Steve Martini - The Enemy Inside

“Alex Ives,” I tell him.

He thinks for a moment. Shakes his head a little. “I don’t think I know the gentleman. But then I didn’t know two-thirds of the people who were here.”

“What type of business are you in?” I ask.

“Contracting. My company does work for the Defense Department, the military, other government agencies. They have needs, we supply them.”

“That’s a broad field.” I’m hoping he will narrow it.

Instead he says, “Some of it is classified,” and slams the subject shut.

“Looks like it pays well.” I gaze about at the cache of leather-bound books, the house and its palatial furnishings.

“I have no complaints.”

There’s a rap on the door.

“In,” he says.

A waiter in a white linen jacket enters with a large silver tray, a full pitcher of iced tea, and two tall glasses already iced. The waiter drops a linen cloth along the edge of the desk and puts the tray on top of it. He pours two glasses. Becket takes one. I take the other. Becket thanks the waiter and the man leaves.

“Sugar?” he says.

“Not for me.”

“You’ll like this tea. That is, if you’re a tea drinker. I am,” he says. “And you’re right, sugar ruins it. It’s an herbal black currant. I think you’ll enjoy it. What exactly is this difficulty your client is having? I hope he didn’t drink too much? The night of the party, I mean?”

“No. That’s the one thing I can certify. He wasn’t drunk. But he does have a problem. It seems that when he left here he was not functioning under his own power, you might say. And he can’t remember anything after that. Not for some time anyway.”

“Does he have some kind of health issue? A medical problem?” Then Becket’s eyes suddenly light up. “He’s not the young man?” he says. “The one who passed out?”

“Then you saw him?”

“No. No. But I heard about it,” he says. “That’s what this is about.” He says it like he’s relieved. Puts down his glass and slaps his hands together. “I thought it was something serious. I didn’t see it happen, of course. But I heard all about it,” says Becket. “I was in the house when it happened. My assistant told me that a young man went down over near the rose garden in the back. Toppled over like a cement statue, according to what I was told. They assumed he just had too much to drink. Some friends apparently helped him up and out to his car. I didn’t know who he was. By the time I got outside he was gone. So I never actually saw him. My assistant took care of it.”

“Is your assistant available?”

“As it happens, he’s on vacation.”

“Do you know who helped him out to his car?”

He shakes his head. “Apparently they left with him. I don’t imagine he was in any shape to drive. From what I was told, I was led to believe that they all came together. That they knew one another. I assume no one was hurt?”

I don’t tell him about Serna and the accident out in the desert. Or our belief that somebody slipped Alex a roofie. If he hasn’t read about Serna in the newspapers by now, I suspect the minute I leave he’ll be doing research under Alex’s name. At which time he’ll clam up, thinking, like Graves, that I’m here to spread the benefits of civil liability.

“What about your wife? Maybe she saw something?”

“I’m afraid not. She was with me.”

“The household help?”

He’s shaking his head. “Other than my assistant, I doubt anyone else was involved. They were all in the house. The only people working the party that night were the caterers.”

“Do you recognize the name Benjawan Tjahana?” I change the subject. “I think I’m pronouncing it correctly. Her nickname was Ben, I believe. A young woman, very pretty, probably Indonesian. I think she went to school in the area. May have worked in a club down in San Diego?”

Before I even finish the question he is casually shaking his head once more. “No. Should I? Was she here that night?”

“I don’t think so. You didn’t tell anyone that they could invite strangers to the party, did you? I mean people off the street.”

“What do you think I’m running, a frat house?” he says.

“I didn’t think so. Who catered the party?”

“I’d have to check. I can’t recall who it was that night. We use several different companies depending on the size of the crowd. I’m sure my wife would have that information. Give me a moment.” He gets up and goes to the phone. Makes a call, I suspect on the intercom since he only presses one button. Hushed voices as he explains to her why I’m here and asks for the name of the caterer. “Ah, yes. That’s right.” He writes it down on a Post-it note from his desk. “Thanks, dear. Listen, I’ll be up in just one minute. I know. I know. I’m running late.” Then he hangs up.

“What would we do without wives?” he says. “Are you married?”

“My wife died some years ago.”

“Oh, I am sorry. I don’t know what I’d do without Doreen,” he says. “Here it is. Trousdale and Company. They’re a very good firm. We’ve hired them before. Do a great job. They set it all up. Clean it up when they’re done. A few hours after the crowd leaves you wouldn’t even know anyone had been here. They show up with two or three large trucks and an army of help. Chairs, tables, food, beverages, everything, the linens and glasses, the works.”

“I don’t imagine you have a list of the personnel working with them that night?”

“No. You’d have to get that from them,” he says. “Listen, I’m sorry. I wish I could stay and talk longer, but I have to go. My wife’s upstairs and I’m on the clock. We have an engagement this evening and I’m running late.”

I take a gulp of tea. He takes the glass from my hand and sets it on the tray. It’s obvious the meeting is over. “I hope you understand.” He starts ushering me out of the chair and toward the door.

“Of course, and I want to thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

“I hope so,” he says. “Anything I can do, just call.” Then he says, “Oh, here.” He reaches for a card on the desk and hands it to me. It has his name and number on it. No address, no e-mail, nothing else.

“What’s the name of your company?”

“I own several different entities. None of them are publicly traded,” he says. He offers nothing more.

“Just one more question. Would it be possible to get a copy of the guest list for the party that night?”

He stops in midstride and looks at me, the smile fading from his face. “Oh, I’m not sure I can do that,” he says.

“Is there some problem?”

“Well, sure. There were all kinds of people here that night, members of Congress, people from some of the regulatory agencies, state and local elected officials, registered lobbyists, a lot of candidates looking for campaign money. You know how that goes,” he says.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Well, be glad of it,” he says. “I get twenty envelopes a week with invitations to fund-raisers. Buy a table here. Buy a table there. If you bought every table they wanted you to, you’d be bankrupt. People will drive you crazy. And if you don’t give, they’ll slam the door in your face the next time you show up to try and do business. Take a political science course at the university and they tell you the money only buys access. Spread enough of it in the right places and it buys a hell of a lot more than that. But giving you a list of those at the party could be a problem. You see, it’s up to them to report their activities. I wouldn’t want to get crosswise with any of them. If they fail to report to the appropriate regulatory agency, and I show them as being here, they’re in trouble, and so am I. Besides, I’m not even sure we have the list anymore. I’d have to check with my assistant when he returns from vacation.”