The Answer Man (12 page)

“You know,” Ken said, “maybe you should take another look at that data.”

“Why?”

“Because there's more there than just sales figures and marketing strategies. You're naïve, stupid, or both if you think Don Browne's death didn't have a thing to do with those data files.”

“Well, it occurred to me that
you
might have killed him.”

Ken glared at Keogler. “Why would you think that?”

“Well, he died less than twenty-four hours after I gave you his name. Seems like a pretty big coincidence.”

“I didn't have anything to do with it.”

“Maybe, maybe not. But if you rat me out to the cops, you can bet I'll tell them about this.”

The kid had a point. “If you're straight with me, I won't have any reason to rat you out.”

“I hope not, for both of our sakes.”

“Will you take another look at those files?”

“What am I looking for?”

“I don't know. But Vikkers is under investigation. Maybe there's something in there that will tell us why.”

“Are you sure you're not a fed?”

Before Ken could answer, he looked up and saw a familiar sight.

The white Acura sedan.

Again.

It was at the end of the alley, crossing at the next block. In the past few days, even when it wasn't tailing him, it always seemed to be there.

Near his apartment.

In parking lots.

Wherever he went.

The car slowed, then continued across until it was out of sight.

“I'm no fed,” Ken said. “I'm just looking to collect on a debt.”

Hound Dog clutched the Lexis/Nexis card as she walked through the front doors of the Georgia State University Law Library. It had taken her a good fifteen minutes to sweet-talk her friend out of the access card, and it had cost her dearly. She had to promise to spend her Friday night at a party with the guy, who was a second-year law student.

The Lexis/Nexis system was a computer database that offered full-text retrieval of literally thousands of newspapers, magazines, and legal documents. Articles could be accessed by a name, subject matter, or even the appearance of a phrase. For example, it would be a simple matter to call up every article in the past ten years that contained the words “gravy-sucking pig,” an entry Hound Dog had, in fact, once tried. She discovered thirty-four articles.

The Lexis/Nexis system could be found in law firms all over the world, but usage charges ran into the hundreds of dollars an hour. Many universities, however, were given access for bargain-basement prices. It made good business
sense to hook law students in to depending on the system for which they—or their firms—would later pay dearly in the real world.

She slid her friend's access card into the computer terminal and waited for the prompt. She typed the command “NAME MADELEINE WALTON.” In a few seconds, the screen informed her there were seventy-seven articles that contained that name. She knew some of these were probably other people with the same moniker. She typed “CITE” for a full listing of the articles. Immediately the list came up. Most of the stories came from Denver sources, and their headlines made it clear they were about the murder Conway told her about. She selected a few to save in her print file, then noted the last appearance of the name in the system.

Over twelve years before.

Since then Madeleine Walton didn't exist as far as the database was concerned.

Hound Dog typed “NEW SEARCH,” then “NAME MYTH DANIELS.” One hundred and ninety-four entries. She studied them, and was not surprised to see they began only after Madeleine Walton's entries stopped. Most of the articles revolved around court cases, up to and including the Burton Sabini matter.

She selected several of them to save in a print file. She typed the “PRINT” command, and in less than five minutes she picked up all her articles at the circulation desk, neatly collated and stapled.

She thumbed through the stories as she made her way back to her motorcycle. She had never encountered anything like this in her years as a scanner geek. Murderers posing for her, cops flirting with her, and victims screaming at her, maybe, but this case was something new.

Hers was often a lonely life. Most people thought she was a nutcase, and she didn't socialize much with the other scanner geeks. Many of them
were
nutcases.

But she couldn't imagine ever leading a different life. Not when the night beckoned. Not when there was a world of wonder, excitement, and intrigue waiting for her.

Not when she was now literally clutching a mystery in her very own hands.

G
ant pressed the surgical mask hard over his nose and mouth in an attempt to block stray particles of aluminum dust from his respiratory system. He was visiting a Vikkers plant, where company president Herbert Decker was spending the day.

The plant was located in nearby Kennesaw, an Atlanta suburb best known as the site of a bloody Civil War battle fought as General Sherman's forces advanced. The town's recent notoriety stemmed from the fact that it was the one municipality in the country that passed a law
requiring
each home to have a gun. This was done in the name of deterring crime, but it actually just provided the national press with “aren't-those-rednecks-funny” news stories.

Gant strained to see through the dirty goggles given to him by an assistant foreman. Huge aluminum presses roared as he walked toward a glass booth at the factory's far end. He climbed a short flight of stairs and entered the booth.

“Lieutenant Gant?” A short man with a booming voice stepped toward him.

Gant closed the door and pulled off the mask. “Yes. Herbert Decker?”

“That's me.” Decker shook Gant's hand, squeezing hard. The man's firmer-than-firm handshake, loud voice, and expansive gestures struck Gant as indicators that
Decker was trying hard to compensate for his small size.

“Have a seat,” Decker said. “I'm sorry I have to meet you here, but I like to spend time in the field every month. It keeps my finger on the pulse.”

“No problem. I take it you know why I'm here.”

“My secretary said it was about Burton Sabini. But I've already spoken to another detective.”

“He's still on the case. But his plate is pretty full right now, so I'm picking up some of the slack.”

“I'll help you if I can, but I really don't have any more to say.”

“Have you ever heard of a man by the name of Carlos Valez?”

“Can't say I have.”

Gant believed him. Damn. It was a stab in the dark; he was hoping to make some kind of connection. “How about Ken Parker?”

Decker shook his head. “Are they suspects?”

“I'm sorry, I can't discuss that. How did the people in your company feel about Burton Sabini?”

“I don't think we felt much of anything. He did his job well, he was a nice guy, but that's about it.”

“What about after the embezzlement?”

“Well, the senior management team and I were understandably upset. But among the rest of the employees, I think the feeling was ‘attaboy!' ” Decker shrugged. “It wasn't their money.”

Gant nodded. “That's often the case with big-company embezzlement cases.” He checked his notebook. “Speaking of money, you and the senior management team made quite a bit of it last year. It must have run into tens of millions.”

“You're talking about the merger.”

Gant nodded. “Did Burton Sabini share in that windfall?”

Decker took on a defensive posture. “No, he didn't. He didn't have a stake in the company.”

“Why not? I understand other executives who had been here less time profited very well.”

“It wasn't in his deal. Some people had shares, some didn't. Compensation is dealt with on a case-by-case basis. And I should tell you our profits are only on paper. None of us can cash in our shares yet.”

“It's only a few more months though, isn't it?”

Decker didn't reply.

“Sabini watched everyone else here get rich after the merger, but he got nothing.”

“He got paid a good salary!” Decker roared.

A screamer. Every employee's worst nightmare. “I'm just trying to understand what motivated him to embezzle from your company,” Gant said.

“He was a fucking thief!”

“Please calm down.”

Decker tossed his paperweight against a cork bulletin board, knocking down a few pieces of paper. “You people haven't done a damn thing to get that money back. I don't give a fuck who killed him. Where's the money he took from us?”

Gant remained calm. “Maybe someone killed Sabini out of revenge.”

“For what? Stealing from us?”

“
You're
obviously angry about it.”

Decker shook his head. “We didn't want him dead. He was our only chance of getting that money back. No one
here
killed him. Trust our greed, Lieutenant.”

“I find that amazingly easy to do.”

The white Acura was in Ken's parking lot.

Once again.

Ken had just finished repairing his polygraph, when he stepped outside to see the car parked in the shadows of an oak tree.

Ken turned toward the glass doors of his building and
looked at the Acura's reflection. A man was in the passenger seat, and he appeared to be watching him.

Ken pushed open the door and ducked into the hallway. He jogged down the corridor and cut through to a stairwell at the rear of the building. As he ran down the stairs, his mind raced. Who would be following him? Not a cop. The car was too nice. For tailing suspects, police generally liked older, plainer cars. Less conspicuous.

It probably wasn't a creditor either. He was paid up on all of his delinquent accounts, and collection agents didn't waste their time spying once they found their man.

Ken still had not formulated a plan when he stepped out to the alley alongside his building. Keeping an eye on the Acura, he sprinted around to the other side of the parking lot. He ducked behind a pickup truck and peered through the cab windows. The man still sat in the Acura's passenger seat, watching the office building.

The guy knew what he was doing, Ken thought. Sitting in the passenger seat was an old surveillance trick. It gave the appearance that the observer was waiting for a driver.

Ken crouched low and slid between parked cars in the lot, slowly creeping up on the Acura. He stopped a few feet away, behind the driver-side door. The man was heavy, balding, maybe fifty years old. No one Ken had ever seen before. Shit-kicking country music blared from the car stereo.

Ken rubbed his hands on his jeans. He didn't have many options. He could walk away and ignore the guy. Or he could call the police, but without the threat of physical danger the case wouldn't warrant much attention. Or he could confront the man. But how? He was sure the guy would deny following him if questioned point-blank.

Better to shake him up.

Ken straightened to peer through the driver-side window. The keys were in the ignition; it was hard to miss the bright orange rabbit's foot dangling from the steering column.

He threw open the door and slid behind the wheel. The man jumped with a start, gasping as he spilled soda all over himself.

“My name's Parker,” Ken announced as he pulled the car door shut. “But I guess you already know that, don't you?”

He started up the car, put it into gear, and peeled out of the lot. The tires squealed as he roared onto Roswell Road, barely missing a car in the adjacent lane. His passenger, speechless, held his armrest in a white-knuckled grip.

Ken glanced over. “I know you've been following me.”

“I don't know what you're talking about!”

“The hell you don't. Well, here I am. You got something to say to me, say it.”

The man stared out the windshield in horror. “Jeez, just…slow down, all right?”

“Oh, I'm just getting started. Wait until we get out of this traffic.”

“Come on, man!”

“I know you're not a cop.”

“I can still bust your balls, you know that? This is kidnapping, grand theft auto, reckless endangerment—”

“Sorry.”

Ken sped through a busy intersection, jerking the wheel to avoid a truck.

The man raised his arms. “Watch it—
shit
!”

“I figure this is the only way we can talk. You can't hurt me. You do, and we both die. So if you got a gun—”

“Who do you think I am?”

“Good place to start. Who are you?”

“Uh, can't we just pull over and talk about this?”

“I'll think about it. I'd think a lot better if you started talking now though. Who are you?”

The man nervously pulled at his seat belt, fumbling to fasten it around him. “Okay. All right. My name's
Michaelson. Ted Michaelson. I was following you. Okay? I admit it.”

“Big of you. Why?”

“Twelve million dollars.”

Ken gave him a sharp look.

“Isn't that reason enough?” Michaelson glanced ahead. “There's a hot dog stand in the parking lot up there. I'll buy you a dog and we'll talk. Okay?”

Ken swerved into the parking lot. “You're not going to run, are you?”

Michaelson laughed as he pinched six inches of fat on his midsection. “What do
you
think?”

“Sabini's company hired me,” Michaelson said after taking a massive bite of his bratwurst. “They wanted me to look in on things, see if I could get a fix on what he did with their money.”

Ken sat on the hood of Michaelson's car, a chili-cheese dog in hand. “So you're a private investigator?”

Michaelson nodded. “Freelance, but I do a lot of contract work for Vikkers. Mostly paperwork, background checks, a little surveillance. Small stuff.”

“I guess I fall under the ‘small stuff.' ”

“Not at all. I was tailing Sabini the last couple of weeks of his life. I
know.
”

“You know what?”

“About you, about Myth Daniels, about everything. Sabini spent some serious time in your office. Rehearsing for the big event, I'd say.”

Ken's first instinct was to terminate the conversation immediately. A Vikkers investigator was the last person he should be speaking to. But he thought of something.

“You didn't report this back to the company,” Ken said. “They would've been screaming bloody murder if you had.”

“Kept it to myself.”

“I wonder why you'd do a thing like that.”

“Vikkers offered me five percent of any money I locate. That's a lot…”

“But not enough?”

“It occurred to me you and the lawyer might be in on it. It occurred to me
I
might get in on it.”

“In on what? The money?” Ken laughed. “You sorry son of a bitch. You know, they say you can't take it with you. But for all intents and purposes, Sabini
did
take it with him. We don't know where it is.”

“I'd like three million dollars.”

“Wouldn't we all?”

“With what I know, I can make things uncomfortable for you and your lawyer friend.”

“You're blackmailing us? Sabini died
owing
me money.”

Michaelson studied him. Ken shook his head in disbelief as he finished his hot dog.

Michaelson nodded. “Okay, maybe you're not in on it. That'd make sense too. Why would she need you when she could keep it all to herself?”

“What are you saying?”

“I got a theory. A theory maybe Sabini was killed by someone he knew. Someone like…”

“Who?”

“Somebody who already got what she wanted from him. Someone smart. Someone beautiful. Someone who knows how to make a man stop thinking with his head.”

“Myth was with me that night.”

“At eight-twenty
P
.
M
.?”

Ken didn't reply.

Michaelson nodded. “I was following him, remember? I was about a block away when he got it. I kept waiting for him to come out the other end of that alley, but he never did.”

“You didn't see who did it?”

Michaelson shook his head. “No, but I got ideas. She wasn't with you then, was she?”

Ken tried not to let Michaelson see how the conversation was affecting him. His stomach was churning and his throat was closing. He felt a layer of sweat on his forehead.

Michaelson talked louder and more quickly. “What do you know about her, really? That she's great in the sheets? Yeah. I know about you and her. But what do
you
know?”

“You're wrong. She didn't do it.”

“I can afford to be wrong. You can't. If she
did
kill Sabini and get the money, you're in an awkward position. You helped her perjure a client. You got something on her. To her, you're a loose end. Know what you do to loose ends? You clip 'em off.”

“I believe her a hell of a lot more than I believe you.”

Michaelson grinned at Ken. He finished his bratwurst, crumpled up the wrapper, and tossed it into the trash can. He stepped around and opened his car door.

“I'm sure Sabini believed her too.” Michaelson motioned toward the passenger-side door. “Want a lift?”

That night, Ken spotted Myth near the illuminated fountains at Centennial Olympic Park. They had chosen this meeting place since locals never ventured there after office hours, and, as expected, only a few tourists were present. Ken glanced around, realizing that he had not gone there since the Olympics. How different it was without the pavilions, without the vendors, without the people. It seemed lonely without the crush of visitors that had once so defined the character of the place.

Ken stepped over the plaza's personalized bricks, remembering that Bill had bought one for him. He never got around to looking it up, though he knew it was somewhere on the side facing Martin Luther King Drive. He'd have to find it someday. Given Bill's sense of humor, the brick was probably an insult for everyone to see.

Ken gestured toward the fountain as he approached Myth. “If you need to cool off, it's okay to jump in.”

“You mean I won't get arrested?”

“It's not that kind of fountain. And if they saw
you
with your clothes wet, you'd probably get the key to the city.”

“I'll pass, thank you.”

“Your decision.”