About Face (4 page)

A calm seemed to settle over him. His shoulders relaxed and for the first time he looked me directly in the eye. The words came evenly spaced, as if from a computer. “She works for Silicon Glamour Associates.”

“What is that, some kind of agency?”

“That's exactly what it is.” Rod looked visibly lighter.

“It's an escort agency,” I said. Things were falling into place. “She's assisting executives in a different way now.”

An incongruous, high-pitched giggle emitted from Rod's mouth. His arms unfolded and he pressed his hands to the sofa as if trying to levitate. “An escort. How stupid of me. Yes, I suppose that's what she is. It's not what they call themselves. And it's not what you might assume.”

“What do they call themselves?”

“Associates.”

“And you hire them to accompany you on social occasions.”

“You'd be amazed at how people look at you differently when you've got someone as smart and beautiful as Alissa on your arm. She made a difference in the Plush Biologics deal.” He spoke as if letting me in on a great find. “But it was more than that with her. We had a chemistry. We genuinely liked each other.”

I phrased my next question delicately. “What else is in her job description?”

Rod missed it. “Charm. Warmth. Alissa had them down.” A bitter strain came into his tone. “I suppose she can just turn that on and off. Some charm algorithm is coded into her neural circuits. Here comes Rod, flip on the charm. He's such a sucker for it.”

“I thought you said there was something real between you.”

Rod gave a helpless shrug. “So did I. Or do I. I'm not sure which.”

“What about the guy who came to your door today—is he connected to this agency?”

“Yes,” Rod answered. “He works for Silicon Glamour. He was looking for Alissa.”

“Does anyone else know about Alissa's real job?” I asked.

“Mike. He brought her in the first time. He's been the one pushing this whole image change, as you know.”

“Well, it might be just as well to keep her out of the film. And away from Monday's dinner, too. People will ask questions. They might ask the same questions I am now. Are you sure you want me to find her?”

“Yes! Without qualification. Bill, it seems I've failed to make you understand that nothing supersedes this. For me personally, but also for the company. Forget about shooting more film tomorrow. Alissa promised to be at that dinner. I want her to be there.”

“All right. Rita will do her best to have the film ready on Monday. But I take you at your word—the cut may be very rough. Meanwhile, I'll start looking for Alissa first thing in the morning.”

“Thank you.” Rod slumped back into the recesses of the couch. “The last thing she said to me was, ‘Have faith.' That was a week ago.”

“What do you think that meant?”

Rod shrugged. His body was drained. His pale eyes had turned inward.

I touched his arm. “Well, it sounds like good advice. Let's go with it.”

Rod did not want to go
to Silicon Glamour. I'd told him I'd go by myself, but Rod said I'd never get in without an introduction. Silicon Glamour was not open to walk-in business.

“In that case,” I said, “you'll have to come with me.”

Still he resisted. “It's Saturday,” he said. “No one will be there.”

“I'd think Saturday would be a busy day for an outfit like theirs,” I replied. “But look, if you don't want to go, don't. My search for Alissa will end before it begins.”

Only then did he admit he ought to make an appearance. The James Dean type had visited Rod yesterday to tell him the director of SG wanted to see him.

Rod sketched their methods as we drove in his Volvo down Interstate 280 to Palo Alto. It was not easy to retain the services of Silicon Glamour, but it was even harder to leave. They were unlisted and did not accept calls unless you were dialing from an approved number. You had to have an introduction from a previous client or an endorsed contact, and even then had to undertake a wooing process before you could actually hire their services. Once you were hooked, their rates began to rise.

“I'd think they'd do it in the reverse order. Does it work?” I asked.

“Consider their market. Executive-level Silicon Valley people who don't have the time, or maybe the social data set, to secure the right companion for a big event. You don't want to be one of those guys standing around with your hands in your pockets, talking shop with the other stag engineers. So you've got an exceptionally high-percentile group, and the last thing they want is some cheap escort. SG is smart. They play hard to get. It works like a real date: You have to convince them you're SG material and then you have to pay a premium price, all of which makes their services more desirable. It's all very high class and aboveboard.”

I kept my opinions about its classiness to myself, but got to ask the question I'd attempted last night. “Meaning no hankypanky?”

“Exactly. It's in your service contract. You're liable for damages. The associate can be fired. The people who work there, both men and women, sign a four-year contract. SG invests a lot in them in terms of training and appearance, and they don't want the associate to run off with the first high-tech millionaire they meet.”

“They tell you all this up front?”

“No, Alissa told me. As we got to know one another.”

“Did you pick her out yourself?”

Rod gave me a glance of wide-eyed dismay. “God, no. I didn't initiate this. It was Mike Riley's idea. I told you that.”

“He just sprang her on you?”

“Precisely! We were going to this banquet at the close of a data visualization conference. Big event. He met me at the door. This great-looking girl was with him. I remember she was wearing a little black dress that fit her perfectly. Her hair was down and she wasn't wearing too much makeup. I thought, Jeez, Mike
really knows how to score. Then he put her on my arm. He says, ‘Rod, this is Alissa, she'll be your date tonight.' And she gave me this smile.”

“Like the one in the picture.”

“Yeah, that catlike smile, that Egyptian goddess look. We were in this flow of people. She hooked her arm into mine and I couldn't get out of it without making a scene. It made me angry, though, Mike springing her on me like I couldn't take care of myself. I wasn't very nice to her at first. I made some sarcastic remark, asked her what her specialty was in data visualization. She said she had a special power to visualize the CEO over there in his Armani suit naked. There was something about the way she said it, I had to laugh—I happened to know the guy and he's a real ass. She was young, but she had this savvy. She kept on making comments that were quite funny about the attendees. It was fascinating; we just clicked. I never understood what people meant about chemistry before that night.”

“So you kept seeing her.”

He jerked the car over into the right lane and frowned. “Yes, I did. I was hooked. Just like they planned.”

We took the Page Mill exit and followed winding roads into Los Altos Hills, on the edge between town and country. I didn't know what to expect of Silicon Glamour headquarters, but I didn't expect to turn into a small driveway guarded by a tall oleander hedge. Behind the hedge was a two-story cube of a building, the kind that could have been built as a medical office in the sixties.

Rod parked in the small lot. We were in his car for a reason. I drove an ancient International Harvester Scout, its color faded burnt orange by the sun. It didn't go very fast or offer much in the way of comfort, but it kept me connected to the road and to the days when a machine was a machine. It was the automotive
equivalent of shooting on film instead of video. Rod had said we wouldn't make it to the front door if we turned into the SG parking lot in the Scout. They had someone whose only job was to watch by remote camera the cars entering their driveway.

A screen of perforated concrete block channeled us into an enclosed space in front of the door. We could not escape the eye of the camera mounted on the wall. The door, like the building, was marked with only its address.

Rod was fidgeting madly. He pressed an intercom button and announced his arrival in a thin voice. The door buzzed. We went into a small lobby with a polished terrazzo floor. An open-tread stair lead to the second floor, but the view into the rest of the office was blocked by an interior wall with only one discreetly placed door. A pair of tall weimaraners, carved from concrete, flanked the front entrance. A small fountain bubbled. Gauzy white curtains covered the windows. Oversized pseudo-Etruscan vases marked the corners.

The receptionist was a burly man with a thick mustache and muscular sideburns to match. He gave me a quick appraisal, from my white shirt to my jeans to my boots. “Mr. Evans is waiting upstairs,” he said to Rod. Rod wore a business shirt, slacks, and brown shoes for the occasion.

Rod hesitated, and I led the way. Rupert Evans stood at the double door to his office about halfway down the corridor. He frowned until he saw Rod. Once the introductions were made, he invited us in. The plate on the outer door denoted him Director. If the lobby was a curious mix of luxury and hygiene, walking into this office was like being taken into an old-style gentleman's club. Oil paintings—dogs and hunting scenes—in gilded frames decorated the walls. The windows were hidden behind heavy brocade curtains with tasseled cords. The idea flashed through my mind that behind each door in this building
was a new and different world. I wondered what all went on in them.

Evans was a small-shouldered man in his fifties, neatly dressed in a double-breasted suit, hair combed back so that a few sprigs peeked from behind his ears. He told Rod how glad he was to see him and conducted us through the sitting area, a maze of stuffed furniture that included a zebra-skin couch and a leopard-pelt throw. We sat in chairs in front of his desk. He circled behind it, and I half expected him to offer a decanter of whiskey and a box of cigars. Instead, his eyes darted over me like a bird's. The inspection was quicker but more thorough than the receptionist's. “In what capacity are you here, Mr. Damen?”

“He's helping me find Alissa,” Rod said. His voice was a croak.

“Very good, we need all the help we can get.” His manner was at once ingratiating and paternal.

“You haven't heard anything at all from her?” I said.

“We have neither seen nor spoken to her.” He folded his hands. They were smooth, the fingers tapered. “We're protective of our associates. Overly protective, perhaps. We provide them with housing. We provide them with cars. We take very good care of them.”

“How long has it been since you talked to her?”

His gaze shifted to Rod. “How long has it been since
you
talked to her?”

Rod finally found his voice. “A week. Maybe more. She wasn't available last weekend. Yesterday she was scheduled to see me, as you know. She failed to appear. She's also scheduled for a dinner Monday night. It's an important event. This is a big problem.”

“It certainly is. I take
personal
responsibility for our employees. Do you know what that means? Do you know how it tears me apart when I'm unsure about the well-being of a girl such as
Alissa? She's like a daughter to me, Rod. It's going to go very hard for the man who's hiding her. Unless, of course . . .”

“I'm not hiding her,” Rod snapped.

A darkness clouded Rupert's face. “If some harm has come to her . . .” He shook his head, apparently at a loss for words.

I said, “I take it you've been to her apartment. You must have a key.”

“We respect her privacy,” he replied with a slight huff.

“What about her car? I imagine it's registered to you. Maybe some credit cards, too?”

Rupert ceased looking at me. I began to see how it was. No actual information would be forthcoming from him, only from us. His words were directed at Rod. “I'm sorry. This whole affair is extremely distressing. Naturally we look to you. We know how well you two got along. How much time you spent together.”

I saw the fear building on Rod's face, and cut in. “Alissa will officially be missing, from our point of view, early this afternoon. We'll go to the police then.”

“No you won't. The police stay out of it. It's in your service contract, Rod.”

“That won't apply if there's been foul play,” I insisted.

“All the more reason. You'd be the first suspect, Rod. I'll make sure of that. We're far more efficient than the police, in any case. We have fewer limitations. I hope you understand what I'm saying.”

“I genuinely don't know where she is, Rupert.” Rod's pleading tone was back. “I'll do everything I can to find her. I told you, I would really like her to be there on Monday. Give me until then.”

Rupert sat with his hands folded, his head down, considering whether Rod deserved his mercy. “We know about your unauthorized visits with Alissa,” he said at last. “That alone is a serious breach of contract. But we want to give you a chance, Rod. We
want to think the best of you. I know you were a good man when you first began to see Alissa. I am willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, but that benefit is growing slim.”

I tried to catch Rod's eye, to understand why he was knuckling under. He just stared at a pen set on the desk and nodded submissively. One of the pens pointed at Rod and one at me. I resisted, for the time being, the impulse to grab it and puncture Rupert's pretensions.

His tone turned hard. “Monday at the latest. You know the consequences.”

“Just one request—please don't send people over to my house.”

Rupert sat back, simulating chagrin. “I do apologize for that. But you see, we were in a state of anxiety about Alissa.”