Джозеф Файндер - Company Man

He was scared shitless. He didn’t like the fact that they’d just shown up at his workplace. There was something aggressive, almost accusatory about that. He wanted to let them know, through his tone and his attitude, that he didn’t appreciate this, while at the same time communicating his respect for their mission.

“Detectives,” he said, “I can spare maybe five minutes. You’ve caught me on my busiest day.”

“Thanks for seeing us,” said the black woman. The blond man blinked a few times, like a Komodo dragon admiring a delicious-looking goat, but said nothing. Nick could tell that he was going to be trouble. The black woman was sweetly apologetic, an obvious pushover. The blond man — Busbee? Bugbee? — was the one to watch.

“I wish you’d called my office and made an appointment. I’d be happy to talk to you at greater length another time.”

“This shouldn’t take that long,” said the blond man.

“Tell me what I can do for you,” Nick said.

“Mr. Conover, as you know, an employee of the Stratton Company was found dead last week,” said the black woman. She was quite pretty, and there was something serene about her.

“Yes,” Nick said. “Andrew Stadler. A terrible tragedy.”

“Did you know Mr. Stadler?” she went on.

Nick shook his head. “No, unfortunately. We have five thousand employees — as many as ten thousand two years ago, before we had to let so many people go — and I can’t possibly get to know everyone. Though I wish I could.” He smiled wistfully.

“Yet you went to his funeral,” she pointed out.

“Of course.”

“You always go to the funerals of Stratton employees?” said the blond detective.

“Not always. When I can, though. I don’t always feel welcome, not anymore. But I feel it’s the least I can do.”

“You never met Mr. Stadler, is that right?” the black woman said.

“Right.”

“You were aware of his... situation, though, isn’t that right?” she continued.

“His situation?”

“His personal troubles.”

“I heard later that he’d been hospitalized, but plenty of people have mental illness and aren’t violent.”

“Oh?” the black detective said quickly. “How did you know he’d been hospitalized? Did you see his personnel file?”

“Didn’t I read it in the newspaper?”

“There wasn’t anything in the paper about that,” said the blond man.

“Must’ve been,” Nick said. There had been something in the paper, hadn’t there? “Said something about a ‘troubled emotional history’ or something, right?”

“Nothing about hospitalization,” the blond man said firmly.

“Someone must have mentioned it to me, then.”

“Your corporate security director, Edward Rinaldi?”

“Possibly. But I don’t recall.”

“I see,” the black woman said, jotting something down.

“Mr. Conover, did Edward Rinaldi tell you he thought Andrew Stadler was the guy who killed your dog?” the blond cop asked.

Nick squinted, as if trying to recall. He remembered asking Eddie about this.

Told her you didn’t even know who the guy was. Pretty much true.

“I never even heard the name,” Nick had said. “Right? You tell her otherwise?”

“Exactly. Told her you’re a busy guy, I do my job, you don’t get involved.”

“Eddie didn’t mention any names to me,” Nick said.

“Is that right?” the woman said, sounding surprised.

Nick nodded. “To be honest, it’s been a rough year. I’m the head of a company that’s had to let half its employees go. There’s a lot of anger out there, understandably.”

“You’re not the most popular man in town,” she suggested.

“That’s putting it mildly. I’ve gotten angry letters from downsized employees, really heartbreaking letters.”

“Threats?” she asked.

“Could be, but I wouldn’t know about them.”

“How could you not know about threats?” the male cop said.

“I’m not the first to open my mail here. If I get a threatening letter, it goes right to Security — I never see it.”

“You don’t want to know?” he said. “Me, I’d want to know.”

“Not me. Not unless I need to know for some reason. The less I know, the better.”

“Really?” said the blond man.

“Really. I don’t like to go around feeling paranoid. There’s no point in it.”

“Did Mr. Rinaldi tell you why he was looking into Mr. Stadler’s background?” the black woman persisted.

“No. I didn’t even know he was.”

“He didn’t tell you later he’d been looking into Stadler?” she persisted.

“Nope. He never told me anything about Stadler. I mean, I had no idea — have no idea — what Eddie was looking into. He does his job and I do mine.”

“Mr. Rinaldi never even mentioned Stadler’s name to you?” the woman said.

“Not that I recall, no.”

“I’m confused,” she said. “I thought you just said Mr. Rinaldi might have told you about Andrew Stadler’s hospitalization. Which would sort of require him to mention Stadler’s name, right?”

Nick felt the tiniest trickle of sweat run slowly down his earlobe. “After the news of Stadler’s death came out, Eddie may have mentioned his name to me in passing. But I really don’t recall.”

“Hmm,” the woman said. A few seconds of silence went by.

Nick ignored the sweat trickle, not wanting to call attention to it by brushing it away.

“Mr. Conover,” said the blond man, “your house has been broken into a bunch of times in the last year, right? Since the layoffs began?”

“Several times, yes.”

“By the same person?”

“It’s hard to say. But I’d guess, yeah, the same person.”

“There was graffiti and such?”

“Graffiti spray-painted inside my house, on the walls.”

“What kind of graffiti?” the black detective asked.

“‘No hiding place.’”

“That’s what they wrote?”

“Right.”

“Did you receive any death threats?”

“No. Ever since the layoffs started, two years ago, I’ve gotten occasional threatening phone calls, but nothing quite that specific.”

“Well, your family dog was killed,” said the blond detective. “That’s sort of a death threat, wouldn’t you say?”

Nick considered for a moment. “Possibly. Whatever it was, it was a sick, depraved thing to do.” He worried that he’d just gone too far: had be just betrayed his anger? Yet how else would he be expected to react? He noticed that the black woman wrote something down in her notebook.

“The Fenwick police have any idea who did this?” the guy said.

“No idea.”

“Does Mr. Rinaldi get involved in your personal security, outside the corporation?” the black detective asked.

“Informally, yeah,” Nick said. “Sometimes. After this last incident, I asked him to put in a new security system.”

“So you must have discussed the incident with him,” she said.

Nick hesitated, a beat too long. What did Eddie tell them, exactly? Did Eddie tell them he came over to the house after Barney was slaughtered? He wished he’d talked to Eddie longer, found out everything he’d said. Shit. “A bit. I asked his advice, sure.” He waited for the inevitable next question — inevitable to him, at least: did Eddie Rinaldi come to his house after Barney had been discovered in the pool? And what was the right answer?

Instead, the black detective said, “Mr. Conover, how long ago did you move into Fenwicke Estates?”

“About a year ago.”

“After all the layoffs were announced?” she went on.

“About a year after.”

“Why?”