The Big Exit (25 page)

B
Y THE TIME
M
ADDEN AND
C
ARLYLE GET TO
B
ENDER’S HOUSE, TWO
squad cars are already parked in front with their lights flashing, bringing out a few onlookers.

“I gotta hand it to you guys,” Forman greets them when they enter the living room. “You’re fucking fast. Two goddamn minutes.
These fine officers showed up in two minutes.”

Forman’s sitting in an armchair on one side of the room while Bender’s propped up on an elbow, lying on his side on the carpet
next to his dog, who’s also lying on his side, strangely mirroring him.

The place is a mess. Cracked TV on the wall, shattered glass on the floor, painting toppled over along with something that
appears to be a mangled dog leash. One of the uniformed officers is standing behind their suspect, who’s now got his hands
cuffed behind his back. His brow is furrowed. He’s brooding.

“What happened?” Madden asks.

“We got your boy is what happened,” Forman says. “Doing your job for you as usual, Detective.”

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that there’s been some sort of altercation, but how did the Tongan end up at the house?
It doesn’t make sense.

“How’d he get here?”

“You could sort of call it an interview op turned ugly.”

“Fucker kicked my dog,” Bender says. “I want pictures taken of everything. This is real, man. This is some real shit that
went down. I want it fully documented.”

Bender is so used to fabricating his facts that now that he’s experienced something with some semblance of gravitas, he can’t
quite believe it.

“I didn’t do anything,” Edwin says. “I was assaulted. This guy’s an animal. He tried to kill me.”

“Why are you here, Edwin?” Madden asks.

“I’m not saying shit. I want a lawyer. I want proper representation.”

“The idiot wanted to know how his picture ended up on the web,” Forman says. “And Bender here decided he was going to get
himself an exclusive Q and A. The only problem was Edwin was the one who wanted the A’s. I walked in after getting a little
exercise and the Big Bambino Edwino is threatening to sodomize our host with a miniature baseball bat.”

“That true, Edwin?”

“Hell yes, it’s true,” Bender pipes in. Carlyle, himself the owner of two dogs, is next to Beezo, down on one knee, examining
the little pup, stroking his head, muttering, “you’re going to be all right, boy.”
Christ
, Madden thinks,
the two of them
.

Edwin: “I told you. I want a lawyer. I know how this shit works.”

“Why’d you run on us?”

“I got nothing to do with the McGregor thing.”

“I tell you why he ran,” Forman says. “’Cause he’s guilty of something. I’m not sure what it is—I mean, it’s probably multiple
things—but I’m sure if you offer him a deal, he’ll tell you.”

“I don’t want a deal,” Edwin says.

Forman: “Detective, tell him you got the picture from me. He doesn’t believe me. Tell him you were the one who gave it to
Bender. You leaked it.”

Madden, on the spot, doesn’t know quite what to say. While part of him wants to curry a little favor from Forman, get him
to keep talking, another part doesn’t want to give him anything.

“Did you?” Edwin asks.

“Yeah, I did,” Madden replies.

“Fuck me.”

Just then they hear a knock on the door, and a moment later a woman in jeans and a gray UC Davis sweatshirt walks into the
living room. She’s short and stocky, with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail.

“I’m the vet,” she introduces herself. “I got a call about an injured animal.”

Her presence puts everybody in check and things simmer down
quickly. She attends to the dog as one of the uniforms leads Edwin out to the squad car.

While Carlyle takes a statement from Bender—they’re suddenly best friends—Madden shuttles in and out of the house, conversing
with other officers. Billings has shown up, too; Madden thinks he seems relieved to have Carlyle in charge of processing the
arrest, probably because he can’t be bothered with all the paperwork.

Madden goes inside one last time to find Forman asleep in the armchair. He gives him a little slap to the side of his knee.

“We’re going,” he says.

“How’s the pooch?” Forman asks.

“Vet says it’s not life threatening. They’re taking him for X-rays, though.”

“That’s good news for Edwin. Nothing worse than being labeled a dog killer.”

Forman sits up a little in the chair, crossing one leg over the other, pushing the sweatpants up and exposing the tracer ankle
bracelet. Madden notices some redness on his shin.

“That bothering you?” Madden says.

“I’m getting used to it.”

“You know, I don’t know what you’re doing here.”

“That makes two of us.”

“I heard Lowenstein put this together.”

“The price of economic necessity.”

“What’s Bender get out of the deal?”

“An exclusive, of course. Some pictures and video. And now he’s got this little incident to crow about. Pure gold. He’ll have
plenty of material to send his traffic through the roof for a couple weeks.”

“Should make for a nice exploitation package.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t go too hard on you, Detective,” Forman says. “I’ll leave out the part where I tell you now that your
days as a police officer are numbered.”

“You keep telling me that and I keep ignoring you.”

“Yeah, but it’s going to be embarrassing, Hank. No, strike that. Humiliating. It’s okay if I call you, Hank, right?”

“Not really.”

“You’re a step behind. We’re on to some shit that you haven’t even begun to touch.”

“Who’s we?”

“Everybody but you.”

Madden laughs. “I guess we’re even then.”

“How’s that?”

“We’ve got some stuff on you that’s pretty damaging.”

“Like what?”

“Like Marty will get it soon enough in discovery. What’s mine is yours.”

“I was set up. You know that.”

“Sure, Columbo.”

“You’re dating yourself.”

“Call me old-fashioned,” Madden says. “I say throwback. How much longer you staying here?”

“Another night.”

“Well, try to stay out of trouble.”

“How much more trouble could I be in?”

“There’s always getting your bail revoked. Shouldn’t be too hard given what went on here tonight.”

“Is that how you treat people who do your job for you?”

“Good night, Mr. Forman. I’m sorry I woke you.”

“I bet you are.”

Madden walks away to join Carlyle, who’s waiting for him at the door. Looks like he won’t be going home so fast after all.

“That guy can’t shut up, can he?” Carlyle says outside.

“Who? Bender?”

“Well, both of them. Forman, too.”

“You hear him talking?”

“Some of it.”

“You notice anything different?”

Carlyle shrugs. “Not really.”

“The Frank act,” Madden says. “He’s toned it way down. The accent’s almost gone.”

Carlyle goes around to the driver’s side of his car and gets in. Madden slides into the passenger seat next to him.

“That’s a good thing, right?” Carlyle says, firing up the engine.

“No,” Madden says. Then, after a beat: “No, it isn’t.”

T
HE NEXT DAY
A
SHLEY VISITS
B
ENDER’S
S
PEAK
L
OUDLY
P
RODUCTIONS
Palo Alto office around noon to give him an update. Lowenstein had had to go back to New York, but she’d held on to his rental
car and had been racking up the miles the last couple of days, using a friend from college’s place in nearby Redwood City
as home base.

Richie doesn’t love the fact that Lowenstein split, but he understands. The man is busy after all, and the Exoneration Foundation
depends on his appearances to raise funds and awareness for its clients. Promotional considerations also play a role in Richie’s
relationship with Bender. One of the clauses in their contract states that as part of any article featuring Richie, Lowenstein’s
pet projects must be highlighted, and during the video interview Richie did that morning in the office, he went out of his
way to mention some cases he’d been working on during his few weeks as a volunteer at the foundation.

In fact, most of that morning’s interview had nothing to do with the murder. Except for a few prepared statements, Lowenstein
had instructed Richie to refrain from speaking about the investigation, which would make it less likely that he’d have to
veto anything before it went up. He had said it was okay to be more open about his past (though he should still watch what
he said). So, much of that morning’s interview was devoted to more mundane background stuff, like his days growing up in New
Jersey, how he’d ended up in the Valley, and impressions of working here.

Later, in the afternoon session, they’re slated to discuss the accident, his experiences in prison, and the Sinatra connection,
all of which Bender seems eager to delve into. If Bender ever asks him
whether he killed McGregor, Richie’s been coached to say, “No way. Why would I? I was putting my life back together. I was
moving in the right direction. Why would I kill that? And why would I kill him?”

The office is on the second floor of a building off of California Avenue in Palo Alto and when Ashley arrives, Richie’s sitting
at a desk, reading SFGate.com on a borrowed computer. Bender used to have his handful of staffers work out of his old home—or
their own homes—but a few years ago he decided to get an office “for appearance’s sake,” which he claims immediately doubled
the value of his company.

Now that he’s sold out, his parent company expects his eight fulltime employees to come into the office on a daily basis,
but he flagrantly doesn’t enforce the rule, encouraging them to come and go as they please. “As long as the work gets done.”

The office layout is open, just one large room with a few desks strewn about the space rather haphazardly. There’s one side
office that serves as a conference room, and another smaller room is the video and podcast studio. Clearly, someone has sunk
some money into the thoughtfully designed furniture and lighting.

“There’s press outside,” is the first thing Ashley says.

Richie is well aware of this fact. Bender has even taken a break from interviewing him to be interviewed himself. He posted
a short piece on the Edwin incident that morning, taking the opportunity to upgrade it to a “home invasion.” His PR agency
has been fielding calls ever since.

The article, just a few paragraphs long, is really just a vague and sensational caption for a set of thirty or so photos,
several of which feature dramatic images of his wounded pug. Despite suffering “grave internal injuries,” one caption reads,
“Beezo looks like he’s going to make it.” The piece ends with a patently Bender cliffhanger: “I can’t say as much as I’d like
to about this right now. More later. Stay tuned.”

It’s quintessential Bender times ten, and he’s relishing the attention. A couple hundred thousand people have already gone
into the main story and, as Bender tells anyone who will listen, “The page-turns on the slideshow have been astronomical.”
The feedback, barring
a few comments lamenting Beezo’s survival (“You make me sick” Bender had replied to one), is overwhelmingly positive. “This
is the kind of in-the-trenches, tell-it-like-it-is journalism that’s sadly missing from today’s mainstream press,” writes
one poster with the handle hitmwherethesundontshine. “Go get ’em, Tom!”

What a goddamn farce
, Richie thinks.

“Apparently, there’s a secret fire escape,” he tells Ashley, who for some reason is wearing a touch of makeup. She looks a
little older. “I’m probably going to have to use it.”

“Well, I can tell you one thing for sure, this guy Hsieh is gone.”

“Gone?”

“Yeah, I’ve got—”

Before she says anything more, he stops her, realizing that Bender is talking on the phone in the conference room nearby.
He may not approve, especially since Richie never told him that he’s got Ashley looking into these guys. It’s a safe bet that
Bender would have a hissy fit, claiming that he owned the rights to anything lifted from Gattner’s computer.

Richie gets up and motions for her to follow him, then leads her to the hall outside the office, where they can get a little
privacy.

“Okay, go ahead,” he says once they’re out of the office.

“I’ve got one person that says he went back to Shanghai and another who says he’s in Hong Kong,” she says in a low voice.
“He didn’t leave any contact information. I’m hitting a wall trying to get any. Hsieh is a pretty common Chinese name and
there are multiple Johns out there.”

“No Facebook or Twitter account?”

“Not that I can find. And Anderson isn’t on there either. He used to have a Facebook account but it’s no longer active.”

“Who doesn’t have a Facebook account now?”

“The few, the proud, the abstainers. I got something on him, though.”

“Who, Anderson?”

“Yeah,” she says. “The guy didn’t have too many friends. Hadn’t been out here that long. Was from Kansas City, came out here
and worked at a couple of dot-coms. Made it as high as director of something but then got demoted, and had his shares stripped
down. Six
months later the company went public. But he’d already left. So he missed the big exit in more ways than one.”

“Why’d he get demoted?”

“I’m not sure. ‘Personal issues’ was all I could get, which is sometimes code for alcohol or drugs. Or some form of sexual
misconduct or harassment. But apparently he was devastated by it. Didn’t work for a while and then ended up selling suits
at the Macy’s Men’s Store in the Stanford Shopping Center. That’s where I found a guy who knew him.”

“Gay guy?”

“Yeah, but he says he’s in a committed relationship.”

The Macy’s guy’s name is Vincent. Vincent Purdy. He said he’d run into Anderson in the store about three months ago when Anderson
came in to do some shopping. He bought several items, expensive stuff. Even bought Purdy a gift. Anderson told him he’d started
a company and had just sold it to another start-up that had the same idea. He was rich, moved to a new place in San Carlos.
He gave Purdy his address and told him to stop by if he was ever in the neighborhood.

Purdy said Anderson never mentioned Mark McGregor’s name. And he never got in touch with Anderson, though he did keep his
information in his phone because “you never know.”

“I was tempted to call,” he explained. “He’s a decent-looking guy. But I heard he’s into some kinky stuff, and frankly, I
get intimidated by that.”

When Ashley’s through giving Richie the details of the encounter, she gives him the address she got from Purdy. He keys that
into Google Maps on his phone and zooms into the block using the satellite view. It’s a small house, nothing special, with
a decent-sized backyard.

“I’ve gotta go back up to the city in a little bit,” she says. “I figured I’d stop by on the way up, take a peek inside.”

“You don’t want to email first?”

“I wanna have a look. Maybe talk to a neighbor or two. If no one’s around, I’ll try email.”

A little smile creeps onto her face, and then she shakes her head, letting out a little laugh.

“What’s so funny?” he asks.

“I just remembered what you said about Bender’s instructions for searching for sensitive email.”

He smiles, too. When Richie asked Bender how he’d come up with Hsieh and Anderson’s names on Gattner’s computer, Bender didn’t
hesitate to offer his secret. “First rule when searching for sensitive email is to key ‘Do not forward’ into the search bar.
Always a good place to start.”

“You speak to Marty?” Richie asks.

“Late last night. I emailed him and he called me back. You’ll be shocked to know he was awake past midnight.”

“You tell him about my conversation with Beth and what Madden said?”

“Yeah.”

“What’d he think?”

“He found it very interesting. Said he would call you tomorrow, meaning today.”

“I mean, shouldn’t we be more proactive?”

“I’ve been working my ass off for the last three days. I think we’ve been plenty proactive.”

“I know, I just mean—”

“Why isn’t he here doing something?”

“Yeah.”

“He is, Rick. He may not be physically here, but he’s here—and he’ll be back.”

That doesn’t sound too comforting or persuasive.

“Look, I’m sorry. You’ve always been really good to me. I’m not sure why, but I know you have. And I know you’re doing your
best to help me now.”

She gives him a little aw-shucks punch in the shoulder. “I like you, Rick. Don’t you know that?”

“But why?”

She shrugs. “Sometimes I think it’s because you remind me of this guy I liked from high school. This black guy, Jeff Johnson.
Ran track like you did, only faster. He also played wide receiver.”

“Did you say black?”

“Yeah, this girl accused him of raping her,” she goes on without missing a beat. “Well, forcing himself on her anyway. It
became this
huge deal at school. There was no proof or anything, but he got suspended for a semester and when he came back he was kind
of ostracized. Kids were like, ‘There’s the rapist.’”

“I didn’t think that was fair,” she continues. “And I went up and started talking to him as a kind of dare. He was two years
older. And then we became friends, we even fooled around a little. And I’ll never forget what he said. He said, ‘I’m smarter
than that. Don’t they understand? I’d never do something like that because I’m smarter than that.’”

“Sometimes smart people do dumb things.”

“Yeah, well, that’s true, too. But it’s just something about how you think everything’s sort of an affront, that you can’t
understand how people could actually believe something about you that’s so obviously not true. That’s the part that reminded
me of him. And, you know, I wanted people to see him for who he was.”

“Did they?”

“No, not really. Not in high school. And then he was killed in a car accident two years later, when he was in college.”

“Oh.” A beat, then: “Well, that’s an uplifting story.”

“You asked.”

He shakes his head. For a chipper kid, she sure can be dark.

“Let me know what you find out. Email me later on.”

“I’ll send you a picture.”

“I like pictures,” he says.