Suicide Season (9 page)

“I’d like to do it again.”

Something like a wince shadowed her face and she gazed out past the glare of the lamp beside the entry toward the cluster of lights that marked the distant neighboring house. “That would be nice. But … this sounds presumptuous … I really don’t want to rush anything. There’s still so much turmoil. And Austin—young Austin—still hurts so much … “

“I understand. But we have to get together for business meetings occasionally. They might as well be pleasant.”

We both smiled at that.

I spread the contents of Haas’s desk across the top of my own, placing items in loosely organized rows. Tacked behind me on the cork board that formed one wall was a list of Haas’s known and anonymous contacts as noted by calendar and appointment book. Now the job was to spot linkages between the dead man’s activities, to build a network that would fill in the man’s life for the six months or so preceding his death. There were holes in the method; as I told Margaret, if her husband had been trying to hide something, he wouldn’t be likely to record it where it could be found. But so far it was all we had to go on, and a lot of men with a lot of experience in espionage had made the types of mistakes that could be turned up with this kind of sifting.

In time, the correlations sketched by the computer began to emerge and I could picture Haas’s role in the company, as well as the people—a number still only initials or first names—he had met with. As expected, one group centered around the Columbine project, and the other around the Lake Center one. At several key points, Haas was the liaison between the two. And, like a handful of others in the company, he was one of the few whose overview put him in touch with all of the major components making up the team for each project. There was, of course, the possibility that one of these handful was the real thief—one of those that McAllister had put off-limits to my initial investigation: Dana Prescott, head of the Budget Office; Mark Trilling of Legal; Allan Fallico, construction supervisor; Bob Schwartz of Land Use; Howard Eberlein, Purchasing. Add each man’s secretarial staff, those who would have handled the top-echelon correspondence and documents, and you had a platoon of possible suspects. But only one had committed suicide, and the idea was to find out if that one was guilty or not.

There were gaps in the network, but general patterns surfaced, and it was with some satisfaction that I began to figure out a few of the cryptic notations: “CIV w/ J on D”—”Columbine, phase IV, part D with J(erry) Ewald or J(ohnson).” It was probably Johnson in Accounting because, according to McAllister, the fourth phase of the development was the final cost-analysis stage where the various architectural plans would be submitted to Purchasing and Accounting for a last check on estimated costs. This would have been Section D of the project, which could have been a major building, or roads and drainage, or sewage and conduits. Whatever it was, Haas began to meet with “J” often in the final two weeks.

A third group of names and initials remained, a list of unattributed references that I had gone over once and set aside to look at after tracing out the known details. If any of the material held real promise, this did; and I was just turning to it when a familiar thunder rang on the iron stairs. A moment later Bunch came in to glance over the papers spread across the desk.

“Ah, for the exciting life of a detective—glamour, travel, romance!”

“System, detail, and luck.” I explained my findings.

“You’re doing better than I am.”

“No correlations on the tapes?”

“Sure. Lots. What I don’t have is any kind of pattern yet. I’ll program it a few different ways and see what comes up. Anything here you want me to start feeding in?”

“I suppose we should start listing the identified references.” Computers had taken the place of file drawers, contact cards, and—in many ways—notebooks. They were great for the retrieval and collation of information, but somebody still had to punch each item into the system. “Here’s the list I have so far. What’s the best way of programming it?”

Bunch glanced at the sheet. “No sweat. I’ll code it so we can move it around wherever we want to. What’d you find out last night?”

“A few more names. And this is the stuff Bartlett cleaned out of Haas’s desk. Most of it’s junk.”

“Most? What’s not?”

I showed him a small slip of paper whose rough edge said it had been torn from a memo book. “These initials, ‘D.N.’ I haven’t found any other reference to them anywhere yet.” The page was sharply creased as if it had been folded and pressed in a book or wallet.

“There’s a phone number beside the initials.”

“I know.”

Bunch sucked a squeak of air between his teeth. “All right, smartass. Whose number is it?”

I pressed the Play button on the tape recorder that routinely monitored our calls. A bell rattled once and a male voice, unhurried and authoritative, said “Hello.” My voice asked, “Is Mr. Bunchcroft there?” The voice said “Who?” Then, “No. You’ve got the wrong number,” and hung up.

“Why the hell’d you ask for me?”

“I knew you wouldn’t be there. Besides, nobody knows who you are.”

“That’s only because I seek neither fame nor glory. Humble worker in the vineyard, that’s me.”

I slid the paper toward him. “Can the humble worker stomp this grape?”

The paper folded and almost disappeared between Bunch’s thick fingers. “It shouldn’t cost too much.”

“Or take much time, right?” I glanced at my watch and grabbed my coat off the rack. “Gotta run—tight social schedule.”

Bunch’s voice followed me out the door, “I don’t want to eat at Gianelli’s anyway!”

The restaurant was another of those that had moved into a refurbished building in lower downtown, marking the tentative return of life to that corner of the city between Larimer and the railroad yards. After almost fifty years of neglect, the old brick façades with their cast-iron and plaster decorations had been rediscovered, and here and there along the narrow sidewalk wooden construction fences and pedestrian tunnels marked additional remodeling. The restaurant was in an ugly, square building of narrow frontage, and its only advertisement was the green awning that reached the street and bore
GIANELLI’S RESTAURANT
in white block letters. On each side were buildings equally stark and still used for commerce. Gianelli—Bob Hirschorn to his friends—had told me with a straight face that the plain exterior wasn’t just an economy measure but a deliberate contrast to the Victorian interior and its atmosphere of muted opulence. It was. A wide stairway led between gleaming brass rails up from the tiled entry to the reception desk, and a new maitre d’ with a thin mustache made me wait while he concentrated on his appointment book and seating chart. Finally he looked up. “Yes, sir—do you have a reservation?”

“Kirk. For two.”

“Oh, yes.” The mustache stiffened in a smile. “The lady has already arrived. This way, please.”

“I’m sorry I’m late—let me apologize with a drink.” Carrie Busey had dark blond hair that tumbled to her shoulders in stiffly sprayed curls, and cool gray eyes made larger by the wide glasses balanced on a small nose. Sculpted was the word that came to mind. She had the symmetrical evenness of a model and a smoothness of skin that hesitated to show either smile or frown. While we waited for the drinks, I thanked her for coming and she said it was all right, and that’s about all she did say until after the bar waiter had set the cold glasses in front of us. Then at last she looked up at me.

“I only came because I do not believe that Austin killed himself, Mr. Kirk.”

“Oh?”

She stirred the tiny straw that disappeared into a frosty gin and tonic. “He wasn’t the type to do that.”

I pooled the martini’s sharp flavor on my tongue for a moment. Tanqueray gin, dry and up, and the smooth blend said Leila was at the bar. “People often do things that surprise us. Even people we think we know well.”

“I was his secretary for five years.” She looked at me without blinking and added, “And his lover for four.”

“I see.”

“I knew him better than anyone else. Even his wife. He would not kill himself.”

“Are you ready to order, Mr. Kirk?”

The tuxedo at my shoulder was a welcome interruption. I had come believing I knew what to ask Miss Busey, but she had come with something entirely different to say. And her coolness in doing it was unsettling. I asked George what he recommended from today’s menu but only half-listened to his answer. When he’d gathered the ornate cards and headed for the kitchen, I turned to Carrie Busey.

“Did Mrs. Haas know of your relationship?”

“I don’t think Austin told her. But she knew. She went out of her way to be generous to me every Christmas.”

There were ironies in that which I would have to ponder later. “Was Haas planning to divorce her?”

“No. Nor did I expect it. The children … the job … No.”

“He told you that?”

“He didn’t have to. I was happy with things the way they were, Mr. Kirk. Austin and I could be together periodically, and I had plenty of time for myself.” Her head tilted as if she just realized something, and a glint of thin humor came into her eyes. “I’m not one of those women who can define herself only with a man. I do have a life of my own. And if I wanted to go to bed with anyone—you, for instance, Mr. Kirk—I would choose you. Not vice versa.”

I believed her. “You chose Haas?”

“We chose each other.”

“Still, there must have been pressures on him, especially if his wife suspected something.”

“He could handle pressure. It’s one of the things I admired most about him.”

“Suppose there were other pressures?”

“What do you mean?”

Behind the round lenses, her eyes had gone flat and I guessed she knew what I meant. “Suppose he thought someone suspected him of selling corporate secrets?”

“You mean to the Aegis Group?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve heard those rumors.” The blond hair stiffly wagged no. “Austin would have fought. He was a very strong man—he could not have gotten where he was without being strong and aggressive and capable. He thrived under pressure, Mr. Kirk. That’s what I’m trying to make you see. I worked with him, side by side, in some very chaotic and demanding crises, and not once was his will shaken. Not once did he lose his nerve.”

“And in those moments he relied on you?”

Her chin lifted. “Yes!”

And so to bed. I finished my martini and lifted a finger. Across the narrow room, George nodded and headed quickly for the bar. “But suppose he had a secret crisis he couldn’t share with you?”

“After the Columbine and Lake Center projects, we were all under suspicion, Mr. Kirk. As we should have been.”

Two more drinks silently arrived, followed by the salads, small and carefully arranged on large, chilled metal plates, and beside them forks wrapped in icy cloths.

“Suppose, Miss Busey, there was good reason to suspect the man and he knew it? Suppose he believed he was about to be exposed?”

Her face hardened into porcelain. “He would have told me. I shared that part of his life, Mr. Kirk—the vital, the most alive part of his life: I shared it. Not his wife, not anyone else. If he made a deal with Aegis, he would have told me!”

“Would you have approved?”

She hesitated, then shrugged. “It happens all the time in business, and Austin had ambition. He knew I would support whatever he did.”

The serving cart coasted across the carpet to the table and George presented each dish with a little flourish of introduction. I waited until the ceremony was over and the waiter had dropped out of earshot.

“Do you know if Haas had enemies?”

“Of course he did. Strong men make enemies.”

“Anyone who hated him enough to want to frame him for the theft of the projects?”

“What do you mean?”

I told her about the anonymous call to McAllister’s office, the one that said Haas had been approached by the Aegis Group.

She idly tugged at a curl of blond hair that sprang back into ranks when her fingers opened. “That only makes me more certain that he didn’t kill himself.”

“But do you have any idea who might have made that call?”

“No.”

“You had access to the same information as Haas, didn’t you?”

“Of course. We worked together.” Her fork stopped in midair. “But don’t draw the conclusion that I sold the information to Aegis.”

“If it wasn’t wrong for Haas, why should it be wrong for you?”

“It would have been a betrayal of Austin.”

“But not of McAllister?”

“Austin came first.” She leaned over the white tablecloth. “Mr. Kirk, Austin did not sell those trade secrets to those people. And he did not kill himself.”

“He’s dead.”

“He was murdered. She killed him.”

I studied the face that, for all its immobility, was even more intense. “You mean his wife?”

“Yes!”

The tines of my fork pushed my scaloppini across the large, richly patterned dish. “That’s a very serious accusation, Miss Busey. You shouldn’t say something like that based only on your dislike for her.”

“She was the only one in the house with him, wasn’t she? He did not kill himself—he did not! And she’s the only other one who could have!”

“But why should she?”

A note of satisfaction tinged her voice. “Jealousy.”

Her gray eyes finally thawed with an emotion: hatred. I watched it surge up like blazing straw and then slowly ebb as she stared at me. “Why now, Miss Busey? Why didn’t you bring this up when it happened?”

“Because I’ve had time to think, time to put things together so they make sense.”

“The police were satisfied that it was a suicide, and for very good reasons. The wound was a close-range head wound, only one round had been fired from the weapon that killed him, and residue was found on Haas’s hand.”

“Residue?”

“Burned gunpowder. Anyone firing a pistol will have gunpowder residue on his hand.”

“I don’t care what they found. I know what I know.” She reached down for her purse and took out a checkbook. “I want to hire you to prove that Austin did not kill himself, Mr. Kirk.”