About Face (14 page)

“There's the wager. You use your methods, I'll use mine.”

I sighed and clicked off. Wes never stopped trying.

At Algoplex, I spent some time talking to people who knew Rod, including his assistants and Jimmy the PR guy. Nothing
much new came out of the conversations, except for how traumatized everyone was and how clearly they respected Rod.

It was late in the afternoon by the time I went into Mike Riley's office. He looked properly haggard. He'd been up until three last night with his senior engineers, verifying that they had the expertise to come through on the Eternaderm deal. I noticed he'd added a picture of Rod to his wall, right next to the photo of Mike's old rugby team. I mentioned that I'd talked to Ellen Quong and Connie Plush, but didn't give him details.

“Any word from Sylvain about sticking with the deal?” I asked.

“They're still talking nice, but they said they're revisiting the key-man clause. I have a feeling they're letting me down slowly.”

“How considerate of them.”

“Rod's death is a shock to them, too. It came just as they were calling in the big cash for us from a backer. Their concern has got to be they'd be throwing good money after bad.”

“Which backer exactly?”

“They prefer anonymity. That's not unusual.”

“Tell me more about Sylvain. Where'd they come from?”

“We did our own reverse due diligence on them, of course,” Mike replied. “They're relatively new, and small, but they've got a solid record of backing winners and then plowing the return into new ventures. No take-the-money-and-run tactics I could uncover. One thing I found odd, though, is how diverse their portfolio is: routers, set top boxes, Internet auctions. . . . Plush is their first biotech company, and we're the first in data visualization and simulation. But each play's scored a touchdown, so I guess they've got a good eye.”

“What kind of equity are they getting?”

Mike made a you-don't-want-to-know wave. “Too much. I went to the mat with Rod over this. They got major Series A
equity, three seats on the board, their own CFO, a boatload of warrants, big-time attachments—and that's in
addition
to what we gave up to Plush. Rod's argument was that Algoplex could go nowhere without him, so there was no danger of losing control. Meanwhile the upside was robust for both companies. He was right, of course, about himself being the indispensable man.”

Mike stopped, cracked his knuckles, and went on. “Some execs suffer from an inflated sense of their own value. Did I say some?
Most
. I'm not like that, Bill, I'm a team player. I've got some skills and some experience, but there are twenty other guys who could do my job. Except for one thing: Rod trusts me. Trusted. He was right to, and he was right about his value to our company. He really was The Man, which meant that he was right even when he was wrong. We gave up too much, but then again, it's probably true Sylvain would have walked. Rod felt this was our main chance.”

“How exactly does the key-man clause work in this case?”

“It was meant to protect both sides. It insures Rod's stake in the company, but it also says that if we lose Rod for any reason, Sylvain has the option of getting out
or
of buying 30 percent of his stock for next to nothing. Losing Rod was as big a risk for them as it was for us. People sometimes call it the hit-by-the-bus clause. No one foresaw losing him this way.”

“So they could gain by Rod's loss.”

“They don't see it that way. Their nightmare, of course, is that they pour money into a company that can no longer deliver without Rod. After spending half the night with my engineers, I'm convinced we
can
deliver. Rod laid down a solid blueprint. We just have to carry it through. I said this to Sylvain today. If they want to bail, it's on them. I'm sure not giving up more of the company.”

Mike had switched into competitive mode. I'd noticed this at the Frisbee game: He was everyone's best friend until play started. Then he didn't care who he knocked over to get into the end zone. “Was Rod insured?” I asked.

“You bet. He was a good man. Algoplex was his child. He didn't want to leave it orphaned if the unthinkable happened. If the insurance comes through, it'll keep us going until we find another deal, in case Sylvain does back out.”

“The insurance must have some conditions.”

“Yes. Which means we need to clear up this ridiculous idea that Rod killed himself. I'm counting on you for that, Bill.”

“What do the police say? The autopsy was scheduled for today.”

“The police put time of death between ten and eleven Wednesday night. The cause was exsanguish—well, he bled to death from the stab to his carotid artery. The main theory is that a burglary was in progress and Rod surprised them. Detective Coharie figures there were two guys. No fingerprints, which supports the idea they had some experience. But at the same time he keeps harping on the fact that the lack of prints could also mean there was no one else in the house. There was no sign of forced entry, either, so he won't rule out Rod doing it to himself. It's unlikely, he admits, but he's heard Rod was psychologically unstable. Who would have said that?”

The possibilities came to mind quickly. “Rupert Evans. Maybe even Connie Plush. Rupert's the one with the biggest motive to blame it on the victim. But I have to admit, Mike, Rod was bent out of shape about Alissa.”

Mike looked down. His lip quivered and his voice grew soft. “There's no way you can convince me he'd do such a thing to
himself. Yet the police say they can't find clear evidence that anything was stolen.”

“What about his laptop? He took it home with him every night.”

“Right! But they said there's no proof he did that night. Well, it's not in Rod's office, so where else would he have left it? Anyway, it doesn't discount the robbery theory. If the robbers were interrupted, they'd just grab what they could and get out.”

“You still have to wonder—why only the laptop, all the way downstairs? Why not the high-end stereo stuff in the living room?”

“Portability,” Mike answered. “Look, don't lend credence to the suicide idea.”

“Did they do a toxic screening?”

“Yes. No drugs, nothing.” Mike gripped the back of his chair. “I find it infuriating that a couple of sleazeballs ended Rod's life like this and we're talking about whether he might have done it himself. I want to wring their necks, Bill. Personally.”

“I know the feeling. Listen, I don't think Rod killed himself, either. He supposedly wrote this note, but there was no pen near him. What did he do, put it away before he bled to death? Even Rod wasn't that neat. No, I think the note was a fake and we should look closer to home. It's more than a coincidence this happened at the very moment Rod was supposed to be reunited with Alissa. Did you remind the cops to get after Wendy?”

“I did. Coharie wrote it down and all, but . . . he seemed skeptical of that avenue, to tell you the truth.”

“Well then I need to talk to him. I don't understand why he hasn't called me himself.” I glanced at my watch. It was after five. “Is he still in?”

Mike shrugged and handed me Coharie's card. I found out he'd left for the day. I left my number, and also told Mike to have him call me. “What about Rod's estate?” I said. “Who's benefiting there?”

“Primarily his mother. She'll keep the assets right here at Algoplex. She instructed me to do what Rod would want. He's got some money going to Caltech, his alma mater, and to a couple of friends for their startups. He also”—Mike gave a little laugh—“left some money to be passed out as bonuses to the employees. That shows what a good guy he was. I haven't decided yet whether to ask people if they want to reinvest it.”

“There'll be some kind of service for him, I assume.”

“Yes, a memorial service on Wednesday afternoon,” Mike said. “The funeral itself will be back in Columbus next weekend. I think I mentioned his mother will take his ashes back with her. She's at a hotel. I'll give you the number.”

“Thanks. Then I'll get going.”

Mike came forward to give me the number and shake my hand. It was a warm, firm shake, as his always were. He looked me in the eye. “Bill, you don't need to tell Rod's mother about the Alissa stuff and—and all that, right?” I shook my head and he pulled me closer. “I feel like it was my fault for bringing Alissa into his life. I just wish Rod had been able to confide in me. He was like a brother. I feel I could have prevented it.”

“Yeah. I thought I was in the right place Wednesday night. Obviously I wasn't.”

Tears suddenly burst from Mike's eyes. His mouth turned down and he sobbed on my shoulder. I patted him on the arm, then on the back. He put a hand to his face and pulled away. “Sorry, Bill. I'm tired. I should call it a day and hit the showers.”

I went out the door feeling an odd envy at Mike's emotion. A reservoir of tears brimmed in my eyes, too, but I couldn't release them. They pressed against my forehead, as if the force behind the dam was what drove me forward. Perhaps I was holding them back on purpose, to keep the pressure strong, so that when the dam broke it would produce relief instead of disaster.

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I had to run back up to my flat in San Francisco to dress. The entry in the SG planner had said the dinner was at a high-priced restaurant in Atherton. I put on a suit and tie—the suit had needed a good roll with lint tape—and looked as respectable as a camera jockey could look while lying in wait for Rupert. What I'd do when he arrived was another matter. I'd gotten good at charging into the middle of situations and making a nuisance of myself. It's a cameraman's job: To make a living, I had to pretty quickly get over any delicate feelings about putting a lens in someone's face. Besides, I'd been driving with my eyes closed ever since the dot-com debauch had derailed me from the path I'd meant to be on. I had no particular plan tonight except to put myself in a position to learn some things and get out alive.

I arrived only fifteen minutes early and was relieved to see no one I knew. The bar was busy with the usual Silicon Valley after-work crowd, some in their business suits, some in their khakis and running shoes—casual Fridays was a redundancy at certain companies. I lurked among them for a moment until the maître d' left her post, then snuck a peek in her book. There it was: Evans, party of five, for seven-thirty. I buried myself back in the bar crowd, ordered a beer, and kept an eye on the door. They were a loud bunch, mostly marketing and finance types,

their faces fresh and clean. The engineers would be dining elsewhere, drinking beer instead of martinis, topping the food with ketchup instead of confit.

Seven-thirty came and went. I thought Rupert had pulled a switch on me, but he was only fashionably late. He led the way in, saying something that made the maître d' giggle and blush. I worked my way to the other side of the bar. He and Trisha had a booth in a hidden corner of the restaurant. There was no nearby table from which to eavesdrop. I'd have to be more meddlesome than usual.

Three Sylvain bankers arrived a few minutes later, fully equipped in three-piece suits. I grabbed my beer and gestured to the maître d' that I was with them. The last one in line turned, recognized me from the dinner on Monday, and promptly got a confused look on his face. I smiled and raised my bottle.

“What's up tonight?” I said, dropping into step behind him.

“The usual, I guess.” He was the youngest of the three, with pale blond hair and a few red spots on his cheek.

I stuck out my hand. “Bill Damen, in case you forgot.”

He twisted to shake and walk at the same time. “Kevin Simpkins. I didn't realize you were on the inside.”

“On special occasions.” He slid into the booth and I slid right in after him.

Rupert's eyes bulged when he saw me. It was one of the few times I'd seen him lose his composure. A waiter showed up before Rupert could evict me. I asked for another beer. Rupert fumed. “Cancel that,” he said. “And bring a security man, please.”

I said, “Don't tell me you left Gary home alone.”

Trisha took charge. Her bones were thin as a bird's, but her eyes were those of a hawk more than a sparrow. Her shoulders
were sharp and her features angular and well-preserved. She gave the waiter a glittering smile to match the stones on her neck. “There's no need for security. I'll have a cosmopolitan.”

Rupert opened his mouth, but Trisha put the words into it. “Bring him a cosmo, too.”

He was speechless for a change. Only a big sister could do that. “You must be the oldest in the family,” I said to her.

“Old? Is that what you
meant
to say, Bill?” Her voice was a rich purr, slightly curdled.

“Wise. That's what I meant.” I turned to the guys next to me and said, “How's the financing for SG going, Kevin?”

He looked to his colleagues, who glanced back at Trisha. That in itself was valuable information. “This is purely social,” Trisha said. “No business of any kind.”

I looked at the square faces of the bankers, then at Trisha's jewelry, a carat or two beyond gaudy, and Rupert's Gene Meyer tie. Trisha's dress was a luscious chiffon, with ruffles on the shoulders that gave an impression of big red wings. I asked Kevin how he met her. He stammered out something about his wife and social circles that was clearly invented on the spot.

“Bill, it's not polite to embarrass guests,” Trisha interrupted. “Now, you know our business perfectly well. Why don't we talk about something else before our drinks arrive and you leave?”

These guys were clients, she was implying. So why was their date with the big cheeses instead of Silicon Glamour “associates”? There was one thing I knew for sure we all had in common. “I don't know if you've heard the details about Rod's murder,” I said. “It was incredibly brutal.”