Джозеф Файндер - Company Man

“We’re connecting dots that I don’t know if the prosecutor’s going to let us connect.”

“Connecting what fucking dots?” he spat out.

She briefly considered asking him to cut out the potty-mouth stuff, but now was not the time. “We know this suggests that Eddie Rinaldi and Nick Conover were behind it.”

“Tell me something I don’t know—”

“Will you shut up for a second, please?” It was worth saying just to see Bugbee’s stunned expression. “The gun that was used to kill Stadler was also used on a no-gun case that Eddie Rinaldi worked six years ago. But does that prove Rinaldi pocketed the gun back in Grand Rapids? The case is still full of holes.”

“Yeah? I don’t think so, and neither do you.”

“Our opinion isn’t the same thing as what’s going to convince the DA to prosecute. Especially in a capital case involving the CEO of a huge corporation and one of his top officers.”

“Tell you something — once we hook our boy Eddie up to a polygraph, he’ll crack.”

“He doesn’t have to submit to a polygraph.”

“If he’s facing a first-degree murder charge and life without parole, believe me, he’ll take it.” He leaned back in the booth, savoring the moment. “This is beautiful. Shit, this is beautiful.” He smiled, and she realized that this was the first time she’d seen him give a genuine smile of pleasure. It looked wrong on his face, didn’t come naturally, looked like a disturbance in the natural order of things. His cheeks creased deeply like heavily starched fabric.

“Conover won’t take a polygraph,” Audrey said. “Let’s face it, we still don’t know which one of them the shooter is,” Audrey said.

“Fuck it. Charge ’em both with first-degree murder, and sort it out later. Whoever comes to the window first gets the deal, that’s how it works.”

“I don’t know if we’re even going to get to that point, if we’ll get a prosecutor to write out a warrant.”

“So you go prosecutor-shopping. Come on. You know how the game works.”

“Noyce really frowns on that.”

“Screw Noyce. This is our case, I told you. Not his.”

“Still,” she said. “I don’t know. I don’t want to mess this up.”

Bugbee started counting on his left hand, starting with his thumb. “We got the soil match, we got the fucking erased surveillance tape, we got Conover’s alarm going off at two A.M., followed by the desperate cell phone call, we got Schizo Man with a history of attacks on the suspect, and now we got a gun match.” He held up five fingers triumphantly. “The fuck else you want? I say we run with it.”

“I want to pass this by Noyce first.”

“You want to run to Daddy?” He shook his head. “Haven’t you figured out that Noyce isn’t our friend?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Take a look. The closer we get to Stratton’s CEO, the harder Noyce’s been fighting us, right? He doesn’t want us taking on the big kahuna. Wouldn’t surprise me if he’s in Stratton’s pocket.”

“Come on.”

“I’m fucking serious. Something’s off about the way that guy’s taking their side.”

“He’s got to be cautious on a case this big.”

“This is way beyond cautious. You notice how when I searched Rinaldi’s condo, total surprise, and all of a sudden a couple of guns are missing from his rack, like someone gave him a heads-up?”

“Or maybe he dumped them after he or Conover murdered Stadler,” Audrey said. “Or Conover called him, told him a team was coming to search Conover’s house, and Eddie races home and disposes of the evidence.”

“Yeah, any of those are possible. Theoretically. Then you notice how Noyce is trying to make life difficult for you, jam up your schedule with other shit so you don’t have time to do this right? Look, Audrey, I don’t trust the guy.”

“He’s my friend, Roy,” she said softly.

“Oh, is he?” Bugbee said. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

She didn’t reply.

Dorothy Devries’s mansion on Michigan Avenue in East Fenwick didn’t seem quite as big as Nick remembered it, but was possibly even darker. Outside, the gables and peaked eaves stopped just shy of Addams Family gothic. Inside, wooden floors were stained to a chocolate hue and partly covered with blood red Orientals. The furniture was either a dark mahogany or covered in a dark damask. She kept the curtains drawn, and he remembered her once saying something about how sunlight could bleach the fabrics. The moon glow of her pale skin was the brightest thing in the house.

“Did you say you wanted tea?” she asked, squinting at him. She sat almost motionless in a burgundy-clad Queen Anne’s chair. There was a chandelier above them, which she kept pointedly unlit.

“No thanks,” he said.

“But I’ve interrupted you,” she said. “Please go on.”

“Well, the basic situation is what I’ve described. You and I worked hard on the sale to Fairfield, and we did that because we wanted to preserve your father’s legacy. And your husband’s.”

“Legacy,” she repeated. In the gloom, he wasn’t sure whether her dress was charcoal gray or navy. “That’s a pretty word.”

“And a pretty big accomplishment,” he said. She seemed to brighten. “Harold Stratton created a company that did what it did as well as — or better than — any other, and he did it right here in Fenwick. And then your husband put Fenwick on the map, as far as corporate America was concerned.” Dorothy had had a glossy vanity biography of her husband, Milton, privately printed, copies distributed widely. Nick knew she always responded to the most unctuous praise of her father’s historical significance. “So the prospect of seeing Stratton bundled in brown paper and shipped to the Far East — well, I think he’d be appalled. I know I am. It isn’t right. It’s not right for Fenwick, and it’s not right for Stratton.”

Mrs. Devries blinked. “But you’re telling me all this for a reason.”

“Well, sure.”

“I’m all ears, Nicholas.” She used his full name as if he were a grade student, and a little small for all three syllables.

“You’re part owner of the company. You sit on the board. I thought if I could enlist your support, we might be able to present the case together to the others. That way, they’d see it wasn’t just about a manager trying to save his job. Because this deal — well, frankly, it would be a disaster. The Chinese aren’t interested in our manufacturing facilities. They’ve got their own. They’re going to gut Stratton, run a fire sale of the shop machines, and pass out walking papers to the remaining employees.”

“That puts things rather starkly.”

“It’s a stark situation.”

“Well, you do have a flair for the dramatic. That isn’t a criticism. But then you haven’t come here to consult, have you?”

“Sure I have.”

“Because I didn’t hear you ask me my opinion. I heard you telling me yours.”

“I just thought I should fill you in,” Nick said, perplexed. “See what you thought.” A pause. “I’m interested in getting your... help and guidance.”

A watery smile. “Is that right?” she said.

Nick looked at her, and his face started to prickle. Had she already known before I came here?

“I must say I’m a little taken aback to hear you make an argument that’s based on sentiment, as opposed to dollars and cents. Because, you see, I don’t recall your seeking my help or guidance when you decided to discontinue the Stratton Ultra line. Which was, of course, one of my husband’s proudest legacies .” In a quiet voice, she added, “Pretty word.”

Nick said nothing.