Fire Trap, page 9
Nice speech, but I didn’t buy it. I started to protest and dig deeper, but he cut me short. “You’ve interrupted an important meeting with your news about Simon, but, if you want to explore other subjects, let’s set up a meeting tomorrow evening and discuss them in detail.”
I don’t like being manipulated or put off and I spoke without thinking. “We’ll have to make it Wednesday. I’m accompanying Jean Roark to the Civic Theater tomorrow evening. I’m sure she can give me a head start on your history with Roark.”
The look I got back was two seconds of pure venom followed by a small appreciative chuckle. “She’s quite a lady,” he said, “and now you’ll excuse me.”
Lester left on Mark’s heels and I turned to Neal for help beating down the bureaucracy around Simon’s personnel files. He appeared to have just the right amount of authority and, in the process, introduced me to the Director of Human Resources, a matronly M.B.A. who was also clerk of the file cabinets. Neal’s exact words were “give him what he wants” as he left in the direction of the lunch room.
What I wanted were details that weren’t in the company’s possession. Simon’s company medical records were meager, consisting of a medical questionnaire that indicated his use of Elavil and a page for each of his years at Genetrix from Principal Insurer’s Cooperative (PIC) showing his Health Reimbursement Account, contributions and forfeited amounts. PIC was located in Oakland, up the East side of the bay. Sandy Eldridge was the Human Resource contact at PIC. I decided to pay her a visit to see what detailed receipts she had on file.
Sandy was located at the back of the fourth floor of an old brick building. She manned a desk in front of two incredibly long aisles of filing cabinets. She was a very large woman whose personality sparkled. She had long hair the color of her name and large glasses that magnified a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.
Before I could speak, she asked who I represented and how the weather was in Portland.
After I told her, she said she couldn’t divulge any medical records even if I worked for the FBI. I produced one of the medical releases signed by Lydia Gallagher, next of kin, which was, apparently, better than working for the FBI once she had checked on me with Western and called Lydia. Before she caved in, she launched half a dozen questions about the case and what I was looking for. Temporarily satisfied, she produced Simon’s file.
There were receipts for Elavil authorized by Dr. Ezra Baxter, who I later determined was a psychiatrist. The prescriptions were for one hundred tablets of one hundred milligrams each. There were three such prescriptions for the prior year and one in April for this year. I took down the name of the pharmacy and made a note to call on Dr. Baxter.
“You found something?” Sandy deduced from my smile.
“Only another clue to another set of questions,” I replied honestly.
“Oh?” she said, “What new questions?”
“Okay,” I said, paying the price for her cooperation, “It says here that Simon took one hundred milligram Elavil tablets. That causes me to wonder what kind of bottle they come in and what color they are.”
“What good does that do?”
“Maybe nothing, maybe everything, depending on what else I connect to those facts.” We played this game for another few minutes before we both began to tire. She knew I had what I wanted, and I knew I couldn’t satisfy her curiosity if I stayed there all day answering questions.
“Guess I’ll let you go,” she said ruefully, “but tell me how it turns out. Call if I can help you further.”
I knew my patience had won me a friend on the inside of a bureaucracy with thicker walls and more bars than a prison. When I got back to the car, I entered her name and number in my phone and in my brown directory, a leather book the size of a TV Guide, that holds my network of sources. My trust in my phone and technology, in general, is limited, but my brown directory has stood the test of time.
Back at the Park Plaza, I phoned Western, actually reaching Tom Wright on the first try. He complained about the rain in Portland. I said that the San Francisco Bay was a trifle cool this time of year. After that, we got down to keyman insurance. I filled him in on the overdose and the coroner’s insistence that the actual cause of death was still the fire. I included my comments to the executives about their chances being in the neighborhood of twenty-five percent.
“I heard about the briefcase, and I’m not firing you, but consider yourself chastised. And you were generous with the twenty-five percent figure,” Tom said, “failing to tell them the legal battle would take two years.”
“Don’t get excited,” I cautioned him. “I’m not even close to my usual this-case-is-closed feeling. I’ll be here the rest of the week at a minimum. Life was going too well for Simon to pick suicide, from my point of view. He had money, he was king of his job, he had subjects to rule and he took care of his mom in L.A.. There could still be something in his seemingly non-existent personal life, but the suicide theory felt wrong.”
“You said he had depression.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “but what did he have to be depressed about? Lester tells me his work, but I don’t believe it.”
“Well, he sure timed his suicide poorly from Genetrix’s point of view,” he said, ignoring my remarks.
“What do you mean?”
“In another month,” he said, “the suicide exclusion clause would have lapsed. We would have had to pay.”
“Who knew that?”
“Anyone who read the policy.”
Tom told me a few more times what a great job I was doing, so I knew he wasn’t listening to my cautionary statements. All he heard was drug overdose. The waters were muddied and the payout wouldn’t be anytime soon. He was thrilled. I finally managed to hang up the phone.
As I lay back on the bed, my eye fell on the Johnson Lumber briefcase, at the side of the desk, where I had left it. But I had left it flush against the wall and now it was several inches closer to me. The maid must have moved it while cleaning, I thought, and went back to considering my agenda for the day. Certainly a visit to Hillberg Partners and maybe Dr. Baxter, if I could get in to see him.
My eyes went back to the briefcase and the gap between it and the wall. It didn’t look like an area a busy maid would bother with, but maybe the maids here were very conscientious. I got up, went over to the briefcase and opened it. Everything looked okay. I checked my closet and all of the dresser drawers. All okay.
I opened the drawer of the night stand by the bed where I had left my tape recorder after listening again to the Lester Roseman interview. The number in the little window that shows the position of the tape said 181, almost exactly where I had left it, but the numbers were perfectly registered in the window. Last night, part of a 0 was showing. I remembered, because to memorize the spot, I couldn’t decide between 180 or 181.
The maid had no reason to listen to my tape or to rewind it. I had had a visitor. I took the Glock 19 out of my luggage. I put in the nine-millimeter shells one by one, then checked that the safety was on. Arnie claimed that true PIs, ones that carry guns, sleep with them at their side, not under the pillow or on the floor. If I was going to sleep with this thing, I would be double-sure the safety was on.
I got ready for bed, checked the door and windows, and probed the shadows in the closet. Then I crawled into bed. I slid the Glock under the covers and down against my knee. It felt strange and cold, but I wasn’t checking shadows anymore, and in a few minutes I was asleep.
CHAPTER 8
I awakened to the shrill insistence of the telephone. I hung up when I realizes it was the automatic wake-up recording. Sunlight leaked into the room around the edges of the leaded draperies. I sat up in bed and remembered the Johnson Lumber briefcase. It hadn’t advanced an inch on me during the night. Good.
I laughed at my paranoia of the night before and imagined what the maid would think if I forgot about the automatic pistol in the sheets. I returned the gun to my suitcase, but noticed that I didn’t unload it.
Why was someone snooping around my room if I was investigating a suicide? Because it wasn’t suicide. That quickly it became Simon Gallagher’s murder investigation. I can be very convincing when I’m my own audience.
Motive, opportunity, means—who had them? Certainly Mark Foringer, Lester Roseman, and Neal Wilson. The Genetrix principals were suspects, but it didn’t seem a very good trade to collect five million on keyman insurance and lose the meal ticket for the whole company.
Financial motive? Would Hillberg Venture Partners, by removing Simon, increase their ownership? Would Roark Labs profit from removing the competition? None of these thoughts felt right, but I was just warming up my suspicions like a snuffling bloodhound with a torn piece of the criminal’s clothing under his broad nose.
The Genetrix executives had the easiest access to Simon’s Lab, but Simon could have let anyone into his labs, except, possibly, Roark.
If someone forced Simon to take alcohol and his own Elavil pills, they could have started the fire after Simon was unconscious, covering their tracks. How could they have threatened Simon into taking the pills and how could they stop him from calling out for help?
Stop speculating, I told myself, and put in a call to Dr. Ezra Baxter, getting his office nurse. I used my best official voice, requesting a meeting with the good doctor. Was this an emergency? Yes, I decided, I couldn’t wait until the week after next. He could see me for a few minutes at three P.M.. Fine, I thanked her and hung up.
Next, Arnie. He was in, and I asked after the kids. They were fine, but he didn’t elaborate so I pressed him. “Are they doing their homework?”
“Yes,” he said, with a bit too much enthusiasm, “Every day. They’re working very hard. By the way, in looking at the Johnson Lumber case again, I noticed some inconsistencies I can fill you in on later. When do you think you’ll be back?”
“Not until next week at the earliest,” I said, “and it could be later. The accidental fire has every likelihood of turning into a murder investigation.”
“Really, how come?” he said. Despite the curiosity his words implied, I detected relief.
I switched directions like a dog sniffing meat. “Sally isn’t involved in the Johnson Lumber case is she?”
“Really Randy,” he said, laughing stiffly, “she’s just a high school senior. She’s working with Jasper on the costumes.”
It didn’t escape me that Arnie had avoided a direct answer to my question, but should I battle it out with him? Arnie didn’t lie, but he could evade like hell. If Sally was involved, Arnie had about as much chance of changing things as he had of opening the jaws of a pit bull. He had fairly “irresistible force”, but Sally had “immovable object” down pat. I settled for something in the middle. “Keep them out of trouble,” I commanded from six hundred miles to the south.
“I’ll try,” he said with a resignation that told me my worries were more than justified.
“Could you squeeze in a little work to help me out down here?”
“Sure.”
I related my suspicions in the case and asked him to do some background checking on Foringer, Roseman and Wilson. I also told him about Gallagher’s brother in Chicago. I wanted him to find out what he could about the finances and personal lives of all four. He took down the names and hung up.
I tried to worry about Sally, but my mind wouldn’t engage. I was miles away. Arnie was right there, and I trusted him like a brother. I have a very focused personality, with single-track, monorail type thinking. One hand patting your head while the other rubs circles on your stomach is not a skill I possess. My train of thought went back into the Genetrix tunnel. There was no light at the other end.
I removed my copy of the founders picture from my attaché case and put it in a plastic sleeve.
I reviewed my day mentally, Hillberg Partners first, Dr. Baxter, maybe a few interviews with Simon’s neighbors if there was time, dinner with Jean and then Tiny Alice followed by vocalist auditions from those hoping to bum around Portland for the summer.
I extracted a stack of audition forms from my briefcase and put them, together with the photograph, in a smooth black leather folder.
Hillberg Partners occupied part of a floor in a simple building in Menlo Park. Their footprint was much smaller than the Genetrix headquarters, a few unassuming offices, a library and a general-purpose boardroom, like a third-tier law office.
The receptionist was an older woman, trim, with pursed lips and silvery hair, perfectly trimmed below the ears, the kind of smartness that requires weekly trips to the beauty parlor. She informed me that Doug was out of the office, but Janice was expecting me. She’d join me in the boardroom in a few minutes.
Alone, I sat in one of the comfortable boardroom chairs and stared at the wall thinking about the upcoming conversation.
Janice arrived in a stunning lemon business suit. It was too yellow to be successful on anyone but her, its short jacket just resting on the shelf of her hips. Her smooth dark brown hair looked almost black next to the sunny fabric. Mesmerized, I stood to shake her hand. Then we both sat.
“I understand from Mark that you now believe Simon’s death was suicide.”
“A number of factors point in that direction,” I said, seeming to agree. “By the way, I want to thank you for the introduction to Richard Roark.”
She smiled with secret amusement. “I’m not usually thanked for introducing someone to a near-death dunking in the bay. Or perhaps you were thanking me, obliquely, for your introduction to Jean?”
“You’re well informed,” I said with my own slight smile. “Have you been playing tennis recently?”
“Yes, Randy, as a matter of fact, I have.”
“There may be millions of people in the Bay Area, but the venture capitalists and entrepreneurs seem interconnected like a small town soap opera.” She obliged me with an engaging chuckle. I felt the moment had arrived to launch the plan I had dreamt up during breakfast at the Park Plaza. “I need to ask a favor of you.” She gave me another winning smile and tipped her head a bit to the side encouraging me to continue. “I’d like to confide some details of my investigation to you and you alone.” Her smile disappeared.
“Mr. Foringer is no longer acceptable as the focal contact for your investigation?”
“No, he’s not, and I’d like our conversations to be completely confidential. Can I have your assurance?”
“I don’t like this conversation. I’m sure, if I agree to silence, I’ll like what you say next even less. Why me, Mr. Justice?” Her voice held the distrust most beautiful women have of men’s motives.
“I need you, because you are the most removed from the daily activity of the company while still having authority over the executives. Strictly business,” I added, addressing the tone I had heard.
“Okay, confidential,” she said. “Now tell me why Mr. Foringer is okay for an accidental fire investigation, but not for a suicide.” She folded her arms within her business armor and challenged me, with a look, to state my reservations about Mark’s suitability.
I shut the door to the conference room and took the plunge. “I don’t think it’s suicide. I think it’s murder.”
This little twist was clearly not what Janice was expecting and, for the first time since I’d met her, she seemed unprepared. “Murder,” she repeated. “On, no.” Then an even worse thought occurred to her, “You don’t suspect Mark. You can’t.”
“Please,” I insisted, “I don’t know for a fact it’s murder. What I said was I thought it was murder,” I continued, backpedaling, trying to slow the boulder I had just pushed off the cliff.
She was very quick to catch the distinction. Now she turned on me with accusation in her tone. Why was I shaking up her world if it was only guesswork? I had breached her calm business façade and, now, if I didn’t have a good story, she would see that I suffered. “Do the police believe it’s murder, Mr. Justice?”
“No.”
“Just you.”
“That’s right.” It took half an hour to explain why I wanted to conduct the investigation under the assumption it was murder and another half an hour to secure her cooperation. I knew I had been partly successful when, near the end of the meeting, she dropped the Mr. Justice and called me Randy.
I emphasized again I needed her candid support even though some of the people I was investigating were her personal friends. After she nodded, I asked her why Hillberg Partners had brought in Mark, since he had worked for the competition.
Competitors were often the best source for management and employees, she explained, even if you had to buy them out of their non-compete agreements. Raiding each other is a normal part of corporate intrigue. Again, she challenged me with a look, and her assurance that Mark, at least, was above suspicion.
“Nobody is above suspicion.”
“Even me?”
“Including you,” I said. “You just happen to be better alerted than the others. If you’re involved, I’ll find out. If you’re not, it could be dangerous to mention this conversation to anyone, including people you seem to trust completely, like Mark and Jean.”
“Dangerous? Aren’t you being a little melodramatic?”
“If someone murdered Simon, I don’t think they’d be squeamish about a second death that covered up their involvement.”
She gave me a long thoughtful look. “Maybe I should give you another piece of history.”
