For the same reason I built this place-to try to make sense of things. Look at what happened to Delaney, Blair, and Enoch and then what happened to Anne Kendall and Leonard Nagel. None of that makes sense. I don't suppose it ever will no matter how much money I spend."
I gripped the back of a chair to steady myself as a burst of shakes ripped through me, hinging me at the waist, dropping my chin to my chest. I managed my symptoms by staying in a comfort zone of modest and moderated activity. I'd been out of that zone for six days, taking a pounding that would grind me into the ground if I didn't back off soon. I took a long breath as the tremors passed, righting myself as Harper watched.
"And look what's happening to you," Harper said. "I don't know how you do it."
I wouldn't let Harper lump me together with murder victims. I wasn't dead and my movement disorder wouldn't kill me. And I wouldn't let his attempt at sympathy throw me off track.
