Where The Bodies Are Buried Page 11

  Her choice of words was curious. “Weird? How so?”

  Gladys looked troubled. “Well, we’d just found out Rob was dead. Nancy, Martha, and I were really upset. So was Alex. But it seemed to me that Patricia and Hank were just going through the motions. Not really sorry Rob was dead, y’know. Only worried about whether we were getting another paralegal to replace him, since the work is piled up. Of course, it’s always piled up.”

  “That’s pretty damn cold,” I said.

  “Yeah, you know it.” Gladys gave me a sardonic smile. “These days, I feel like just one interchangeable cog in the machine. Welcome to corporate America.”

  Sixteen

  WHEN GLADYS AND I STEPPED OFF THE ELEVATOR ON the fourth floor of the Bates building, we turned left and walked along the south hallway toward Cube City. As we reached the corner, the door to the general counsel’s office opened and three men walked out. One of them I recognized as Alex Campbell. The second man I’d never seen before. He had a look that shouted “retired military,” from the way he carried himself to the iron-gray buzz cut.

  The third man was my ex-husband, Sergeant Sid Vernon of the Oakland Police Department’s Homicide Section.

  Uh-oh, I told myself. I was going to get a phone call from him, bet on it.

  I managed to keep my poker face as Gladys and I walked past them. Sid’s mouth tightened. His tawny gold eyes flicked over me, in my unaccustomed business attire. But he didn’t say anything. I felt the gray-haired man’s eyes on me as Sid turned his attention back to the two men in the doorway.

  I followed Gladys into Cube City. Nancy wasn’t at her workstation. “Who were those men with Alex Campbell?” I asked.

  “Don’t know that tall one with the sandy hair, but hmm... I wouldn’t kick him out of bed.”

  I repressed a grin at Gladys’s assessment of my ex. Sid was a good-looking man, with his tall, broad-shouldered frame and the gold cat’s eyes that went with his gold hair, threaded now with a lot of silver. He moved like a tiger cat, and he was pretty good in bed, as I recalled. “What about the other guy, with the short gray hair?”

  “Buck Tarcher. He’s the head of corporate security. Used to be in the Marines.”

  “I thought so,” I said. “I know a retired admiral. They’ve all got that look, like they’re still in uniform.”

  If Sid was here talking with Campbell and Tarcher, it had to be about Rob’s death and that threatening note he’d received. Sid was doing the same thing I was, checking out possible leads at Rob’s workplace, but his was the more official visit. As for me, I was wondering when and how I could get into Rob’s office for a look at the place.

  Patricia Mayhew had eaten lunch at her desk. When I took her the afternoon mail, she was just sweeping the remains of a sandwich into her wastebasket. She’d been blowing hot and cold in the two days I’d been working at Bates, mostly cold. But this afternoon her manner had moved toward the warm end of the spectrum. Must have something to do with the fact that it was Friday and the weekend loomed on the horizon. When I saw the small overnight bag on the floor next to the credenza, I recalled what Nancy had said this morning. Patricia planned to be out of town this weekend, so she couldn’t attend Rob’s funeral.

  “There’s a long document on this tape,” she told me, handing me a cassette and a work request. “I’d like you to do that right away. I’m leaving early, and I want to see a draft before I go.”

  “Sure thing,” I told her, as I scooped papers and files from her out basket. “Going away for the weekend?”

  “Yes.” Her mouth curved into a smile. “Mendocino. We want to get on the road before the traffic gets too bad.”

  I noticed her use of the plural pronoun. According to Gladys, Patricia was going through a divorce. I didn’t think her ex was the reason for the smile, so there must be a significant other in the picture.

  I headed for Hank Irvin’s office and placed his opened mail on the top of an already overflowing in box. There wasn’t anything in the out box, since he was still gone. As I turned to leave, the office door opened. Hank had returned from San Francisco. He smiled as he shed his suit coat and hung it on a nearby coat rack. “Hold down the fort while I was gone?” he asked.

  “It’s been fairly quiet. Oh, David Vanitzky dropped by this morning, looking for you.”

  “Ah.” Something in the way Hank said that made me look up at him. My private investigator antennae went up and started vibrating. “Did you tell him where I was?” he asked, his voice casual, as though it didn’t really matter.

  “Yes. Rittlestone and Weper. It was on your calendar.”

  A flicker passed over Hank’s face. Curious. Didn’t he want Vanitzky to know where he’d gone? If that was the case, why?

  Come to think of it, Vanitzky had specifically asked whether Hank had gone to Rittlestone and Weper or Berkshire and Gentry. The name of the big law firm was doubly familiar. Rob Lawter had been employed there, as a paralegal, before coming to work at Bates.

  “Berkshire and Gentry,” I said. “That’s a big law firm over in the city. I saw their letterhead on a lot of the correspondence I filed this morning. They must handle a lot of work for Bates.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Hank glanced down, his right hand sifting through some papers on the top of his in box. “I used to work there myself.”

  “Really? What made you leave the fast track and come to work at Bates?”

  Hank’s head came up, and his look was guarded, as though he thought he’d said something he shouldn’t have. “Oh, a lot of things. Listen, I have a priority project for you.” He pulled open the top drawer of one of the filing cabinets and removed a folder, opening it. He jotted a document number on a small notepad and tore off the sheet, handing it to me. “Print out a copy of this agreement for me. I’ll make the changes in red ink, then you’ll input the revisions. It’s a draft, highly confidential, and it’ll have to go out this afternoon, FedEx, Saturday delivery.”

  I glanced at the piece of paper he’d just handed me, and thought of the long document Patricia wanted before she left early. Looked like this would be a typical Friday afternoon reminiscent of my law firm days, when everyone was scrambling to get work completed before the weekend. I turned to go and nearly bumped into David Vanitzky, who’d just opened the door.

  “Sorry,” I said, practically nose to nose with the chief financial officer. Yes, his left earlobe had been pierced at one time. As I glanced away I saw amusement glinting in his gray eyes and a smile playing on the thin lips beneath his bony nose. He stepped aside, holding the door open for me so I could carry my armload of work out to the hall. I felt his gaze on my back, and it wasn’t businesslike. I was definitely being checked out.

  “Joe had to cancel,” I heard Vanitzky tell Hank as the door shut. “So the poker game’s at my place. Tonight, eight o’clock.”

  I was right, I thought. Vanitzky’s a cardsharp. And I’d bet playing poker with that guy meant bring money and be prepared to leave it.

  I sped across the hall to my cubicle, dumped my load of mail, and looked through the computer files for the document Hank wanted me to print. I located it, opened the file, and skimmed through the words that appeared on my screen. It was a separation agreement, outlining the terms of departure and the severance package given to someone whose name I didn’t recognize. He’d been a vice president down in accounting, and it was a good bet he hadn’t left Bates by his own choice. I recalled Nancy telling me that Alex Campbell handled employment matters. I would have thought he’d draft this kind of agreement.

  I sent the document to the printer. When it was done, I picked it up and headed back across the hall to Hank’s office, wondering if Vanitzky was still there.

  I leaned close to the door, listening. I heard Hank’s tenor, saying something I couldn’t quite make out. Were they still talking about poker?

  “A million dollars,” Vanitzky said, his low raspy voice carrying through the door. “Give or take a few thousand.” Then he l
aughed, as though it didn’t matter.

  If they were talking about poker, the game was way out of my price range. It sounded as though Vanitzky thought it was small change. When you’re a corporate CFO, however, I suppose a million bucks doesn’t sound like much. From the standpoint of Jeri Howard, self-employed private investigator, it’s more than I’ll ever see in my lifetime.

  Hank was talking now. “First I’ve heard of it. What about Morris and Ed?”

  Vanitzky laughed again, the sound both cynical and derisive. “Morris couldn’t find his ass with both hands. Now Ed, he’s a different matter. When it comes to asses, he’s only concerned about covering his own.”

  “We may not need to worry about Ed. Who else knows about this?” I heard the buzz of an intercom, but Hank evidently ignored it.

  “Besides Morris and Ed? You, me, Tonya, Jeff, Alex.”

  “You haven’t told Yale? Or Frank?”

  “Not yet.”

  There was a pause, then Hank muttered, “... damage control.”

  When Vanitzky spoke again, his tone had turned serious. “Damage control? There’s blood all over the floor. Mopping it up ain’t gonna be pretty. In fact, you and I are gonna get blood all over our hands.”

  I tried to make sense of what I’d just heard. It was clear Vanitzky didn’t have a high opinion of Morris and Ed. And he hadn’t told Yale Rittlestone or Frank Weper that something was going on, something that involved money and required damage control. But what? Some sort of financial discrepancy, to the tune of a million dollars? Where was the money supposed to be, and where had it gone? I leaned closer, hoping to hear more.

  “What about Yale and Frank?” Hank asked.

  “I’ll handle them,” Vanitzky said. “Jeff is...”

  At that moment, Nancy Fong exited Alex Campbell’s office. I raised my hand and rapped sharply on the door, then opened it. Hank was standing behind his desk, mouth open as though he’d been about to say something. Vanitzky sat in one of the chairs in front of the desk, one long leg crossed over the other. He was slumped down on his backbone, shoulders and head back. Though the posture was relaxed, he wasn’t. He watched me as I walked over to Hank and handed him the document he’d requested.

  Nancy had followed me into Hank’s office. She glanced at me sharply, making me wonder if she’d seen me with my ear to Hank’s door. “Hank,” she said, “Alex would like to see you in his office.” As she turned to leave, she nodded at Vanitzky. “Hello, David.”

  “Hello, Nancy.” Vanitzky unfolded himself from the chair and stood up. “I’ll talk with you later,” he said, glancing at Hank. Then his eyes rested on me. “I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced.”

  “Jeri Howard,” I said.

  “David Vanitzky.” He held out his right hand, and I took it. He had a strong handshake, and his fingers seemed to linger as they touched mine.

  “Jeri’s taking Martha’s place,” Hank said, stepping from behind his desk. “She just started yesterday. Jeri, as soon as I talk with Alex, I’ll mark up that document, and you can make the changes.”

  Vanitzky relinquished my hand, then headed for the door, followed by Hank.

  I returned to my cubicle and got started on the tape Patricia wanted me to transcribe. It was a long internal memorandum addressed to Alex Campbell and Nolan Ward, the senior vice president in charge of production. It concerned the Food and Drug Administration’s latest proposals concerning food safety.

  By the time I was finished, my ears were hurting from the earpieces of the transcriber, and both my back and shoulders ached. I printed out a draft and carried it back to her office. “Good,” she said, a bit impatiently. “I’ll read it over, and then I want you to fax it to outside counsel over at Berkshire and Gentry.”

  When I got back to my cubicle, Gladys was muttering to herself as she typed an address on a label. “If it’s Friday, it’s the FedEx Follies,” she groused. “Everything’s got to be done Friday afternoon so it can go overnight.”

  “I hear that,” I said.

  Hank came in carrying several pages marked liberally in red ink, with “Draft” and “Confidential” printed in block letters at the top of the first page. When I glanced through the separation agreement, noting the changes Hank had made, I saw that he’d inserted the name of the person who was getting separated from his job.

  Ed Decker, the executive Gladys had mentioned at lunch. Was this the same Ed that Hank and Vanitzky had been talking about earlier? I recalled Hank’s words. “We may not need to worry about Ed.” I guessed they didn’t, not if Ed was on his way out the door.

  I hauled out the three-ring binder I’d found on my desk, the one that contained the company directory. Sure enough, Ed Decker was a senior vice president, the head of the Bates Inc. human resources department. As HR director, Ruby’s friend Laverne Carson reported to him. But only for another week. Laverne had been replaced by Tonya Russell, from Rittlestone and Weper’s Chicago office.

  So why was Ed Decker being fired? Was it because of that million dollars, give or take a few thousand, that Vanitzky spoke of so casually?

  I checked the listing of corporate officers in the front of the directory. Morris, the guy who was supposed to be doing damage control, was Morris Upton, senior vice president for public affairs. Then I got busy, making the changes that Hank wanted in the document. Ed Decker might be looking at unemployment, but he’d be doing so with a severance package that would cushion the blow. It included a sizable check as well as lots of stock options he could use when Bates went public again.

  I finished making the changes, ran the spell checker, and sent the document to the printer. Then I took it to Hank, who asked me to wait while he read it over. I watched his eyes flick quickly over the pages.

  “Looks good,” he said. “Now, after you make a copy, put the original in a plain envelope marked ‘Confidential,’ then FedEx it to Eric Nybaken over at Rittlestone and Weper in San Francisco. His address should be in Martha’s Rolodex. Make sure that’s for Saturday delivery.”

  I followed Hank’s instructions, then flipped through the Rolodex to find the address of Rittlestone and Weper at Four Embarcadero Center in San Francisco. As it turned out, Eric Nybaken was Yale Rittlestone’s personal assistant. Too bad he had to work Saturday.

  I carried the completed FedEx package downstairs to the first-floor mail room, where it would be picked up later that afternoon. When I returned, both Gladys and Nancy were away from their desks.

  I looked through the Rolodex again, hoping Martha Bronson had left behind some indication of how I could get in touch with her. She hadn’t.

  With one eye on the door, I moved around the end of my cubicle, toward Gladys’s desk. I flipped through the B section of her Rolodex for Martha. Pay dirt. Martha Bronson’s address and phone number were written on one of the cards. I quickly scribbled the information I needed on a slip of paper and stuck the paper into the pocket of the skirt I wore. I heard Gladys’s voice out in the hall. By the time she came through the door, I was back at my own desk, phone in hand as though I were just finishing a call.

  Martha presented something of a problem. I wanted to talk with her about Rob Lawter, to see what she knew about him and what he was working on when he died. But I didn’t want Martha to know I was a private investigator. I had a feeling she and Gladys were friends, and I didn’t want to risk her mentioning my name to Gladys.

  “Long day,” I said as I hung up the phone. Then I stretched my arms above my head. I didn’t have to fake my yawn. It was nearly four. Patricia had long since departed. As for me, I was tired and remembering why most workers thanked God it was Friday. “Say, who is this Vanitzky guy? I ran into him in Hank’s office.”

  “Oh, ho.” Gladys had a wicked twinkle in her brown eyes. There was a can of soda on her desk, and she took a sip before saying anything else. “He’s a Rattlesnake and Viper man.”

  “Rattlesnake and Viper?” I repeated, looking confused, just the way I had when B
ette Bates Palmer had used the term.

  “That’s what everyone calls Rittlestone and Weper. The LBO, remember?”

  “So Vanitzky used to work for them?”

  “Yeah. He was Frank Weper’s right-hand man, back in Chicago. The old chief financial officer was Len Turley. He’d been here since Moses was an altar boy. After the LBO he retired, except I think he was helped out the door, if you know what I mean. Same situation as Laverne Carson over in HR.”

  The way Ed Decker, Laverne’s boss, was about to be helped out the door. I wondered how many others of Bates’s old guard, the officers who’d run the company before the takeover, had been replaced by Rattlesnake and Viper men.

  “So Vanitzky took over Turley’s job,” I said. “He looks like a corporate raider.”

  “A walk-the-plank pirate, that’s what he reminds me of. He’s always making eyes at the ladies. His own secretary is Esther Roades. She’s a battle-ax who’s been with the company for a hundred years. I guess they stuck him with an older woman so he won’t make a pass at her and land us all with a sexual harassment charge.” Gladys made a face. “I hear he’s a gambler, too, at the racetrack all the time. Just the kind of guy you want handling the company’s money.”

  And he played poker on Friday nights with Hank Irvin. From what I’d heard, it sounded like a regular game that rotated around the homes of the participants. Was Hank a gambler, too?

  “He seems to be friends with Hank.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Gladys told me. “Hank’s a Rattlesnake and Viper man, too. He used to be a partner at Berkshire and Gentry, which is Rittlestone and Weper’s pet law firm. First chance they got, R&W got rid of Lauren Musso, the lawyer who used to handle corporate, and brought in their fair-haired boy Hank.”