Dead Midnight (11 page)
“Don’t get me wrong,” she told me. “I’m not the model mom. I still like to party. If my older sister—who got out of the apartment before things really went to hell with the family—didn’t live in my building, I don’t think I could manage. But I’m working on it. I got to, for Tonio’s sake. The way I see it, we saved each other’s lives.”
I’d concluded the interview thinking there was something too pat and calculated about Julia Rafael’s presentation of herself, but next to her the other applicants I saw seemed lackluster. Honesty about one’s past mistakes and determination in the face of the odds have always impressed me, and if she had a bit of the con woman in her, so much the better in this business. I gave her a hard day’s thought, then called to tell her she had the job. So far she’d proven to be a bright student, and now, I felt, my investment in her was starting to pay off.
I finally located the Tessa Remington story in the Friday, February 16,
Chron.
It told me little more than what J.D. had already recapped, except for the date of her disappearance—the fourteenth—her husband’s name—Kelby Lincoln, CEO of something called Econium Measures—and that the police were asking the public to be on the lookout for her white BMW convertible, license number 2 KCV 743. A picture of Remington accompanied the article: a woman of about my age with short, sleekly styled blond hair and classically sculpted features. Her expression radiated poise and self-confidence.
The fourteenth. Valentine’s Day. Roger had killed himself that night. Coincidence, or—?
“Sharon?” Julia stood in the doorway, her first report in hand.
“Come on in,” I said. “Let’s look that over and then get you started on your next assignment. It’s a skip trace on a woman named Jody Houston.”
Friday
It was raining heavily when I arrived in Dogpatch at eight A.M. I sprinted from my MG to the doors of
InSite
’s building, pushed through them, and took off my sodden raincoat before using the intercom. It was too damn late in the season for this kind of weather!
When I went through the second set of doors I saw that the large room beyond was as chaotic as the previous afternoon. Several people stood in a row in a way that reminded me of a formal receiving line, with Max Engstrom at its head. J.D. wasn’t in evidence. Engstrom stepped forward, took my wet coat, and hung it on a nearby chair. Then he clasped my hands, and said, “Welcome, Ms. McCone. The game’s afoot.”
I winced inwardly at his Holmesian imitation, but replied, “Yes, it is, Mr. Engstrom.”
“Allow me to introduce some of the players—and my top people.” He handed me over to a woman of my height and build who stood beside him. “Dinah Vardon, our Web-Potentate.”
Vardon nodded, shaking my hand with a strong grip. Roger’s former love was striking in a pale, severe way, her dark hair pulled back from her face and fastened at the nape of her neck. Her mouth was thin-tipped and humorless, and her gray eyes were shiny and cold; they reminded me of pebbles on the bottom of a stream, over which the currents wash but never move. Her face was devoid of makeup, and she wore all black—tunic sweater, jeans, boots. She didn’t speak, but I sensed she was taking my measure and cataloging the impression for future reference. I could understand why J.D. found her scary.
Vardon passed me along to the man next to her. Engstrom said, “Jorge Amaya, our CEO.”
Amaya—round-faced, black-haired, expensively attired in a dark suit—smiled at me, dark eyes dancing. “So we are to play games today, Ms. McCone. Delightful!” His Spanish accent imparted a melodiousness to his rather formal speech. When he clasped my hand, he gave it a little squeeze and winked at me. When I winked back, he looked pleasantly surprised.
As I went along the line, Engstrom continued his introductions, appending each person’s self-created job title: Haven Maven (home section); Venue Vetter (entertainment); Gallivanting Gourmand (restaurant critic); Shaker and Baker (food editor); King of the Road (travel); Sherlock (research). When I expressed amusement at the offbeat titles, he preened and said, “Allowing the staff to name their own positions is another thing that makes their work enjoyable.”
The introductions finished, Engstrom produced a whistle and blew three ear-piercing blasts. Apparently this was his customary method for getting his employees’ attention, because the room instantly became quiet.
“Listen up, folks,” he called. “The famous gambit’s about to begin. This is Sharon McCone, ace detective. She’s got until midnight to unmask which one of you has the partial manuscript of a novel in your desk drawer. Thwart her any way you can, but remember this rule: You’re not allowed to lie to her. You can evade a question, refuse to answer, or mislead her, but you must tell the truth. So let the game, and your work, proceed!”
After a lingering scrutiny of me, the staffers returned to what they had been doing.
Behind us the door burst open and J.D. blustered through. “Sorry I’m late, Max. I—”
“I hardly expected you to be on time, so we got started without you. As of now we’re on the clock.”
J.D. shrugged out of his raincoat, draped it over the chair where Engstrom had earlier hung mine. Again he was wearing the lemon-yellow sweater; the fluorescent lighting rendered the clash with his hair even more hideous. He pulled a cassette recorder and notepad from his briefcase, fumbled with a tape. While he organized himself I said to Engstrom, “J.D. claims every journalist is working on a novel. Is it possible all the people here have partial manuscripts?”
He smiled. “Ah, your first question, and I mustn’t lie. No. But I also must agree with J.D.; even I, at one time, harbored such an abomination—until I burned it. There was considerable competition among the staffers to be the target of your search. Eventually they drew straws.”
“Then I’d better get started.”
“Our offices will be your happy hunting grounds till midnight.” He made an expansive gesture and turned away.
Bruce Dunn, the Gallivanting Gourmand, was a dedicated game player. He stonewalled me on every question, laid a trail of red herrings—which he said he preferred in cream sauce—and told me I should talk to Max Engstrom, who hadn’t burned the manuscript of his novel as he claimed. When I said that would mean Engstrom had violated the cardinal rule of the game, Dunn told me Max was a law unto himself and a natural-born liar. “It’s his nature.” Although he spoke pleasantly enough, I detected an undercurrent of dislike for the publisher.
The Haven Maven, Lia Chen, was seriously annoyed at my intrusion on her work. “We’re running a business here, not a theme park—and Max should know that!” Then she began talking about her just-published book on
feng shui,
and asked J.D. if he would plug it in his article. He replied noncommittally, and she scowled and turned back to her desk, muttering about Max and his asinine ideas. A seriously disaffected employee, and a good potential source for inside information about the situation here.
Courtney DeAngelo, the Money Mongrel, didn’t like her title, which Engstrom had given her when she refused to come up with one of her own. “What does that mean, anyway? I’m an accountant, for Christ’s sake. I try to balance the books and fend off creditors. With the current cash-flow problem, they ought to be spending less on fancy food and Mad Russians, or whatever it is they’re drinking this week. Then I might be able to pay the janitorial service.” I put her on my list of people to seek out for information.
One of the tech department staff members took time out from trying to correct a faulty link between the magazine’s and an advertiser’s sites to tell me about the annual mystery-game cruise he took in the Caribbean. “I wait all year for it, and then I come home and start waiting all over again.” Was he happy working here at
InSite
? “As long as I’ve got problems to solve, I’m happy. Besides, the food’s great. I like to eat.” He patted his ample stomach for emphasis. A possible culprit for the game, but not a good source of information.
Kat Donovan, aka Sherlock, was a nervous individual. As soon as I came up to her desk, the head researcher blocked my view of her computer screen and put the machine in sleep mode. She really didn’t have time for game-playing, she told me. She was behind in her work as it was. I bowed out gracefully, wondering if she was trying to clear her desk in time for a vacation; before she noticed me I’d seen she was scrolling down a list of cheap airfares.
I worked the first floor systematically and by ten had come up with a lengthy list of disaffected staffers who might be induced to talk candidly about Roger’s tenure there. A breakfast buffet was set up in the area under the loft, and people had been making forays to it, carrying their plates and cups back to their desks. I decided to sit down there and observe office dynamics for a while.
The spread was impressive; sweet rolls, bread, bagels, lox, fresh fruit, juice, coffee, tea. And yet the Money Mongrel couldn’t pay the janitorial service. I built a lox sandwich and took some fruit and coffee while J.D., who had been trailing me and ostentatiously taking notes, made a face and poured himself a small glass of juice. When we were seated at one of the round tables flanking the buffet he said, “I never tire of watching you stuff yourself.”
I swallowed a bite of lox. “In my business it’s a good idea to eat when you can, because you never know when you’ll get your next chance.”
“What about when you’re not working?”
“Then I have to make up for the meals I’ve lost.”
“I see.”
“Ms. McCone?” Jorge Amaya, coffee cup in hand, stood beside me. “May I join you?”
“Certainly.” I moved my chair, and J.D. fetched another.
Amaya sat down, smiling at me. “How are you enjoying our little game?”
“Pretty well so far.”
“Max has told me what you are really looking for—our saboteur.” When I didn’t respond immediately, he added, “Ah, you have no comment on that. But surely you must feel free to share your findings with me, the CEO.”
“I have no findings yet.”
“And no opinions?”
“None.”
“Max and I have discussed these disturbing incidents, and I have formed an opinion. He is putting too much emphasis on them. In the normal course of events equipment malfunctions and files stray. Do you not agree?”
“Perhaps. I understand you were brought in by the Remington Group after they began investing in
InSite
.”
He seemed startled at the change of subject. “… That is true.”
“You’ve guided other firms to IPO, are an expert in the process?”
“Correct.”
“Exactly how do you accomplish that?”
“It is not an exact science. Like individuals, companies vary.
InSite,
for example. When the Rowland Group began looking at it, it was small but had a solid business plan and a money-making idea. My function was to create a bigger package deal, one that will attract shareholders. Remington made the initial infusion of cash, then I tried to take it to the next level. But the paid-subscriber program I instituted didn’t become popular, and so far we have failed to interest the large advertisers. The burn rate of capital was extremely high when we received our mezzanine financing—”
“Mezzanine?”
He smiled as if I were a pleasant but not very bright child. “Intermediate financing. A second round. After that Tessa Remington and I agreed to slow the magazine’s growth and wait out the economic downturn. Which is the stage where we are now.”
I glanced at J.D. He was surreptitiously taping the conversation. “Is the magazine in trouble because of Tessa Remington’s disappearance?”
Amaya hesitated, compressing his lips. “You know of this disappearance from where?”
“The
Chronicle.
”
J.D.’s tape clicked off. Amaya glared at the recorder, made a chopping motion. “Leave that. We are speaking privately.” To me he added, “In your profession, you must encounter many disappearances. Tell me this—” His eyes moved away from me to Dinah Vardon, who had just come up to our table. “Ah, Dinah,” he said with a sly smile, “we were speaking of Ms. Remington.”
She stared at him—a flat, unreadable look.
Amaya appeared unfazed by her expression. “Perhaps you would like to join our discussion.”
“I would like to talk with Ms. McCone and Mr. Smith, yes, but Max has asked that you meet with him in his office.”
The CEO stood, nodding to us. “We will continue with this later, but now, when our esteemed publisher requests my presence, I must comply.”
Vardon’s eyes followed Amaya to the stairway. I caught a conflicted expression there—contempt and anger, but something else that I couldn’t put a name to. She sat down in the chair he’d vacated and sighed deeply. “If Jorge hadn’t declared himself exempt from Max’s nonsense titles, he’d be
El Maestro de Toroshit.
So, are we having fun yet?”
I said, “You don’t seem to approve of this exercise.”
“It’s not up to me to approve or disapprove. If J.D.’s story lures more paid subscribers or interests more advertisers, we’ll start making money and finally get to this IPO everybody’s been jerking us around about. Then I’ll be happy.”
“You have stock options?”
“Up the wazoo.”
“Do all staff members have them?”
“Only Max’s anointed few. Let’s keep that off the record, huh, J.D.? The problem is, the staff grew too fast and neither Max nor Jorge was willing to slice the pie into a lot of little pieces. So they’re banking on people being young and gullible and not realizing till IPO time that they’ve been screwed and worked their butts off for nothing.”
“And you don’t care about that?”
“Why should I? I’m not willing to give half my slice to somebody else, either.”
Brimming with compassion, Dinah Vardon was, but why should she be different than any of the other survivors of the collapse of the hot tech market? Would I have felt differently under the same circumstances? I’d’ve liked to think so, but maybe not.
I said, “Mr. Amaya was talking about Tessa Remington’s disappearance earlier. What do you know about that?”
Something flickered in Vardon’s eyes, but again I couldn’t identify it. “Very little except that she’s left this company in an untenable position. I’d just like to know what kind of game she’s playing.”