Charles Danko didn’t believe in taking unnecessary chances; he also resolutely believed that all soldiers were expendable, even himself. He had always preached the gospel:
there’s always another soldier.
So he made the call from a pay phone in the Mission District. If the call was interrupted, if the call was discovered, well, so be it.
The phone rang several times before someone picked up at the apartment. He recognized the voice of Michelle, the wonderfully coldhearted au pair. What a performance she’d put on.
“I’m proud of you, Michelle. Please don’t say anything. Just put Malcolm on. You are a hero, though.”
Michelle put the phone down, and Danko had to choke back a laugh at how they obeyed his orders.
It was priceless and it said so much about the human condition. Hell, it might even explain Hitler at Munich. These were very smart people, most of them with graduate degrees, but they rarely questioned anything he told them.
“Yeah. It’s me.”
He heard Malcolm’s cheerless voice. This boy was brilliant, but he was truly a killer, probably a psychopath; he even scared Danko sometimes.
“Listen to me. I don’t want to stay on too long. I just wanted to give you an update—everything is working beautifully. It couldn’t be better.”
Danko paused for a couple of seconds. “Do it again,” he finally said.
Chapter 17
A mammoth logo in the shape of an interlocking X and L stood atop the brick-and-glass building on a promontory jutting into the bay. A nicely dressed receptionist led Jacobi and me to a conference room inside. On the paneled walls, articles and magazine covers featuring Morton Lightower’s glowing face ran the length of the room. One Forbes cover asked, CAN ANYONE IN SILICON VALLEY STOP THIS MAN?
“Just what does this company do?” I asked Jacobi.
“High-speed switches or something. They move data over the Internet. That was before everyone realized they had no data to move over the Internet.”
The door to the conference room opened and two men stepped in. One had salt-and-pepper hair and a ruddy complexion, a well-cut suit. Lawyer. The other, heavy and balding, with an open plaid shirt. Tech.
“Chuck Zinn,” the suit introduced himself, offering a card to Jacobi. “I’m X/L’s CLO. You’re Lieutenant Boxer?”
“I’m Lieutenant Boxer.” I stared at the card and sniffed. “What’s a CLO?”
“Chief legal officer.” He bowed apologetically. “This is Gerry Cates, who helped found the company with Mort.
“Needless to say, we’re horrified around here.” The two men took seats, as we did, around the conference table. “Most of us have known Mort since the beginning. Gerry went to Berkeley with him. I want to start by promising the full cooperation of the company.”
“Are there any leads?” Cates inquired. “We’ve heard Caitlin is missing.”
“We’re doing everything we can to follow up on the baby. We were told the family had an au pair—who’s missing. Any help you could give in finding her?”
“Maybe Helene could help you out. Mort’s secretary.” Cates looked at the lawyer.
“I think that’s doable.” Zinn scratched a note.
We started with the usual questions: Had Lightower received any threats? Were they aware of anyone who’d want to do him harm?
“No.” Gerry Cates shook his head and glanced at the lawyer. “Of course, Mort’s financial affairs were paraded all over the media,” he continued. “People are always popping off at shareholder meetings. Financial watchdogs. Hell, you want to redo your kitchen, they’re crying you’re bleeding the company.”
Jacobi sniffed. “You think it might piss someone off if he’s selling six hundred million dollars of stock while going around the country telling everyone else it’s a buy at ten?”
“We can’t control our share price, Inspector,” Cates replied, clearly upset by the question.
A tense silence settled over the room.
“You’ll provide us a list of all your clients,” I said.
“Doable.” The lawyer jotted down a note again.
“And we’ll need access to his private computers, e-mail, and correspondence.” I lobbed a grenade at the CLO.
The lawyer’s pen never touched the page. “Those files are private, Lieutenant. I think I’d better check our legal footing before I can agree to that.”
“I thought you were the legal footing,” Jacobi said with a grin.
“Your boss has been murdered, Mr. Zinn. I’m afraid they’re our matters now. There was a note at the bomb scene,” I said. I pushed across a copy of the photo. “It referred to Morton Lightower as an ‘enemy of the people.’ There’s a name at the bottom, August Spies. Mean anything to either of you?”
Zinn blinked. Cates took a deep breath, his eyes suddenly blank.
“I don’t need to remind you that this is a murder investigation,” I said. “If anyone’s holding something back, now would be the time …”
“No one’s holding anything back,” Gerry Cates said stiffly.
“You probably want to talk to Helene now.” The CLO straightened his pad, as if the meeting was over.
“What I want is Lightower’s office sealed, now. And I want access to all correspondence. Computer files as well. And e-mail.”
“I’m not sure that’s doable, Lieutenant.” Chuck Zinn arched back in his chair.
“Let me tell you what’s doable, Mr. Zinn.” I fastened on his phony, compliant grin. “What’s doable is that we’re back here in two hours with a subpoena, and anything deleted from those files in the past twenty-four hours goes under the heading of impeding a murder investigation. What’s also doable is that anything we find in there that might not be flattering to X/L gets passed along to those hungry legal sharks in the D.A.’s office. Any of that sound doable, Mr. Zinn?”
Gerry Cates leaned toward his lawyer. “Chuck, maybe we could work something out.”
“Of course we can work something out.” Zinn nodded. “But I’m afraid that’s all we have time for today. And you must be busy as well. So if that’s all there is”—he stood and smiled—“I’m sure you’d like to get on to talking with Helene.”
Chapter 18
It took me all of about six seconds after storming out the doors of X/L to place an urgent call to Jill. I took her through the frustrating meeting I’d just come out of.
“You’re looking for a subpoena,” Jill cut me off, “to get into Lightower’s files?”
“Duh, Jill, and fast, before they send in the Arthur Andersen boys to do a little office tidying.”
“Any evidence there’s anything in Lightower’s computer to back that up?”
“Call me suspicious, Jill, but when a guy I’m interviewing starts to twist around like a cod on a fishing line, those little police antennae behind my ears always go twang.”
“How do they go, Lindsay?” Jill chuckled back.
“Twang,” I said, more firmly. “C’mon, Jill, I’m not screwing around.”
“Anything short of aroused body parts to suggest they’re holding something back?” The blood began to roil in my chest. “You’re not gonna do this for me, are you?”
