The Hunt (18 page)

So this was the tree from which Iggie had fallen.

“Of course I’m working here. My baby needs me! But we weren’t expecting you for another couple of hours, Biggie,” said Phyllis in a tone that managed to grate, scold and condescend in one fell swoop. “Igor’s scheduled in back-to-back meetings until noon. You know how busy he is. And we thought you were coming alone. Who are your little friends?”

I hadn’t been called anyone’s “little friend” since the third grade. “This is my boss, Peter, and his fiancée, Rachel,” Abigail said. “And this is my friend, Luisa.”

Judging from the way Phyllis set her lips, outlined in coral pencil a shade darker than her lipstick, she wasn’t even remotely pleased to see us, which seemed unfair. We were clean and neatly dressed, and we’d all managed to plaster amiable meeting-someone’s-mother expressions on our faces. I might not be looking my best, but Luisa was beautiful even when cranky and chewing gum, and Peter had the sort of unassuming good looks that always made me worry people thought he could do better when they saw us together.

But it was Luisa, standing closest to Abigail, who was the source of her displeasure, notwithstanding her resemblance to Salma Hayek. Phyllis gave her the once-over and sniffed before turning back to Abigail. “Dr. Grout is right. This is just a phase you’re going through, Biggie. You’ve probably been watching too much of that Ellen DeGeneres person. I know it’s all the rage right now, but you and Igor are so well matched. You really shouldn’t let fashion dictate your choice of life partner.”

“Yes. I blame it all on Ellen,” said Abigail in the mild tone I was learning she reserved for sarcasm.

But sarcasm was lost on Phyllis. “Igor needs someone to be the woman behind the man. You were perfectly suited for that, Biggie. And it’s so much healthier when people play their proper roles in a relationship. Even Dr. Grout thinks so. There’s nothing as fulfilling as maintaining a happy household. Taking care of others is really the very best work a woman can do.”

Abigail opened her mouth, probably to debate her proper role and just how happy her household with Iggie had been, but then she closed it, apparently recognizing how futile any attempt at debate would be. “Could you let Igg—I mean, Igor know I’m here?” she asked instead.

“I told you already. He’s in a meeting, and he’s much too important to be disturbed.” Phyllis didn’t comment explicitly on our relative unimportance, but it didn’t take much imagination to guess what she was thinking. The Igster’s ego had clearly had some help from his mother in reaching its current size.

We seemed to have arrived at an impasse, but then Iggie himself appeared around a distant corner, herding Camilla Gergen and a small flock of other banker types, presumably her colleagues, toward the exit. I ducked behind Peter—I’d seen enough of Camilla the previous evening to last for another eight years—but the space was sufficiently large that the group could pass at a safe distance with only snatches of their conversation echoing in our direction. We heard billion more than once, which probably explained why Iggie had shown them the courtesy of accompanying them to the door rather than letting them find their own way out.

Once Camilla and her companions were safely on the other side of the sliding-glass panels, Phyllis, who had apparently accepted that Iggie was bound to see us waiting for him and decided to take control of the situation, gave another yodel. “Yoo-hoo!” she called. “Igor! Look who’s here, baby!”

While Phyllis may have played an important role in developing Iggie’s ego, she had less control over other parts of his psyche and had been unable to extinguish the torch he still carried for his ex-wife. Once his eyes landed on Abigail he practically skipped over to the reception area. He was again dressed all in purple, from his shoes up to his shirt, although today he’d opted for silk instead of velvet. I wondered if Prince was aware someone was raiding his wardrobe.

“She came early, and she brought some people with her, which is very inconvenient. I told her
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you were busy and that she’d just have to wait,” Phyllis said. “Your next appointment will be here any second, and you don’t have time for her now. Your calendar will get all backed up.”

“That’s okay, Ma,” said Iggie. “I can always make time for Biggie.”

He seemed about as thrilled as Phyllis had been to see that Abigail wasn’t alone, but he still welcomed us all graciously and offered a tour of the premises, eager to show off the scale of his company’s operations.

“Thanks, Iggie, maybe later. There are some things we wanted to discuss with you first,” I said.

“In private,” added Abigail, with a pointed look in Phyllis’s direction. It was possible giving pointed looks was a skill she came by naturally, but it was so well done I suspected Luisa had been coaching her.

“Whatever you want, Biggie. We’ll just be a few minutes, Ma.”

I could feel Phyllis’s glare on our backs as Iggie led us through the maze of low-walled cubicles, waving cheerily at the geek-hipster minions we passed before showing us into a glass-walled conference room. “Check it,” he said, flipping a switch. Instantly, the glass panes seemed to fill with smoke, and what had been clear was now opaque. “Is that cool or what?”

We all agreed it was cool, although simple Venetian blinds or even some tasteful drapes would have been just as effective, but we couldn’t waste valuable minutes admiring the office decor, especially with Phyllis likely to interrupt at any moment.

“So, Iggie, was that Camilla Gergen from Ryan Brothers we saw just now?” I asked. We’d agreed on the drive down to start by putting him on the defensive, assuming such a thing was possible where Iggie was concerned.

“Who?” he said, with the same hammy overemoted surprise he’d tried on the phone last night. It was no more convincing in person.

“It’s all right, Iggie,” I said. “I know you’re talking to other banks about the IPO. Anyone in your shoes would do the same thing.” This was true, although I doubted many people would want to wear his purple Doc Martens. “Did you tell them all they’d be first up to pitch, too?”

“No, Rachel, your firm is going first. Really. The Ryan Brothers people were just here to give me some advice about—uh, about—”

“Don’t worry, Iggie. I understand. In fact, it’s probably a good thing you’re talking to so many different firms, because the more I hear about Igobe, the less sure I am that my own firm would want to represent you. We prefer to work with companies with stronger prospects, and it sounds as if the future here might be less rosy than you’d like everyone to believe.”

“What are you talking about?” he asked, his tone growing as defensive as we’d hoped.

“We know that there are rumors that your technology can be hacked, and we know that Hilary was writing an article that was critical of Igobe,” said Abigail. “And we also know there’s a fifty-percent chance you were lying about whether you did more than drop her off at the hotel.”

“How did you get to fifty percent?” asked Iggie, ever the math prodigy. I noticed he didn’t question what she had said about either the hacker or Hilary’s article.

“There were two Lamborghinis at the Four Seasons that night, and we know one of them belonged to you. We also know one drove off without Hilary and one drove off with her,” said Luisa.

“Which means she was either with you or she was in the other car,” concluded Peter.

“Oh,” said Iggie with relief. “That’s easy. She must have been in the other car, because she wasn’t with me. I just dropped her off, like I told you.” He rubbed his hands together. “Now, are you guys staying for lunch, too? Because I was hoping to have some private time with Big—I mean, Abigail.”

“Not so fast, Iggie,” said Abigail. “Who was driving the other Lamborghini?”

“How should I know?”

“You should know because the guys working the door at the hotel saw you both get out of your cars and talk to each other,” she said.

“Wow, Biggie. You really have been following my every move, haven’t you?” Iggie sounded
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touched, as if he was interpreting the legwork we’d done as a sign that Abigail cared about him rather than distrusted him.

“Not at all,” I said. “We’re just trying to find Hilary. We know from eyewitnesses and from the hotel’s security cameras that you took her to the Four Seasons, we know she went upstairs for her laptop and notebook, and we know she came back downstairs and got into one of two Lamborghinis that were there that night. If you were just dropping her off, why did you stick around and talk to the other driver? And who was he?”

“I told you, we were just talking about our cars. There aren’t a lot of Lamborghinis around. Not many people can afford to drop that much green on a set of wheels, if you know what I mean.”

He looked around, as if to make sure that we did, in fact, know what he meant and to see if anyone appreciated his impromptu rhyming skills. “We talked about our cars, and then I skedaddled. Sans Hilarita.”

“Why did you leave without her?” Peter asked.

“And why didn’t you go forward with the interview you promised her?” added Luisa. She asked this as if we knew about the interview for sure, but she was bluffing, something at which she excelled, although she’d scoffed at my repeated suggestions that she pursue a career in professional poker. “Did something make you change your mind while you were waiting for her?”

Iggie didn’t say anything for a moment, and I could almost see the wheels spinning in his brain as he tried to calculate which excuse we might find most credible. “Okay,” he said eventually, his tone resigned. “Do you really want to know what happened? The whole truth and nothing but the truth?”

“That’s why we’re here,” said Abigail. “That and to spend quality time with you.”

But sarcasm was lost on Iggie, too. “I ditched her on purpose. I told her I’d give her an interview for her story, and then I took off while she was getting her things from her room.”

“Why would you do that?” I asked, indignant on Hilary’s behalf.

“Because the Igster doesn’t get mad, Raquel. He gets even.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Luisa, equally indignant.

“It means I spent years going after Hilary in college, and she acted like I was invisible unless she was having problems with her computer or needed help with her science requirements. But now I’m a success, and suddenly she can’t get enough of me.”

“So you ditched her?” Peter asked, incredulous. “That was your way of getting even?”

“I thought she could use a taste of her own medicine. Let her see how it feels to be on the receiving end of rejection for once.”

“How mature,” said Abigail in her mild tone.

“Hey, it felt good. We got to the hotel, and I told Hilary I’d wait for her to get her notebook and stuff. She went inside, and I was about to take off when I saw the second Lamborghini. I stopped to talk to the other driver for a minute, but then I hit the road. Put the pedal to the metal. Left her high and dry. Slipped out the back, Jack. Made a new plan, Stan. Hopped on the bus, Gu—”

“All right,” Luisa interrupted. She’d never been much of a Paul Simon fan. “We understand.

You left her there to avenge her ignoring you in college.”

“Which was more than ten years ago,” I couldn’t help but point out. I was a big believer in holding long-term grudges, but this was excessive even by my statute of limitations.

“I just wish I could have seen her face when she came back downstairs and realized I was gone.”

He couldn’t contain the smug smile that had spread over his own face as he told us what he’d done.

“You must be very proud of yourself,” said Abigail.

The sarcasm sailed over his head yet again. “Dr. Grout thought it was a critical breakthrough.

An important step on the journey to self-actualization. He’s even thinking about writing a paper on it.”

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“Is Dr. Grout a real doctor?” I asked. “With a degree and a license and everything?”

“Of course he is,” said Iggie. “Why do you ask?”

20

W e spent a few more minutes pressing Iggie about the driver of the other Lamborghini, but he steadfastly maintained that all they’d spoken about was their shared passion for cars that cost more than the gross national product of certain developing countries.

Then Phyllis’s voice cackled out from a hidden intercom. “Igor? Igor, baby, your ten-thirty appointment is waiting in the lobby. And there’s a call holding for you, too. Don’t you think it’s time your little friends were leaving?” For Iggie’s sake, I hoped the intercom was audible only in the conference room, as this wasn’t the sort of communication to inspire trust and confidence in one’s employee base.

After the tag-team browbeating we’d delivered, Iggie was so thrilled to be rid of us he barely protested when Abigail told him she wouldn’t be able to stay for lunch, after all, and I was fairly certain he didn’t see her crossing her fingers behind her back when she assured him she’d be in touch to reschedule. He escorted us through the sea of cubicles to the exit, following the same return path he’d used with Camilla Gergen and her team and steering a wide berth around his mother’s station.

As the front doors slid apart, I turned to glance back, curious as to whether my hunch about Iggie’s next appointment was right.

Sure enough, over by the reception desk, Clay Finch and several of his colleagues balanced awkwardly on a circle of beanbag chairs, struggling to make small talk with Phyllis as they waited for Iggie. Clay somehow managed to look stiff even when sunk into the purple vinyl of his beanbag, and his legs were so long that, with his size-sixteen feet planted on the floor and his rear planted only a few inches higher, his knees were bent up around his ears. I gave him a big smile and wave on the way out.

Peter and I had more than an hour between our Igobe visit and our meeting with Caro and Alex, and Abigail and Luisa hadn’t participated in the Forrest family breakfast of champions, so we decided to retreat to the University Café in Palo Alto. Late on a Monday morning the café was only moderately busy, its customers a mix of student and faculty types from the Stanford campus nearby and a handful of men dressed in the local venture capitalists’ uniform of khakis, button-down shirts and computer bags bearing the logos of Internet start-ups and tech conferences. “Sand Hill Road is nearby,” Abigail explained as we sat down. “That’s where a lot of the venture-capital firms have their offices.”