Steve Martini - Double Tap

“The more the merrier,” I tell him.

“Please, come in,” he says, about to start the introductions, then stops. He apologizes, then offers me coffee, tea, or a soft drink. I pass.

“If you need anything just ask,” he says, then begins: “I’d like you to meet Mary Collard.” He indicates a blond woman in her mid-thirties on the far side of the table, at the end. She bares an obligatory half-smile. “Ms. Collard is the corporation’s chief financial officer. Next to her is Jim Beckworth. Jim assists me in legal and oversees most of our dealings with outside hired counsel. Next to Jim is Wayne Sims. Mr. Sims is with the law firm of Hays, Kinsky, Norton and Cline. I asked Mr. Sims to join us here today since no one in our legal department has much experience in criminal law and I thought it best, under the circumstances, to have someone with some knowledge assisting us.”

“I didn’t expect it to become adversarial,” I tell him.

“Oh, I’m sure it won’t be,” says Havlitz.

I don’t know Sims, but I know the firm: three hundred plus lawyers with offices in five states. They are part of the silk-sock set specializing in business law and white-collar crime.

Havlitz works his way around to my side of the table. “Over here on this side you’ve already met Ms. Rogan.”

My escort on the elevator. “Actually we haven’t been formally introduced,” I tell him.

“Allow me,” says Havlitz. “Karen Rogan. Ms. Rogan was Ms. Chapman’s executive assistant and personal secretary.”

This conjures an immediate image of Ruiz half-naked on his back on Chapman’s couch. She turns to look at me, a fleeting smile, a few light freckles clustered on the slope of her cheek around her nose, Bambi in the headlights.

In her early thirties, her amber hair is thick, medium length, and worn in the kind of natural wind-tossed style that looks as if she’s just stepped off a stormy beach on the Irish Sea. She nods in a kind of awkward gesture and immediately turns back, her eyes downcast toward the table.

If this is the woman Ruiz talked about, the intruder, it is difficult to imagine her not turning several shades of scarlet, given her fair skin and obvious discomfort in the presence of the defendant’s lawyer.

“Last but not least is Harold Klepp. Harold is the. . acting director of research and development.” For Havlitz, all the emphasis is on the word acting , an inflection that is not lost on Klepp if I am any judge of facial expressions. He turns quickly to greet me, a smile and a nod. Klepp is African-American, the only person of color at the table.

Trying to put faces to names, plugging them into my own mental organizational chart of the company, I see that Klepp has the dubious honor of stepping into the shoes of Walt Eagan, his trusted predecessor and Chapman’s man Friday. No matter what he says or does, he is not likely to measure up.

“Harold is part of our technical staff. A programmer and design engineer by training.

“Please have a seat,” Havlitz says, gesturing toward the only empty chair at the table. This has been carefully positioned between himself and Karen Rogan, Chapman’s redheaded assistant. It is directly across from the lawyer Sims so that if my questions become too pointed, Havlitz’s lawyer can sink his fangs into me without having to coil before striking.

“If I’d known, I would have brought my office staff,” I tell him.

Havlitz laughs. “Yes, I suppose we could use name tags. But you can relax, we won’t test you,” he says.

I sidle in behind the redhead, bumping her chair with my briefcase in the move.

She turns a pained smile my way. We exchange “Excuse me’s” and she tries to wheel her chair a little closer to the table to make room.

The position offers everything but the naked beam of a spotlight directed into my eyes. Though Sims, the lawyer from Hays, Kinsky, does a fair simulation of this with a probing stare from across the table. He has yet to break a smile.

“Mr. Madriani. . I am pronouncing your name correctly?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Mr. Madriani called a few days ago and requested a meeting. As I’m sure you all know, he represents Mr. Ruiz, who some of you knew-”

In some cases more intimately than others. I glance at Rogan next to me.

“-and who unfortunately has been arrested in Madelyn Chapman’s death.” Havlitz makes her passing sound like an accident.

“I hope we can answer some of your questions. We’ll help in any way we can,” He looks at me and takes his seat.

“Well, thank you. That’s a generous offer. If I’d known you were going to be that helpful, I would have brought confessions for everyone to sign.” There is nothing but silence and stark expressions from around the table.

“Sorry, a bit of tasteless humor,” I tell them.

There’s a twitter of nervous laughter. Everybody smiles except Sims, the man hired to keep the dome from sliding off the building. At this point, given the publicity that is erupting, I imagine that the goal of Isotonics is to have all the issues surrounding Madelyn Chapman’s murder go away as quickly and quietly as possible. That way the company can get back to making money from the government.

It is the only reason Havlitz agreed to a meeting. His board of directors would prefer that I ask any embarrassing questions here than in court.

“I take it that with Ms. Chapman’s passing you’ve been promoted to CEO of the corporation.” I look at Havlitz.

The proximity of this remark to my bad joke is not lost on him. Who stood to gain? Looking around the table, seeing no one else senior to himself, he says, “Unfortunately, I guess I have.”

“You make it sound like bad news.”

“What am I supposed to say?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

“The board of directors has taken no formal action to appoint a permanent successor.”

“But they did pass a resolution asking that you take over temporarily. I think I saw that in the newspaper.”

He nods grudgingly. “That’s correct.”

We talk about the history of the corporation, Chapman’s early days with the Pentagon, the fact that the company is heavily involved in defense work. Then I pop the question.

“Can you tell me what programs Ms. Chapman was most involved in at the time of her death?”

“She was involved in almost everything,” says Havlitz.

“I understand she was the CEO, that she oversaw everything, but I have to assume that she would have delegated most of these responsibilities to others. Did she retain anything for herself?”

“She was lead on IFS.” The answer comes not from Havlitz but from Harold Klepp at the other end of the table.

“Ah, that would be the Information for Security program? Read about it in the newspaper,” I say.

“She held that and a couple of other projects,” Klepp adds.

Havlitz cuts us off before I can start a dialog with Klepp: “I have to say I’m uncomfortable getting into any of this. Specific programs, I mean. We discussed this, Harold, and I thought I made myself clear.”

“I’m sure that Harold was only trying to be helpful.” It’s the redhead next to me, Rogan, trying to come to Klepp’s defense.

Havlitz cuts her off at the knees. “I don’t care what he thinks he’s doing. I laid down the ground rules before we started.” He turns to me, speaking from the heart now. “I hope you understand there is no effort to conceal anything. But there are proprietary issues here.”

“Also security concerns.” This from the lawyer Sims across the table. “Information requires clearance from the government on certain programs.” He looks at me and arches an eyebrow.

“Precisely,” says Havlitz. “We simply cannot discuss certain matters. I trust you understand.”