Where The Bodies Are Buried (The Jeri Howard Series Book 8) Read online

  Here in Cube City, the phones rang constantly. Sometimes the attorneys picked up the calls, other times I took messages or transferred callers to voice mail. This meant I was constantly walking back and forth from my cubicle to their offices to deliver message slips and pick up whatever was in their out boxes. This gave me a better feel for the building’s layout, as well as my first crack at the correspondence and other documents that passed through their hands.

  Much as I hated filing, doing it would give me the opportunity to prowl around the file room, to give me a clearer picture of Bates Inc. I didn’t see any priority items in the red letter tray, so I picked up an armful of papers from the wire basket and began separating them into subject categories. I was just getting into the rhythm of it when Hank Irvin walked in, flashing his easy ingratiating smile as he handed me a cassette to transcribe.

  “Can you do this right away?” he asked. “I have to go to San Francisco, and I’d like to take it with me.”

  “Of course,” I said. Was there any other answer?

  I transcribed the document, which related to the upcoming initial public offering, or IPO, in which Bates Inc. would go public again, its stock to be listed on the New York Stock Exchange. As Bette Bates Palmer had indicated in our conversation earlier in the week, if Bates stock was to be publicly traded, that meant the company had to comply with a number of Securities and Exchange Commission requirements and regulations. Had Rob discovered something amiss in the upcoming IPO?

  The prose Hank dictated was so dry, dense, and full of corporate buzzwords I wasn’t able to discern any hidden meanings, even though I read through it again after I’d printed it out. I was straightening the pages when Hank poked his head through the door of Cube City. He wore his suit coat and carried a slim leather briefcase. “Is that done?” he asked.

  “Just finished,” I said, handing it over.

  He glanced through the document, then opened the briefcase and tossed it inside. “I’ll be back in the middle of the afternoon.”

  He hadn’t said exactly where he was going, I thought as he disappeared. Just to San Francisco. But that gave me a chance to have a look around his office, under the guise of filing.

  I finished sorting papers, then made my first foray into the file room back by the freight elevator. The documents in my arms, and the labels on the folders in the file drawers, gave me an idea of the kind of law practiced here in the Bates legal department.

  There were all sorts of agreements, many concerning manufacturing, warehousing, and distribution of Bates Best products. I saw joint venture agreements, trademark license agreements, and copies of the type of contract known in corporate legalese as an indemnification and hold harmless agreement. Alex Campbell’s files leaned toward labor union bargaining contracts and employee benefits matters, such as the Employee Retirement Income Security Act of 1974, otherwise known as ERISA. He also had files on things like compensatory time and at-will employment.

  Patricia’s files were the regulatory side of the house, antitrust, environmental rules, Food and Drug Administration regulations, the Uniform Commercial Code, and California weights and measures laws. She kept most of the FDA and food-safety files in her office rather than the file room, I discovered. And she didn’t like to have secretaries filing while she was there. When I showed up with a handful of things to be filed, she asked me to come back that afternoon, since she was planning to leave early.

  I shrugged, backed out of her office, and went to Hank’s. He handled trademarks, copyrights, and patents, as well as financial matters, such as letters of credit and promissory notes. In the two lateral filing cabinets in his office, I found files related to the corporation, such as bylaws and articles of incorporation, directors and officers obligations, D&O insurance, and conflicts of interest. In the credenza behind Hank’s desk, I found a file containing personal information on Bates corporate officers. I read through it, then I examined the papers on the desk surface. Nothing leapt out and told me it was a clue.

  There was a file drawer on the lower left side of Hank’s desk. It was locked, however. I was just about to jimmy the lock with a paper clip when the door to Hank’s office opened. I straightened and reached for the papers in the out box, smoothing all expression from my face. I hoped I didn’t look too much like a person who’d been caught in the act.

  I raised my eyes and found myself staring into the raptor eyes of the angular hawk-nosed man I’d seen yesterday in the cafeteria.

  Ichabod Crane in a designer suit, I thought, flashing that Rolex on his wrist.

  Today he wore another elegant suit, this time a gray that matched his eyes, and a silk tie decorated with tiny red horses. There was something about him, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on, that seemed out of place. As I looked at the gray eyes and the curly gray hair I noticed a scar on his left earlobe. It looked for all the world as though this particular businessman had once pierced his ear.

  “Hank around?” His voice was a low rasp. His eyes swept around the room, noticing the open file drawer and the stack of folders I’d piled on the conference table. I had a feeling this guy didn’t miss much. Did he guess I was snooping, not filing?

  “He went to the city for a meeting,” I said politely. “I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

  “Berkshire and Gentry? Or Rittlestone and Weper?”

  “Sorry, he didn’t say.” I closed the folder and quickly crossed to Hank’s desk, glancing down at his calendar. “Rittlestone and Weper.”

  I looked at the man and smiled. He gave me a tight little smile in return, one that wouldn’t have looked out of place on an Old West gunslinger facing down a challenger on a dusty Main Street. “Tell him David Vanitzky dropped by.”

  When he’d gone, I opened the folder I’d found containing personal information on corporate officers. David R. Vanitzky was Bates’s executive vice president and chief financial officer. He was forty-eight years old, born in Chicago. He now lived in San Francisco, at a Russian Hill address. There was no wife’s name listed, as there had been with all the other officers. I guessed he’d never married or, more likely at his age, was widowed or divorced.

  Chief financial officer? I glanced at the door through which Vanitzky had disappeared. I wasn’t sure I’d trust him with my meager financial assets. I’d seen eyes like that across a poker table.

  Fifteen

  “I’M STARVED,” GLADYS SAID WHEN I RETURNED TO CUBE CITY. “Let’s go to lunch.”

  “I’m ready.” I grabbed my purse and followed her around to the freight elevator, where she punched out. Then we headed for the stairs.

  Once outside, we walked to the end of Webster Street and crossed the Embarcadero and cut through a large parking lot. Jack London Village was a shopping area located along the waterfront, a two-story collection of stores and restaurants constructed of wood and arrayed around a small landscaped square, with the estuary visible between two buildings. The deli was on the second floor, with tables inside as well as outside, along the railing.

  “The sandwiches are good,” Gladys said, as we scanned the bill of fare chalked on a board behind the counter. “Of course, what this area really needs is a good burrito joint. There are a lot of restaurants now that the Port of Oakland has put some money into development.”

  I nodded. “I can remember when it was almost deserted down here.” Now the waterfront district along this three- or four-block stretch of the Embarcadero bustled, especially since the Jack London Cinema, a multiplex, had been built just the other side of Broadway.

  Gladys ordered a turkey sandwich and I stuck to my old favorite, pastrami on rye. The guy behind the counter said he’d bring the sandwiches to us, so Gladys and I carried our soft drinks outside and snagged a recently vacated table with a view of the estuary.

  “How long have you worked at Bates?” I asked, sipping root beer through a straw.

  “Eleven years, as of last April. I used to work for a law firm over in San Francisco. Bates is much
more low-key. It’s not the way it was, though.” She sighed. “There have certainly been a lot of changes in the last year. Not all of them good.”

  “I gathered that. I mean, what you said yesterday about Martha, leaving the sinking ship and all.”

  “I don’t know if the ship’s sinking for sure,” Gladys said with a wry smile. “But it’s taking on water, as my ex-husband the sailor used to say.” The deli clerk arrived and placed our sandwiches on the table. When he’d gone, she said, “It must be easier if you’re a temp. You can just pick up and leave. You always know the assignment is going to be over.”

  “They don’t pay me as well,” I pointed out. “And I don’t have medical or retirement benefits.”

  “True.” Gladys picked up half her sandwich and examined the turkey and lettuce leaves. “Now that I’m vested in the retirement plan, I’m not inclined to leave. Unless they decide to boot me out the door. A single mother like me depends on things like medical benefits and the pension plan.”

  “So what was it with Martha?” I nibbled my pastrami. “Didn’t she like being stuck in those dull gray cubicles?”

  Gladys rolled her eyes. “You are closer to the mark than you think. Those goddamned cubicles. I hate them. You can hear everything that goes on. That room we’re in used to be the legal department conference room. Once upon a time, all the secretaries had their own offices, like that one you saw me in.”

  “The paralegal’s office.”

  “Right. Nancy was next to Alex, where Hank is now. She’s been Alex’s secretary for more than fifteen years, since before he was general counsel. Of course, they remodeled the office when they put him in there. Same story with me and Martha. We each had offices next to the attorney we worked for.” She regarded her turkey sandwich, looking nostalgic for better days. “Our offices had windows. Even if I did have a view of the freeway, it was sure nice to have a window, especially one that opened. You know, those modern buildings with sealed windows make me feel trapped. Just like those damn cubicles. At least when I had my own office, I felt like a human being instead of furniture.”

  “What happened?” I asked, raising my pastrami on rye to my mouth.

  “We had this leveraged buyout about a year ago,” Gladys said. “Since the LBO, there have been two layoffs. And this summer, the big wheels over on the executive side decided to shut down our production office down in San Leandro, where several of our plants are located.”

  She took a bite of her sandwich and chewed while I leaned forward, waiting for the rest of the story. “They brought all those buyers, merchandisers, manufacturing and marketing people to Oakland. Of course, they all have to have offices. They took over the third floor, where human resources used to be, and HR moved up to our floor. They had to have offices, too. So all the support staff—the secretaries—got shoehorned into these cubicles they threw up. Three, four, sometimes five or six people in an office, where there used to be one. At least there’s only three of us in legal. They’re even more crowded in other departments. The secretaries just hate it. Then they added the time clock.”

  “I saw it, back by the freight elevator.”

  “All these years I’ve been filling out a time card by hand, and now I have to punch a clock. I suppose that’s the modern, efficient way. But to me, it feels like they don’t trust me.” Gladys frowned. “Bates used to be a good place to work. I’ve heard so many people say that over the past twelve months.”

  “So Martha decided to bail out.”

  “She’s been looking for another job since the last layoff. Y’know, layoff used to mean you were temporarily out of work, until they called you back. Now it just means your ass is fired.”

  I nodded in agreement, reflecting on the state of the corporate worker now that “downsizing,” “restructuring,” and “reengineering” were popular buzzwords. The people who got downsized never seemed to be those whose offices were on the top floor, and whose salaries were continually restructured upward.

  Gladys told me that Martha had found a high-paying job with a law firm in Palo Alto. “It means a hellacious commute,” she added. “She lives in San Lorenzo. Now she’s got to make that drive over to the Peninsula every day. No thanks. I know I could make more money if I worked in one of those big law offices over in San Francisco. But there’s a lot of pressure in an outfit like that, and I really don’t want to commute to the city. I live right here in Oakland, so it only takes me twenty minutes to drive to work. And you heard Nancy say it’s just a ten-minute walk to where she lives in Chinatown.”

  “Tell me about Nancy. She seems a little prickly.” I polished off the rest of my pastrami and reached for my root beer.

  “Oh, she’s like that till you get to know her.” Gladys picked at the remains of her turkey sandwich. “Nancy’s worked for Bates more than twenty years. Started as a clerk down in accounting.” She took a sip of her drink. “Now, if you want prickly, you got Patricia Mayhew.”

  I nodded. “I notice she seems a little moody.”

  That was putting it mildly, I thought, recalling the attorney’s abrupt manner when we’d been introduced yesterday. But she’d been more pleasant this morning, when she asked me to delay filing until she was out of the office this afternoon. Hank Irvin, on the other hand, seemed relaxed and easygoing all the time. I’d finally met Alex Campbell this morning, and the distinguished, gray-haired general counsel seemed equally friendly.

  “I used to work for her, back before all the changes,” Gladys said. “Now we all function like a typing pool. Nancy hates that. She likes to think she runs the legal department. Anyway, about Patricia, I never know whether she’s going to be Miss Sweetness and Light, or bite my head off. She’s been on the down side all week. Must be something bothering her.”

  “What could that be? Business, or personal?”

  “Not sure.” Gladys shot me a knowing look. “But I can guess. She’s getting a divorce, and the Bates rumor mill says it’s a nasty one. Maybe she’s fighting with her soon-to-be ex. He’s a litigator in some big law firm over in the city. You know how litigators are.”

  “Sure do.” I laughed. “They take no prisoners. How long has Patricia been with Bates?”

  “About eight years. It was really different back then. We used to have four attorneys and four secretaries, now we have three of each. We really need two paralegals, and now we don’t have one. I know Alex is insisting on replacing Rob.”

  “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “The damned bean counters.” Her face grew serious. “When Martha quit Wednesday morning, the powers that be over in human resources weren’t going to authorize the department to hire a temp for her job. Cost-cutting measures and all that. In fact, Tonya Russell, the new HR director, told Alex Campbell that HR was planning to eliminate the position. That’s how they reduce head count, as they call it these days. Easy, just don’t hire anyone to replace the person who quit.”

  Tonya Russell was a familiar name, I thought. She was taking over the job of Laverne Carson, Ruby’s friend.

  Gladys continued with her story. “Well, Alex said, absolutely not, there are three attorneys and we need three secretaries. So Russell said, okay, we’ll advertise the position and hire someone. But you can’t have a temp. Now, that’s ridiculous. It could take weeks to interview and hire someone. By that time Nancy was just furious. After lunch, she went in to talk with Alex, and next thing I know, HR gave in on hiring a temp. I have a feeling Nancy threatened to quit if they didn’t.”

  “So here I am, for the duration.” I leaned back in my chair. “Thanks for telling me. It’s always nice to know what’s going on when you work temp jobs. Office politics and all that. What do you know about Tonya Russell?”

  “She came from Rittlestone and Weper’s Chicago office, I hear. She’ll keep Ed Decker on his toes. He’s the vice president in charge of human resources. Laverne’s retiring, not by choice, according to the grapevine. Which also says she’s not too happy about it.”

 
I gathered up the remains of my lunch. “Like you, I’d always heard Bates was a good place to work. But what you’re telling me seems to say otherwise.”

  “It was, until that LBO,” Gladys said, frowning as she finished her drink. “Then everything changed. Things got meaner. Everyone’s looking out for number one, if you know what I mean.” A train whistle blew, sounding as though it was close. “Uh-oh, a train. We’d better go.”

  We hurried down the steps and spotted the train as we hit the parking lot. It was a slow-moving freight, headed toward the Port of Oakland piers to the northwest. Slow or not, I wasn’t going to play chicken with a train just so I could get back to work on time.

  “We’d better take the pedestrian bridge,” I said, pointing at the structure that loomed at the corner of Alice and the Embarcadero.

  “Thank God they built this thing.” Gladys changed direction, and we headed across the parking lot toward the pedestrian overpass. “Once I got stuck on this side for thirty minutes. I have seen people climb through the trains when they’re stopped, but that’s foolhardy. That engine could start moving again, and you could fall on the tracks. Besides,” she added with a laugh, “being caught by a train down here is a time-honored excuse for being late back from lunch. Or it used to be. Until they installed that damn time clock.”

  We climbed the stairs of the overpass and crossed the walkway, looking down at the freight train, stacked double high with containers. On the other side was the Amtrak station, a couple of blocks from the Bates building.

  “What about this paralegal who died?” I asked as we walked through the railroad station parking lot. “Any idea what happened?”