Джозеф Файндер - Company Man

Nick paused. “My wife insisted.”

“Why was that?”

“She was concerned.”

“About what?”

“That our family might be threatened.”

“What made her so concerned?”

“Instinct, mostly. She knew there were a few people who might want to do us harm.”

“So you did hear about threats,” the black woman said. “But you just said you didn’t know about any — you didn’t want to know about them.”

Nick folded his hands on the table. He was feeling increasingly frantic, trapped like some cornered animal, and he knew the only way to respond was to sound both reasonable and blunt. “Did I hear about specific threats? No. Did I hear that there were threats — that a few isolated fringe cases might have it in for me and my family? Sure. People talk. Rumors spread. I wasn’t going to wait to see if there was any basis in these rumors. And I can tell you my wife sure as hell wasn’t going to wait.”

The two detectives seemed to accept his answer. “Before you moved to your new house, Mr. Conover, did you have any break-ins?”

“Not till we moved to Fenwicke Estates.”

The blond detective smiled. “Guess the... gated community ... didn’t give you much protection, huh?” He put a surly spin on the words “gated community,” made no attempt to conceal a note of smugness.

“Just takes longer to get in and out of,” Nick admitted.

The blond guy chuckled, shook his head. “Costs a lot more, though, I bet.”

“There you go.”

“But you can afford it.”

Nick shrugged. “Wasn’t my idea to move there. It was my wife’s.”

“Your wife,” said the black woman. “She — she passed away last year, isn’t that right?”

“That’s right.”

“Nothing suspicious about her death, was there?”

A pause. “No, nothing suspicious,” Nick said slowly. “She was killed in a car accident.”

“You were driving?” she asked.

“She was driving.”

“Nothing — was alcohol involved?”

“The other driver, yeah,” Nick said. “A semi. He’d been drinking.”

“But not you.”

“No,” he said. “Not me.” He compressed his lips, then looked at his watch. “I’m afraid—”

The blond guy stood up. “Thanks for taking the time.”

But the black woman remained seated. “Just a couple more things, sir?”

“Can we continue this some other time?” Nick said.

“Just — just another minute, if you don’t mind. We don’t want to leave any stone unturned. Do you own any guns, Mr. Conover?”

“Guns?” Nick shook his head. He hoped his face hadn’t reddened.

“No handguns at all?”

“Nope. Sorry.”

“Thank you. And last Tuesday night, where were you?”

“At home. I haven’t traveled anywhere in ten days or so.”

“What time did you go to sleep, do you remember?”

“Last Tuesday?”

“A week ago.”

Nick thought a moment. “I went out for dinner Wednesday night. Tuesday I was at home.”

“Do you remember what time you went to sleep?”

“I can’t... well, I’m normally asleep by eleven, eleven-thirty.”

“So you’d say by eleven-thirty you were in bed?”

“That sounds about right.” She was smart, Nick realized. Smarter, he saw now, than the blond guy, who was all posture and attitude.

“Sleep through the night?”

“Sure.” Jesus, he thought. What was she implying?

“Okay, great,” she said. She got up. “That’s all we need. We appreciate your taking the time to talk to us.”

Nick rose, shook their hands. “Anytime,” he said. “Just next time, give me some notice.”

“We will,” the black woman said. She stopped, appeared to hesitate. “I’m sorry to take up your time, Mr. Conover. But you know, our victims aren’t just victims — they’re human beings. Whatever their problems, whatever their difficulties, a man is dead. Someone who mattered to someone. We’re all beloved by someone, you know.”

“I’d like to think so,” Nick said.

As soon as Nick showed the two homicide cops to the elevator, he returned to the boardroom, hoping to catch Todd Muldaur, but the room was empty. Todd and the others had left. He returned to his office area — hell, his cubicle — taking an indirect route, past Scott’s area.

“Afternoon, Gloria,” he said to Scott’s admin, a small, hypercompetent woman with a broad face and blond hair cut in bangs. “Scott in?”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Conover. Scott’s right—”

“Hey, Nick,” Scott said, emerging from behind his panel. “Man, that was a rough ride today, huh?”

“Tell me about it,” Nick said blandly. He kept on going, toward Scott’s desk, to the round table where Scott held his conferences.

“That put root canals in a whole new perspective,” Scott said. He began lifting piles of papers off the round table, moving them to a credenza next to his desk. “So what’d you think of that new guy, Finegold?”

“Seems nice enough,” Nick said guardedly, standing at the table, waiting for Scott to finish clearing away the papers.

“That guy’s rolling in it, you know. I mean, totally loaded. You know he hired that boy band ’N Sync to play at his daughter’s bat mitzvah a couple of years back, when they were still hot?”

“He’s a hot spare,” Nick said.

“A what?”

“A hot spare. Disk drive fails, you swap it with a spare, all ready to go. Plug-’n’-play. Ready to go.”

“Dan? Oh — no, I’m sure they’re just trying to strengthen the bench. Is that the right sports term? He’s a great guy, actually — tell you a funny story, when he was at—”

“I had to learn about Atlas McKenzie from Todd? ” Nick broke in. “What the hell’s up with that?”

Scott’s face colored; he examined the tabletop. “I told you, I got the call from Hardwick on my way over to dinner,” he said. “I tried you on your cell, but I guess it was off.”

“You didn’t leave a message.”

“Well, it’s... it wasn’t the sort of thing you want to leave in a voice mail, you know—”

“And you didn’t e-mail me? You didn’t call me this morning before the board meeting? You let me find out from Todd fucking Muldaur? ”

Scott’s hands flew up, palms out. “I didn’t have a chance—”

“And you didn’t have a chance to tell me they wanted to put you on the board?” Nick said.

Scott stared at the white Formica tabletop as if he’d just seen something alarming there. “I didn’t,” he began, falteringly.

“ Don’t tell me you didn’t know that was going to happen. Why the hell didn’t you mention it to me? You couldn’t reach me on my cell, that it?”

“It... it wasn’t my place, Nick,” Scott said. He looked up at last, face gone burgundy, eyes watering. His voice was meek but his expression was fierce.

“Not your place? The fuck are you telling me? You knew they were going to put you on the board and it wasn’t your place to tell me that? You kept their little secret, embarrassed me in front of the board?”

“Hey, come on, Nick, calm down,” Scott said. “All right? It was complicated — I mean, maybe I should have said something, in retrospect, but Todd wanted me to keep it — Nick, you should take it up with Todd.”

Nick got up. “Yeah,” he said. “I just might do that.”

Don’t fuck with me, he thought. Almost said it, but at the last second something stopped him.

As he returned to his desk, Marge stopped him, holding up an envelope.

“This just came in from HR,” she said. “That check you requested.”