by Dom Testa
“I’d like to know a bit about Locker-Mann’s interest in LoGo,” she said, giving me the probing look. “We’ve never once heard even a whisper of interest until this inquiry. In fact, as I recall, my father approached your company several years ago and was rather rudely rebuffed. But I’m sure you know that.”
“I didn’t know it was done in a rude manner. For that, I apologize. I don’t know who that scoundrel may have been. But yes, I understand there was a brief conversation. However, two things have changed in those years. One, Locker-Mann has become more aggressive regarding alternative energy sources, and, two, LoGo has shown much more, shall we say, desirability in the last 18 months.”
Lucas had endured more than a minute without talking so he jumped in. “I’d say considerably more desirable. You’ve seen the numbers. We’re delighted to talk about it.”
He may have been delighted. I turned my attention back to his sister. “In order for LoGo to reach some of the lofty goals in your company’s prospectus you’ll need a hefty amount of outside capital. This isn’t attractive to you?”
She left me waiting for an answer while she took a drink of water, then wiped at her mouth with an embroidered napkin that probably cost more than my shirt. “Oh, the amount is certainly attractive. At the same time, we’re at the beginning of a long stretch of not only growth but exponential growth. So taking such a large investment from the first suitor will be judged by what’s asked in return.” Her cold, green eyes stared into mine. “What are you looking for, Mr. Dean?”
There was that little alarm again. Suddenly we weren’t talking about the investment. What are you looking for? was about me. And, as if he’d been waiting for some verbal cue, who should brush in at that moment but Richter. I’m trained well enough to not show the slightest reaction. I barely looked at him while I sipped my own mountain spring water. The henchman bent over and whispered in Lucas’s ear.
“That’s fine,” was the only reply. At that, Richter straightened, looked once at Gillian with a nod, and finally gave me a sharp glance. Then he was gone again. This was obviously a staged appearance to simply let me see their muscle with the savaged face. The game continued.
Two of the servants entered with the entrees and began serving. When Gillian turned back to me, awaiting an answer to her question, Lucas felt the need to reset the conversation. “Yes, Conrad, what exactly is Locker-Mann looking for in this investment? I’m sure you were told what kind of strings would be attached. A board member, perhaps?”
I put on a half-smile for show. “To tell you the truth, Lucas and Gillian, I’m not armed with as much information as you might think. My job is to find out more about you. The details of the actual investment offer will have to be a conversation between you and our Vice-President, Mr. Jurgensen. But Vic won’t take that step before I meet with him.”
“You’re vetting us as individuals?” Gillian asked.
“Hey, people didn’t invest in Apple at first,” I said. “They invested in Steve Jobs. Why would LoGo be any different?”
Lucas laughed. “I hope we haven’t disappointed you so far.”
I shook my head. “No, you’ve been quite charming. Both of you.” I should get bonus points for not choking on that. “This looks delicious by the way. Thank you.”
“What else would you like to ask?”
Here was the moment. I picked up a fork and knife and began to cut into the piccata. “I guess the question most of us would like to know is how the company culture has changed since the death of your father.”
Gillian’s eyes narrowed just a touch, enough for me to gather that this was important. Lucas, on the other hand, spent the next two minutes assuring me that, if anything, the company had grown stronger through rallying together. Each and every employee, he promised, was more dedicated than ever to making LoGo the world’s preeminent source for every last form of alternative energy. That’s why productivity had actually increased. I got the whole ‘everyone pulling on the rope’ speech.
Not a peep from his sister, who also didn’t bother to touch the food. She simply signaled for her water to be refilled.
I ate like a starving man, an act meant to show Gillian I wasn’t intimidated by her tough approach. And besides, the chicken was about the best damned thing I’d ever eaten. So far my scrawny convict’s body gave its blessing.
“Well,” I said between bites. “That’s all wonderful. But your father’s death was unexpected, I know.”
“Yes,” Lucas said. “And on Christmas Eve, which pretty much guarantees a rather somber holiday season for all of us from now on.”
I nodded my sympathies. “It’s fortunate there was a succession plan in place, ready to be implemented should that happen.”
Lucas again. “Everything was spelled out. Our personal grief may have been enormous, but the company never missed a beat.”
“That’s surprising.”
“But true.”
“I love this sauce. Any chance of getting more? Tell me, Gillian, and let me be blunt, but did you ever consider selling LoGo after your father’s passing? Or maybe turning over day-to-day control to someone who’d been with the company from the beginning?”
She did her usual pause for effect. “Lucas and I have been with the company from the beginning.”
“Well, yes, but only as children at first. I understand a few of the long-term executives retired in the past two years. It may not have affected revenues yet, but does that imply they weren’t happy with the succession plan? I guess what I’m asking is: Do the people at LoGo want to work for you?”
I was back to having fun, pushing with all my might, determined to crack her icy shell.
Lucas had to butt in with the answer. “The people who left were not embittered, Conrad. They simply felt that, after such a long time with the company, this new shift provided a natural place to take their leave.”
“Seems to me,” I said, “that’s exactly when you don’t want key people to leave.”
“Well,” he said, “we’re blessed with outstanding people three deep in every position.”
I nodded. “A healthy bench, as the coaches say.”
“Exactly.”
Gillian spoke up. “LoGo is running quite well, Mr. Dean. Well enough that your company is interested in putting money into it. I don’t think you’re really worried about the executive team, are you?”
I finished another bite of chicken and washed it down. “Oh, you’d be surprised how many companies get on the runway for takeoff and then shut it down and head back to the gate.” I looked at both of them with a grimace. “A clunky metaphor, but I think you get my point.”
Okay, so I was acting my ass off and sometimes it showed, like with my airplane bit. I didn’t know shit about how these negotiations were really supposed to go. My job was to poke and pry, and see if I could find a hot button. Hopefully my down-home, chicken-smackin’ casualness would cover it.
What I hadn’t expected was Gillian’s distrust. That made it tougher in some respects, but easier in others. In her efforts to be cold and stand-offish she’d shown me exactly where the sensitive spot was.
I decided to poke just a bit more. “Tell me, Lucas, why was your mother never involved in the company? Just no interest?”
For the first time I noticed the smile on his face falter. He looked shocked that I asked, then looked at his sister for a long moment before trying to reestablish the happy face. “She was . . . she was never very interested in my father’s business.”
“I see,” I said, although I didn’t, really. “I only ask because your company’s literature devotes a lot of bio information to both of you and your father, but no mention at all of your mother. Are you —”
“Our relationship with our mother is not something we care to discuss,” Gillian said. There was distinct fire in her voice. “You may ask about us, but I don’t see what she has to do with any of this. She bears no responsibility for LoGo, and never has.”
I no
dded and shot another glance at Lucas. He’d looked away and seemed genuinely rattled by the turn.
Over the next few minutes I tried to extend the conversation about the investment process, but at a signal from Gillian the servants began collecting the plates. Hers had not been touched. She was ready for the evening to end. I gathered there’d be no limoncello in the sitting room.
That was okay with me. I had things to do. I needed to upload, and soon. The father was somehow key to all of this, if I read Gillian correctly. Maybe the mother, too. Although I still hadn’t found out what this was. Regardless, that data needed to be saved. And, before leaving the chalet for good, I needed to check behind the locked door upstairs.
When Gillian stood we all did. She mentioned having a headache. I wished her a good night and watched her leave the room. After that Lucas challenged me to a game of billiards in the basement. These two could not have been more dissimilar. I begged off and told him I often took a three- or four-mile run at night. Could he please suggest a good path nearby?
He told me that one of their staff was a big runner who could help. I was grateful to get handed off to someone else. Lucas said we’d talk more over breakfast and took his leave, too.
Back in my room I changed into running gear. That allowed me to put my tech equipment into a small backpack. Ten minutes later I was outside in the crisp mountain air, down the long drive, and out the gate. I needed a couple of hours to secure all of my exchange with Gillian Ormond.
I never wanted to forget what those eyes told me. One thing was for sure: The twins were up to something.
Chapter Nine
Poole had arranged a hotel room where I would be undisturbed for the upload. Normally we just find a cheap motel, since I only need about two hours from start to finish. But this was Telluride’s ski village, where you’ll find a cheap motel as soon as you find Bigfoot enjoying a peanut butter and nana sandwich with Elvis. But hey, the upload had to be done. So thank you, taxpayer.
Half a mile from the Ormond house I called for a ride-share, which seven minutes later deposited me at the hotel. I checked in under one of my alternate identities using the ID and credit card for that name, then hustled up to the room.
After the required pee break — you don’t want that issue coming up midway through the process — I emptied my backpack, scattering everything on the nightstand. Before starting I made a video call home.
“Hello from Colorado,” I said. “Miss me?”
“Yes. I practically forgot what you look like.”
“That’s funny. What are you up to?” I heard her clicking something on her computer. Sure enough, her eyes were darting around the screen, which let me know I’d been relegated to a small corner while something else took center stage.
“If I tell you,” she said, “you can’t groan.”
“All right. I promise I’ll save any and all groans until we disconnect. What are you doing?”
“Well, I’m booking a vacation for us. It’s been over a year.”
I started to argue with the timetable, then realized she was right. Thirteen months, to be exact. And even that vacation had been cut short by an emergency summons from Quanta. Surprise, surprise.
“That sounds great, babe. Got someplace in mind?”
She shot a glance at what must’ve been my little face in the upper corner of her screen and scowled. “Don’t put on a show with me, Swan.”
Christina sounded less like my wife and more like my high school basketball coach when she used my last name. And I loved it. “No show here, Valdez. I really want to know.”
“We’ll talk about it when you get back. This way you won’t have time to come up with excuses. Go play secret agent and let me get this done.” She’d moved me back to center screen. “If I give you a six week notice will you arrange it with the boss, please?”
My face adopted an I’ll do what I can look. “You know I can’t predict when villains go on a rampage.”
“Villains.” She laughed. “All right, Batman. Go catch the Riddler and save the world.”
“For your information, this particular case could really be about saving the world. You’ll thank me.”
“Oh, babe, I’m so proud of you. You are my superhero. I’ll start calling you The Swan.”
It was my turn to laugh. She was the greatest verbal sparring partner ever. “You hush. All right, I’ll call you again when I can. And hey —”
“Yes?”
“I love my wife.”
She kissed a finger and held it to the screen. “I love you, too, babe. Eat some calories on this trip, okay?”
We signed off. I popped my horse pill, accessed the upload app, logged in, then let out a curse. I’d forgotten to bring a trash magazine. Well, no matter. Sure, it was boring to simply stare at the ceiling during the transfer, but I could let my mind wander — as much as my chemically-induced high would permit.
For the first half hour I processed the exchange with the twins, specifically Gillian. I might not have a PhD in psychology, but she also wasn’t that hard to read. Distrustful, disinterested, and disarming. The Dis Queen. She had a gift of nearly a billion dollars floating right out in front of her, and instead of grasping it, or even just romancing it, she treated it like a scourge. And, despite her brother’s pandering attempts to paint it all in a glossy sheen, her professional etiquette sucked. I’d done nothing to deserve her contempt except show up.
And wasn’t that interesting? It took convincing on the part of front-man LeMan to even get me out here to southwestern Colorado. Who needs their arm twisted in order to deposit $800 million? Unless . . .
Unless you’re convinced the world will rush to use your products in the aftermath of some calamity. You won’t need supersized investments because everyone will beat a path to your wind turbines.
Or what if the Ormond family had another reason for giving the cold shoulder to so much loot? What if they had no intention of ever using that money in the first place. And why not?
Because they didn’t intend to be in the game much longer? Because they had bigger plans than just frying a power grid somewhere? So much secrecy, and what seemed like security overkill for a company that wasn’t even part of the S&P 500. It was all confusing.
Lucas and Gillian had both tamped down any talk of a management crisis. If anything, Gillian acted as if the top management wasn’t even important.
The cream cheese icing on top of it all was the obviously sensitive topic of the late Mr. Niall Ormond. Sure, anyone would be brittle when talking about the death of a parent, but his daughter came across as offended by his death. I became even more interested in the Niall Ormond story. He apparently meant for his beloved — if somewhat odd — offspring to carry on the great LoGo mission. The problem, as I saw it, was that at least one of those kids wasn’t gung ho about the prospect.
And, come to think of it, it was entirely possible they both were turned off by the idea, but that Lucas’s job was to deflect and distract.
Then there was the supremely odd reaction to my question about their mother. Honestly, if they’d simply told me she wasn’t involved and been cool about it I wouldn’t have given it another thought. The fact that Q2 didn’t have much on Niall’s wife had probably led all of us to believe she wasn’t an important piece of the puzzle. The thing is, without the cover of the puzzle box you don’t know what picture you’re putting together. That was me right now: blind puzzle assembler.
I made as much of a mental note as I could in my chillaxed state to have Poole investigate dear Mom.
After that my thoughts meandered from place to place, from how much I disliked my latest body, to Christina and what a champ she was to put up with such a freaking weird marriage, to how much I enjoyed that Mercedes. Another mental note: Let Poole know to reserve that for future missions.
But inevitably my thoughts returned to my own personal black hole; its gravity tends to suck in my thoughts until I can’t escape from it.
Tha
t asshole Beadle.
We’ll talk sometime about my history with the guy who I think was ol’ Red in Utah, and why I’m somewhat obsessed with him. For now let’s just say I have a serious score to settle. I can’t prove he’s the one who killed me — more than once — but he’s the prime candidate. And regardless of that little matter, he’s definitely Knave #1 as far as I’m concerned.
He’s officially an American, but you won’t find a shittier citizen. He’s a hired master of chaos and disorder, willing to sell his skill at undermining, destroying, and killing. His price is sky high, but for plenty of nut jobs he’s the man. You might think, How many nut jobs could there be to hire someone like that? And you’d be surprised.
Quanta is impatient with my obsession, not because she thinks any more highly of the scum than I do, but because she feels it’s distracting me from other work.
Which I’d say is ridiculous — except I was lying on a hotel bed in Telluride, Colorado, uploading my latest data on the case of the twisted twins, and still thinking about Beadle.
I forced my mind off him for the time being and tried to think of something as mindless as possible. Damn, how could I forget my trash rags? I just know a royal wore something shocking and we all need to gasp.
The data dump ended. Not bad, about an hour-forty-five. I longed for the day when they got it down to minutes. Assuming, of course, that I’d still be employed.
I had a hankering for a cocktail but I’d been gone from the chateau a long time. I gathered up my toys, made a quick scan of the room, and left. Another ride to within a quarter-mile of the house and then a sprint to the gate had me back around midnight. If they thought it was weird that I was a late-night runner, let ‘em. Or maybe they couldn’t care less.
A servant let me in, probably irked that they had to wait up for this weirdo, and I hurried up the Hollywood staircase to my room where I locked the door and settled in. If there was indeed surveillance, I gave every indication of going to bed. Which I did, until my phone vibrated at 2:30.
The room was pitch dark and there wasn’t much of a moon, so conditions were good for a little overnight snooping. There was no way I was going out into that hallway because there were likely motion detectors ready to activate cameras. I kept the door locked.
