Silent Justice (13 page)

Like the vice president in charge of operations for Blaylock Machinery, Ronald Harris. The man currently welcoming Mike into his office.

Harris had more teeth than a game show host, and they all seemed to be constantly on display. Frankly, most people weren’t all that enthused when a homicide detective wanted to see them. Judging by the look on Harris’s face, though, you’d think Mike was his long-lost billionaire uncle.

“Please come in,” Harris said, escorting Mike to a comfortable sofa at the side of the office. His hair was slicked back in a sort of Reaganesque pompadour, and his handshake was of the manly bone-crusher variety. “I can’t tell you how sorry we are about what happened to Harvey. And his family.”

Mike made no comment. “I don’t suppose you have any idea what happened to him.”

Harris’s reaction was a caricature of cluelessness. “Me? Jeez, no. I assumed it was a robbery. Weren’t some of their possessions missing?”

“Some.”

“You seem unconvinced.”

Mike shrugged. “Burglars don’t usually hang around for half an hour torturing the burgled.”

Harris winced. “Tortured? Gosh—was it as bad as the paper seemed to suggest?”

“Much worse. Someone was really out to get him.”

“Harvey? That astounds me. There’s never been a sweeter guy.”

Mike didn’t know what to think. It was possible this was simply the usual deification that accompanied someone’s passing, but somehow he didn’t believe a damn word this unctuous clown said. “Can you give me some background on his work here? Tell me what he did?”

“Harvey was a headhunter.”

“A headhunter.” Mike scribbled nonsense into his notepad, just to keep his hands moving. “I gather that means he worked in personnel.”

“Right. He was in charge of recruiting new executive talent.”

“How long had he been here?”

“Let me check that.” Harris thumbed through a file on his desk. “Yes, that’s right. Twenty-three years.”

Mike’s eyebrows rose. “That long? Was he the head of his department?”

“No, no. Just a regular working stiff. I think he preferred it that way.”

“He preferred being a grunt?”

Harris didn’t lose his smile. “Of course, we don’t use words like that here at Blaylock. Every one of our employees is an important part of the production chain. No, what I meant was, I don’t think Harvey would’ve liked the pressure that comes with promotion. He was a quiet fellow. Simple, in his own way. Reserved. And he was earning a good salary. I think he preferred his relatively anonymous place as one of many hard workers in personnel.”

Hard to believe anyone could be as contented as Harris made this poor stiff seem. “Did he have any problems?”

“None of which I’m aware. I see no notations in his evaluation file.”

“Any conflicts with any of his coworkers?”

“No. Not here at Blaylock. We have finely honed our employee relations and dispute-resolution techniques. Frankly, that sort of thing just doesn’t happen anymore. We don’t allow it.”

Mike frowned. The more he heard about this Stepford corporation, the less he liked it. “So you don’t know of any motive anyone would’ve had to kill Harvey?”

“I’m afraid I don’t. I can’t even imagine.”

Mike decided to try another approach. “Did he have any friends?”

“I would assume so.”

“Do you know who they were?”

“Sorry. No.”

“Would you object if I spoke to some of the other employees in his department?”

“N-nooo,” Harris said, with decided hesitation. “But I don’t think you’ll learn much.”

“And why is that?”

“Because for the most part, Harvey kept to himself. As I said before, he was an introverted man. Reserved.”

No doubt, Mike thought. The question is whether he was reserved for a reason. “Anything else you can think of that might be of assistance?”

“I’m sorry, no.” His plastic smile, however, did not admit a trace of sorrow. “This all comes as such a shock. Harvey was such a nice guy. Harmless, really.”

“Harmless. Huh.” Mike made another note. “Can you suggest anyone else I might talk to? Perhaps someone who knew Harvey better?”

“I’m sorry. I can’t. Like I said—”

“He was reserved. Right. I got that.” For all his smiles, Mike thought, Harris was being decidedly unhelpful. “You know, I really wanted to talk to your CEO. Blaylock. But I was told he was busy.”

“Yes, very busy, I’m afraid. There’s been a … legal development these past few days that I’m sure is occupying his time.”

“Legal development?”

“Yes. I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss it at this time. It has nothing to do with Harvey’s murder, though.”

So you say. “Well, I’d still like to talk to the top man.”

“I’ll let him know. Next time I see him. Which may well not be for some time.”

“I see.” Mike glanced up. Through the glass dividing wall behind Harris, he caught a fleeting glimpse of a face. Before he had a chance to focus, though, it was gone. “Who was that?”

“Who was who?” Harris twisted around, trying to look in the direction Mike was facing. “I don’t see anyone.”

“He’s gone.” Mike frowned. “I think it was a he, anyway.”

“Someone you recognized?”

“No. Someone I did not recognize. But someone who was watching us.”

“Watching us?” Harris drew up his shoulders. “Probably just idle curiosity. Someone wondering who’s in my office. Wondering if perhaps you’re going to be a new member of our family.”

Or perhaps someone who knew Mike was a cop, wanted to talk to him, and was wondering how to do an end run around Harris. Mike leaned into the hallway and craned his neck, but he found no trace of the person he had seen before. Which was odd, because he had the distinct and creepy feeling that he was still being watched.

“I see. Well, I think that’s about all I wanted to ask you.” Mike pushed himself to his feet. “If you could show me where Harvey worked. I’d like to take a look at his desk.”

“Sure.” Harris rose and gestured toward the back door.

Mike followed, already planning how he was going to shake this walking, talking Ken doll. He knew he’d never learn anything as long as Harris was part of his entourage. He wanted to find out more about Harvey—who he knew and what he was doing. He wanted to know why the CEO was so busy he couldn’t make time for the investigation of the murder of one of his long-term employees.

And most of all, he wanted to know who was watching him.

Damn everything, F thought, as he ducked into the kitchen. Did the cop spot him?

He thought he had been protected, hidden away by the combination of glare and fake foliage. And then all at once his eyes met the cop’s, and he knew perfectly well he’d been made. He’d darted away as quickly as he could.

But was it quick enough? That was the critical question.

Fred had recognized the cop as soon as he’d walked onto the floor. He’d seen his picture in the paper a dozen times. He couldn’t remember the man’s name, but he knew he was some kind of detective, someone who was supposed to be pretty good at what he did. Someone who might actually be able to figure out what had happened to Harvey.

Which was the last thing Fred wanted right now. He had enough on his mind, worrying about the killer who would be inexorably making his way toward Fred. He didn’t need some super sleuth dogging his heels, digging into the past, figuring out how this whole bizarre mess got started. What it’s all about. Who’s going to die next.

And most important of all, who had the merchandise.

Fred grabbed a paper cup and poured himself some water out of the cooler. This was the good stuff, the Culligan water that was supposedly purified of all foreign substances that sometimes made their way into the water supply. His hands were shaking as he held the cup under the spout. Damn!

He glanced casually over his shoulder, wondering whether anyone was watching. Happily, no one was. He had to get a grip on himself. He couldn’t give himself away. He didn’t want to go down in flames—another failure, courtesy of Fred the Feeb. He would not let that happen.

He brought the cup to his lips and let the cool, clean liquid trickle down his throat. It seemed to have a calming effect on his nerves; he was feeling better already.

Much better. But not better enough.

He polished off his drink, crushing the paper cup in his hands. It felt good, the satisfying folding of waxed paper between his fingers. It was an empowering act. Or so he told himself.

He walked briskly out of the kitchen, glancing over his shoulder, trying to look every which way at once. He was becoming paranoid; that wasn’t good. Or perhaps it was—what did he know? Maybe he should be paranoid. He had a killer on one flank and a cop on the other. He had every right to be paranoid. Paranoia was a survival skill, right? And he was going to need every survival skill he could muster if he was going to get through this. Alive.

What he needed was a vacation. The idea came to him with such crystal clarity that he was stunned by its obviousness. He should get out of here, make himself scarce for a few days. Sure, the merchandise required him to wait until D-day, but he didn’t have to wait here. He could disappear for a while. You can’t kill a man you can’t find, right? He might avoid the criminal investigation, too. Hell, they might be done poking around here by the time he returned. They might miss him altogether.

The problem was the absolute absence of cash in his bank account. The merchandise wasn’t worth anything to him—not yet. And he had depleted his savings pulling that last fantabulous trickerooney on his former friends—and depleted his earned vacation time as well. Still, there were always possibilities.…

He ducked into Stacey Treadwell’s office. She was the pert young twenty-something who was his personnel supervisor, meaning the one who decided whether a vacation was a possibility anytime in his near future. She was as pretty as they came, sexy as a Victoria’s Secret catalog. She knew it, too, which was definitely a drawback. Although it hadn’t prevented her from becoming personnel supervisor when she was barely old enough to vote, had it? He wondered if she was sleeping with Harris, or maybe had just given his zipper a workout in the storage room a few times. It was possible. Anything was possible, right now.

“Stacey,” Fred said quietly, sliding into the empty chair. “What would you think about me slipping off to Beaver Creek for a few weeks? Just me and my fishing pole.”

“I’d think you’d be out of a job when you got back.” She was chewing gum, which Fred considered the most revolting of all vices. He’d rather come in and see her shooting up cocaine than watch her smacking that gum in his face. “You took your two weeks not four months ago. You haven’t got any time.”

“I could borrow against next year.”

“Mr. Harris doesn’t allow that anymore, Fred. You know that.”

“Yeah. But I thought maybe, you know, you could maybe … pull some strings. Do me a tiny favor.”

The utter absence of expression on her face made him sorry he’d even made the suggestion.

“Stacey, I really need to get out of here.”

“Sorry, Fred.” She pushed the gum out between her lips with her tongue. “Nothing I can do.”

“There must be some way I can get off for a couple of weeks.”

“Well, I can think of one way.”

He leaned forward eagerly. “Yeah? How?”

“You could quit.” The bubble popped. She licked her lips, collecting the splattered gum fragments and working them back into her mouth.

“I can’t quit. I’m almost qualified for retirement.”

“Then I suggest you get back to work.” She turned her chair toward her computer, the ever-so-subtle signal that the conversation was over.

That was it then. The answer was no. He’d been summarily dismissed. By a twenty-something gum-cracking tramp.

He stumbled out of her office, entered the hallway—and saw the cop, standing not ten feet away down the corridor.

He bounced backward, flinging himself back into the cubicle.

Stacey looked up. “What is your problem?”

Fred stuttered for a few seconds before answering. “I—uh—don’t—just—could—” He took a deep breath. Inhale, Fred. Inhale. “Did I mention how attractive that dress looks on you?”

Stacey glanced down at her bosom. “I’m not wearing a dress.”

“Well, that—dresslike thing. Thingie. You’re wearing.”

“This blouse?”

“Yes, that.” Looking out the corner of his eye, he saw the cop in the rumpled trenchcoat pass by without glancing his way. He hadn’t spotted him. He thought. “That’s it exactly.”

“Fred, are you coming on to me? "Cause I really hate that.”

Fred raised his hands anxiously. “No, of course not.”

“Do you know I could report you? You’d lose your job in a heartbeat.” She shuddered. “Why do you people always choose me? Why would you think I’d want to get anywhere near some lifetime low-level clerk?”

“I got your message, Stacey.”

“Do you creeps have some kind of club or something? Maybe a newsletter? You sit around and figure out who you’re going to drool over next?”

“Stacey, I get the picture—”

“Yeah, well, this isn’t the first time this has happened, so please put the word out to all the horny old geezers that I’m not available, okay?”

“Goodbye, Stacey.” He ducked out of her cubicle, making a beeline toward his own. Uppity tramp. She’d change her tune in a heartbeat if she knew what he had hidden away. He wondered if maybe Stacey would like some of the merchandise. No wondering necessary—she’d drop her blouse-thingie for him in a New York minute if she could get some of that action. Maybe he should give it all to her. It would be worth the loss, almost, just to put her on the hit list.

But no. He retreated into his cubicle and hid behind the relative security of his own desk. So he wasn’t going on vacation. He’d have to deal with it. He’d have to figure out a way to keep clear of the police, and most important, to stay far away from his old friend. He had to keep his wits about him, keep one step ahead of everyone else. He could do that. He knew he could. He’d have to. Because the alternative was death. Death in a million pieces.

G
IVEN THE EVENTS OF
the day, Ben didn’t manage to get home until well after dark. He knew it was late, but he decided to stop in to see Mrs. Marmelstein anyway. Perhaps it was silly, but he just felt better when he’d checked on her with his own two eyes.