About Face (12 page)

I pushed the Scout as hard as it would go—it got up to 68 on the downhill stretches of 280 on the way to the SG offices, engine rasping. It occurred to me I should have come down earlier. Rupert wouldn't have heard about Rod's death first thing in the morning. Now he'd had time to prepare.

Rod had warned me that SG monitored their parking lot, and he was right. No sooner had I bounced over a speed bump than a young blond guy came out of nowhere. I rolled down my window. He said this was a private lot. I told him I had business with Rupert. He squared his shoulders and demanded my name.

Clearly I was not the first person to barge in with the idea of settling business with Rupert. As the blond spoke into a twoway radio, I stepped on the gas. I wheeled around a line of cars, used mine to block the walkway to the front door, jerked on the parking brake, and took the keys. I pounded on the door and looked up at the video camera. “Let me in, Gary. Rupert needs to see me.”

The blond guy yelled into his radio as he scrambled over the hood of my car. I thought, foolishly, how much I'd enjoy hitting him. But then the radio squawked back and he halted. The door buzzed. I went inside.

“Where's Rupert?” I said.

Gary was guarding the open-tread staircase, his arms folded. He really was a lot bigger than me. His biceps thoroughly filled the sleeves of his black polo shirt. He said, “Sit down.”

I went around the reception counter and grabbed his phone. He didn't hurry. While I searched for Rupert's extension, he took hold of my wrist and twisted it. And kept twisting it. The phone fell from my hand. He dragged me around the other side of the counter and, before releasing me, said, “Stay the hell out from behind
my
desk.”

I sat in a chair by a carved weimaraner. “I need to see Rupert.”

“Mr. Evans is not here. What's your name again?”

“You know my goddamned name. If Rupert's not here, I'll see Trisha. It concerns Rod and it's an emergency.”

Gary shook his head. His voice never lost its deep, easy, diesel rumble. “Man, you are some piece of work. Look, buddy, this thing is over. There's no connection between us and Mr. Glaser.”

“It's that easy, huh? Just erase him from the books.”

“There are no books.”

“Let me talk to Rupert. Or Trisha. It'll save them some trouble. Might save them a visit from the police.”

“We're shocked and saddened.” He said it with a straight face, as if at a news conference. “We'll do whatever we can to help.”

“Where was Rupert last night? Where were you?”

“At a hospital charity dinner. A few dozen people will confirm that.” The heavy lips curved into a smile.

I stood up. He moved, catlike, in the direction of the stairs. I wasn't going there. I was going to the door. “I hope you know what you're doing, Gary. I hope Rupert's happy with your work here.”

“Next time, I don't buzz the door for you.”

I didn't mind. While he was twisting my wrist, I'd had a glimpse of the weekly planner open on his desk. A dinner was scheduled for Friday night. The dinner was with Sylvain Partners.

» » » » »

I don't know why I put off Mike Riley until the end of the day. I wanted to get my hands on whoever killed Rod, not deal with the formalities, I suppose. Mike grasped me in a bear hug the moment I walked into his office. He expressed more concern for my well-being than I needed, asking if I was all right, repeating again how the whole thing just blew him away. Rod was a good friend, a great man, this was a terrible, terrible thing. I felt the same way, of course, but his way of putting it made it seem less than it was.

I asked about the arrangements. Mike said Rod's lawyer would handle the estate. Rod's mother was on her way from Columbus. Mike hadn't heard when or where a service would be held, though he assured me Algoplex would find a way to honor
him. The remains would be cremated and Rod's mother would take them back to Ohio.

“After the autopsy, I assume,” I said.

“Yes. That will be done tomorrow. A Detective Coharie was here.”

“Coharie? That wasn't the one I talked to last night.”

“Coharie's the one in charge of the case.”

“Okay. Give me his number. I want to make sure he's got all the information.”

Mike jotted it down for me. Then he took a little walk around his desk and glanced at his computer screen. “I see that Rod had you on a retainer,” he said.

“Yes. He wanted me to find Alissa.”

“How would you feel about staying on, Bill? To find out what happened last night. The company will continue to pay you and your expenses.”

“You got it.” I would have done it for free, but the money was welcome.

Mike held up a disclaiming hand. “Not that I doubt the competence of the police. But I want to use every resource we have. They said it looked like a break-and-enter job. The lights were off in the front of the house. The burglars may have thought no one was home. After the deed they freaked out and split.”

“There are a lot of possibilities. That's one.”

“They also have another theory. Because of the note, I guess, they think Rod could have committed suicide. They wanted to know if he had a history of mental illness. I said no way.”

“Yeah.” I didn't want to admit the theory wasn't completely farfetched. “The scene looked more like a struggle to me than one guy going berserk.”

“Right!” Mike jabbed a stubby finger at me. “Exactly right. The detective said you'd be amazed at what people do to themselves when they flip out. But I don't see Rod flipping out. Not that way.”

“How much did you know about this Alissa business?”

Mike shook his head. “Rod wouldn't talk to me about it. Even though I'm the one who first set him up with her, after they started seeing, uh, more of each other, he clammed up. What was going on at the dinner Monday night, anyway?”

“I'm working on that. It wasn't an easy subject for him to talk about. Did he mention Alissa might have fallen for him?”

“Lord, no. Her for him?”

“Maybe. Or she might have been using him to gain access to Algoplex secrets.”

Mike leaned toward me, fingers pressing the desk. “Is there anything to that, Bill?”

“These are all things I'll be checking out.”

“You know that I'll help in every conceivable way. Would you mind writing up a memo for me about how you see the situation so far?”

Sure, Mike, I thought, I'll have all 500,000 words on your desk tomorrow morning. I gave what he might have mistaken for a nod and said, “I wanted to ask you about this deal with Plush Biologics. Do you have any reservations, see anything odd about it?”

“No, I don't think so, Bill.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and jingled some change. He must not have heard the news until he got in this morning, because his tie was garishly floral. “Quite the contrary, this is an enormous opportunity. Eternaderm looks like a winner to me. We'll be on the inside. We had to give up a
chunk of the company, of course, and they drove a hard bargain. But that's business. I see nothing but upside.”

He stopped jingling and added, “Assuming, of course, Sylvain wants to go ahead with it. Most VC's would jump ship after this. They have every right to: A key-man clause was written into the deal, and Rod was the key man. But when I talked to Sylvain this morning, they said they'd stick with us. We'll see if that holds. They might just be waiting for the body to cool off.”

“Can you come through on your end without Rod?”

He took a deep breath. “It'll be tough. But we'll come back. We'll fight for Rod. He gave us the blueprint. We've got enough good minds to meet the specs.”

“Can you think of anyone who would benefit from Rod being out of the picture?”

Mike's eyes went wide. “Someone wouldn't
kill
Rod because of this contract—to steal it from us in some way?”

“You never know. Can you think of any advantage Plush or Sylvain would gain by having intellectual property Alissa might have stolen?”

“Jeez . . .” He scratched his chin. “I don't know what they'd do with it. Rod was the man with the plan. Why hand it off to some other engineer when they just inked with us?”

“What about Silicon Glamour?”

“They seemed all right. Prudent, discreet. Rod took charge of his account with Alissa. I guess you know more than me by now.”

“So how is Sylvain connected to SG?”

“Sylvain and Silicon Glamour? That's a bizarre idea. I don't like the sound of it.”

“I don't, either. They're meeting tomorrow night. Don't let on that you know.”

“These are very weird ideas, Bill. Where are they leading us to?”

I stood to leave. “Like I said, there are a lot of possibilities. Just think about these questions and let me know.”

“Will do. And you'll go ahead and work up that memo for me?”

“Sure, Mike,” I said as I left. I'd changed my mind. It would be a short memo after all. Four words, five at most:
I have no fucking idea
.

» » » » »

I found myself back where it started. In the alley behind Alissa's apartment, watching the faint light behind her sliding glass doors. I'd been here since dark, waiting for something to happen. The police still had Rod's house off limits. I was secretly relieved. But I wasn't ready to go home yet, either. I'd come here, parked the Scout down the street, and now was loitering. When a car went by, or a tenant left the building, I stuffed my hands into my jacket pockets and walked down the alley as if I had somewhere to go. As if I belonged here. I didn't belong anywhere at the moment. Not back in my flat, with the camera cases all over the floor and the clothes unhung up and the takeout food cartons on the table and the century-old lintels sagging. Not out with friends: There was no one I wanted to talk to. Not in some café or bar, with its conversations like flies buzzing. I wanted to be only what I was here: a man in passing.

The night was chilly. A November wind whistled down the bay. People walked quickly, heels clopping. I was supposed to have only passed through Rod's life, too. Passed through, improved it, shown him to himself in an uplifting way, or at least
in a way that provided fifteen minutes of cinematic amusement. Pass through and get paid. The life of the cinematographer. We were notoriously hard to maintain relationships with because we were away from home so much. Rita and I had been together a few years ago, and it had worked because we understood the demands of the business. Often we shot films together. That was before the dot-com whirlwind lifted and rearranged everything, then dropped us like trailer siding in a tornado. Rod had kept a steady course through the whirlwind. It seemed unbearably wrong that he'd been taken at the brink of his own liftoff.

I stared at the sliding glass door, wondering what role Alissa had played in all this. She'd swept him off his feet, given him visions, sent his blood racing. I willed myself some kind of X-ray sight into the apartment and its past. I pictured the cool tile, the heavy wood of the Mission sofa, the unmade bed, the scattered camisoles and skirts and lingerie and shoes—had they been discarded carelessly, or in some hasty escape? Had the garments been plundered by an intruder—Gary, Rupert, a boyfriend, a kidnapper? Or had Alissa now returned and made the bed and put the clothes back in their closets?

The night got later, colder, darker. Nothing changed. The light behind the glass door seemed to flicker, but it was only a trick of my eyes from staring too long.

I couldn't stand any more. I ran at the Dumpster behind the utility room, levered myself atop it, and leaped for the drainpipe on the wall. I flashed back on Rod's sad attempt to climb this wall, when he managed only to deposit himself in the Dumpster. After gaining the utility room roof, I climbed heedlessly. My senses were blurred now, my nerves numb. I scrambled to the third floor, hardly noticing the effort or the height, then stood
gasping on the balcony. The door stared back at me, unforthcoming as a judge.

I grabbed the handle and pulled. It should have opened; I'd left it unlocked after my last visit. It did not move. With both hands I shook and lifted it. The door was blocked. Its base was ramming into some obstacle. I bent and peered in the dimness. Someone else had been inside. They'd placed a metal rod in the track. No amount of shaking would open this door. Whatever answers were inside were sealed off from me now.

Dr. Ellen Quong was perfectly
willing to help. I'd gotten her mobile number from Mike this morning, Friday, and had proposed lunch. Maybe the Chief Science Officer at Plush Biologics also wanted to get the inside gossip on Rod: She was a large, loquacious woman with a big laugh and quick eyes, and she liked to talk about people. Her black hair was cut in a page boy, which made her look younger than her fifty years. She also smiled a lot, producing big dimples in her cheeks.

We met at a Mexican restaurant a few miles from her office in Redwood City. My previous attempt at getting into Plush, on Wednesday, had been thwarted by Connie, so I wanted a neutral spot. After we ordered food, I gave Ellen an accurate but not detailed account of what had happened to Rod. Her face clouded and she told me how stunned she'd been by the news. But she wasn't the kind of person to linger in melancholy: Before long she was reminiscing about amusing moments with Rod, like his Nerd-in-Chief remarks during the film at the dinner signing. She'd done a fair amount of preliminary work with him before the signing. Ellen had been impressed by how quickly Rod got up to speed on the biology and how well adapted his tools were to the biocomputing tasks at hand. She'd
also been impressed by his integrity: He didn't try to sell her on Algoplex, but interrogated her as thoroughly about the molecular targets she had in mind as she had him about his software's capabilities.