John Lescroart - The Suspect

"But the people really did die, didn't they? Weren't there autopsies to find out why?"

"In some cases, yes, but the results were inconclusive."

"Inconclusive how?"

"In the way that blood clots can come from any number of sources. Not necessarily from complications of hip replacement surgery three to five years before."

"So these people, they died of blood clot complications."

"Basically, yes."

"How many of them?"

"To date, we've had formal confirmation of six. But you have to remember that this is out of over six hundred surgeries. So it's exactly in the ballpark of typical post-op clots, which is about one in a hundred. And remember that none of the patients were under sixty. The Dryden Socket wasn't causing those deaths. It was most probably the surgeries themselves. Typical complications. Tragic, of course, but typical."

"And what did Caryn think about that?"

Furth shrugged, turned his palms up, utterly forthcoming. "If you want the truth, I think she was just hypersensitive because it was her invention, with her name on it and everything. Once PII goes into full production, the numbers are going to be staggering. The profit numbers, I mean. She-both of you-were going to become very, very rich. I think the magnitude and reality of it made her nervous."

Stuart strongly doubted the truth of this. If anything, the opposite-that she would experience even a temporary setback in her pursuit of money-would be more likely to make her nervous. But there was nothing to be gained by voicing that opinion. Instead, he said, "So what was she calling you about?"

"She wanted me to intervene with PII. She thought they could solve the problem in two years or so, once they got a clear understanding of what it was. Again, from the late reports. Some more autopsies, that sort of thing."

"She wanted to put production on hold."

Seeing that Stuart seemed to understand and accept the basic issue, Furth sat back more comfortably again. "Essentially, yes. Which-I think you must know-well, you know about Caryn's mezzanine loan, of course?" "Sure. The broad strokes."

"Well, hers wasn't the only one. And a delay of two years or more at this stage… I mean, some of the investors…" Another shrug. "I think you can see the problem."

"I think so." Stuart clipped out the response and realized that he was struggling to keep the outrage from his voice. "Caryn was threatening to blow the whistle on what she'd come to believe was a faulty product, and if she succeeded it would cost some people maybe millions of dollars. Isn't that about it?"

"I don't think she was quite to the point of blowing the whistle on anything. She just needed some hand-holding, the usual last-minute reassurance. She wanted to go forward as much as the next investor, I believe."

"She didn't talk to you about trying to postpone PII's production?"

"Not with any specificity, no. There really was just too much riding on all this. In another couple of months, both of you would have been smiling all the way to the bank. I'm sure of it."

Stuart felt that if he sat more than another minute or two under Furth's unyielding gaze with its unflappable geniality, he might be forced to come back inside the building with his gun and blow the guy away just on general principles. But there was one more avenue he needed to explore, if gently.

"So, Fred, let me ask-has a homicide inspector named Juhle called you?"

The change of topic didn't scare Furth. In fact, it seemed to put him on firmer ground somehow. Matter-of-fact, he nodded. "Yesterday. He asked what I was doing Sunday night."

"Let me guess," Stuart said. "Sleeping in bed."

"Eleven o'clock Sunday night, what would anybody be doing if you've got to be up at five thirty?"

"Five thirty?"

"Wall Street time. You're in the markets, that's when you're up if you want to make the six-thirty bell. But you already knew what I'd told him?" A question.

Stuart said, "I asked him if he was even looking for any other suspects-besides me-and he said he'd checked alibis with everybody on Caryn's cell phone. Which included you."

"So now you're asking me?" The question didn't seem to bother him, or maybe Fred Furth was so programmed for affability in his career that like Marie Antoinette he wouldn't show any anger or resentment even if he were facing his executioner.

"I mean no offense," Stuart said, adopting the tone, "but somebody must be lying about where they were if they killed Caryn, and I intend to find out who that was."

"Well." Again, palms up, unfeigned innocence. "It wasn't me. I'd say you could ask my wife or any of my three kids, but I'd really prefer you didn't see the need to do that. But because my heart goes out to you, it really does, I'll tell you more than the inspector asked. I barbecued a chicken on my new rotisserie. It was great, rosemary and lemon. Outstanding. And had half a bottle of wine-you know Chalk Hill Chardonnay? Awesome stuff. Then put the kids down by seven thirty-the oldest is six, so bedtime's always early. And I was sawing logs myself by nine. So no, I didn't kill Caryn. Besides which, I thought she was a great person. Smart, interesting, fun."

Stuart nodded, and suddenly found himself unable to speak. Evidently his wife had remained smart, interesting and fun to some people right up until the time she'd been killed. Covering his emotional lapse with a sip of coffee, Stuart put his mug down and got to his feet. "One more thing, if you don't mind? Did any of the other investors know she was working to get this postponement on going into full production?"

"Not that I know of. Not through me, certainly. Someone may have gotten some wind of it out of PII directly, but even that would have been unusual."

"Well." A chagrined look on his face, Stuart held out a hand. "Thanks for your time. Sorry for the questions."

"No problem," Furth said. "I wish I could have been more help."

The cab of Stuart's truck baked at close to one hundred degrees out in the lot. Opening both doors for cross-ventilation, he checked behind the front seat on the passenger side where he'd stashed his duffel bag and saw that it was where and how he'd left it and then, on second thought, brought it out and reached down to the bottom where he'd thrown in his little-used first generation cell phone. Going to stand in the shade of an olive tree while the cab aired out, he punched in his daughter's number.

"Hey, Dad. Where are you?"

"How did you know it was me?"

"You're kidding, right? You're in my address book. You call, your name comes up."

"Where?"

"On the window? In front? Hello? But let's play another game. Where are you?"

"Palo Alto. Talking to some people Mom did business with."

"What about?"

"What she was doing with them. If maybe it made somebody mad at her."

"Shouldn't the cops be doing that?"

"They're not, though. And I've decided I'm not going to get arrested, so it's up to me."

"What do you mean, you're not going to get arrested?"

"I mean pretty much the standard meaning. I'm not going to jail."

"Yeah, but… Dad, I don't think it's like they ask your opinion."

"No, I know. Which is why I wanted to call you and tell you how you could reach me if you need to. You've got my cell number?"

"Didn't we just do this? It's in my phone. How else would it know it was you calling?"

"Right. Yeah. Of course. But my point is that you can reach me anytime, but don't tell anybody you know where I am." "Anybody? What about your lawyer?" "No. I'll contact her if I need to."

"What about Debra?"

"You can tell Debra, but I don't really want to talk to her." "Why not? She's being nice to me."

"I know that. She's a fine person, and I'm glad she's letting you stay with her, but I just can't talk to her right now, okay? And I promise I'll do what I need to for the funeral. But for now, I've got to do some things and maybe stay out of sight."