“Not anytime soon, I hope.”
“That’s what we said about Netscape.” He adjusted the stud in his ear. “I take it that you wanted to talk about Jeff King?”
“I do.”
“I have a policy of cooperating with the authorities. I’ve already spoken to Inspector Lee. I told him that King connected with your client on our site about six months ago. I don’t know how many times they saw each other. Once people hook up, they contact each other directly.”
“Can you tell me anything about their communications?”
He handed me a printout showing messages between Lexy and King. “I gave this to Inspector Lee. If you’re looking for something titillating, you’re going to be disappointed.”
I scanned the two pages. Lexy and King had exchanged contact information. “Did Ms. Low make any connections besides King?”
“Just one: Paul Flynn. Inspector Lee also contacted me when Flynn OD’d.” He handed me another printout. “Your client had even less communication with him.”
His privacy policy was more relaxed that I might have thought. “Any mention of heroin?”
“No.”
Good. “Did King meet any other women on your site?”
He grinned. “About a dozen. He was a member of our Executive Club.”
“And Flynn?”
“He was a member of our Premium Club.”
“How did Ms. Low qualify for membership?”
“She paid our fee.”
“Your site caters to individuals of substantial means.”
“We do.”
“Ms. Low was living in a shelter.”
“Our subscribers provide financial information voluntarily. Our membership agreement clearly states that we do not guaranty its accuracy.”
“Has anybody ever complained about somebody lying?”
“Rarely. If they do, we refer them to our membership agreement. Many of our members are wealthy people who are, for lack of a better term, cheating on their spouses. They include entrepreneurs, politicians, and athletes whose names you would recognize. As you might expect, they’re embarrassed about complaining to us, and they’re reluctant to go to the authorities. If they’re dissatisfied, they usually cancel their memberships.”
“You’re okay with catering to this niche?”
“I’m just trying to make a living.”
“Were any other people from Y5K’s management team subscribers to your service?”
“I’d rather not reveal that information.”
“I’d rather not send you a subpoena.”
“I’d rather not receive one. Jack Steele, Gopal Patel, and Drew Pitt.”
Perhaps they gave each other discount codes. It confirmed the information provided by Kaela Joy. I imagined King, Steele, Patel, and the “Guy from Rye” swapping stories about their respective sexual conquests. “Did any of them meet anybody?”
“All of them.” He gave me the names of several women who were not at King’s party. Then he flashed another grin. “Mind if I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Are you married?”
“Divorced.”
His eyes lit up. “You’re a perfect demographic fit for membership.”
I don’t think so. “I’m not a millionaire.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“I’m seeing somebody.”
“So are many of our members. I’d be happy to help you set up a profile. We’re running a post-holiday special—three months free. No obligation. You can cancel any time.”
And Jerry Edwards would post a screen shot of my listing on the front page of the Chronicle. “Uh, no thanks.”
“Let me walk you through the setup process. If you decide to proceed, fine. If not, no worries. You’ll have a chance to see our technology and look at photos of some pretty women.”
“I appreciate the offer, Brian, but I’m going to pass.”
* * *
“How did it go at Mature Relations?” Pete asked.
I was driving north on the 280 Freeway. “Ten million members.”
“We’re in the wrong line of work, Mick.”
“I don’t think so.” I summarized my discussion with Holton. “Steele and Patel are signed up on the site. So is the ‘Guy from Rye.’”
“We already knew that from Kaela Joy. Got time for lunch?”
“I’m working.”
“So am I. This is a business lunch.”
“Fine. Where?”
“The Gold Club.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
It was a high-end strip club on Howard Street a few blocks from Union Square. “I don’t have time, Pete.”
“This is strictly business, Mick. If you want to get dirt on the tech bros, you need to spend time where they hang out.”
34
“CONFERENCE ROOM G”
“We won’t be going hungry,” I observed.
Pete’s face was tinged in blue and purple from the neon lights as he piled chicken and ribs onto his plate. “Best lunch in town. And still only five bucks.”
At eleven-thirty on Tuesday morning, we were the oldest guys in the buffet line snaking around a cavernous space packed with Millennials, the overwhelming majority of whom were male. Pulsating dance music blared and lights flashed in the Gold Club, an upscale strip joint in a nondescript two-story building on Howard between the swanky W Hotel, the Museum of Modern Art, and the sleek tower housing the world headquarters of LinkedIn and the San Francisco office of Y5K. Twenty years earlier, this area was home to light industry, auto repair shops, and skid row. Nowadays, the Gold Club was in the center of San Francisco’s tech world.
As we pushed our way across the room, a young woman with a pixie haircut and sporting a black corset and short-shorts stopped us. “Haven’t seen you in a while, Pete.”
“Busy working, Bernie. Kids okay?”
“Fine. The twins are in second grade. Your wife still at that law firm around the corner?”
“Yup.”
“Their attorneys come in all the time.”
Pete subtly slid five twenties into her palm. “Bernadette Small, this is my big brother, Mike, the ex-priest and current public defender.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you. You’re representing Sexy Lexy.”
“Yes, I am. Do you know her?”
“No.”
“What about Jeff King?”
“He used to come in at least a couple of times a week. Garden-variety asshole whose bank account was exceeded only by his ego.”
That covers it. “I take it that you weren’t impressed?”
“A rich asshole is still an asshole. Very demanding. Crappy tipper. Hit on everybody.”
“You?”
“I’m not his type. He liked them younger with long hair and big breasts.”
Just like Lexy. “Did he ever ask for special services?” It was the euphemism for activities provided in the back rooms for an extra charge.
“Every time.”
“Anybody working here who knew him pretty well?”
“Not anymore. A woman named Jasmine was his favorite, but you’d have to go to Thailand to talk to her.”
Never mind.
Pete discreetly handed her another twenty. “Is Nick here?”
“Usual table.”
“Thanks, Bernie.” He motioned me to follow him.
“Nick?” I said.
“Nick ‘the Dick.’”
“He’s here?”
“At least three times a week.”
Nick “the Dick” Hanson was a ninety-four-year-old P.I. who had been running the Hanson Investigative Agency in North Beach for almost three-quarters of a century. He had started as a one-person shop in a room above what is now the Condor Club on Broadway. Nowadays, he headed a high-tech operation employing dozens of his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. In his spare time, he wrote mystery novels that were thinly veiled embellishments of his more color
ful cases.
I followed Pete to a table in a corner alcove where Nick was eating by himself. At barely five-feet tall and just over a hundred pounds, he was sporting his usual custom-tailored three-piece suit with a fresh rose in his lapel. He wasn’t an imposing physical specimen, but he was a tenacious investigator and a savvy businessman. There were rumors that one of the national security firms had offered him more than twenty million dollars for the agency, which Nick turned down. Many of us believe that Nick started the rumor himself. Over the years, he had also acquired about a dozen apartment buildings in North Beach, which were worth north of fifty million dollars.
His rubbery face transformed into a broad smile as he extended a hand and spoke in a sing-song voice where he elongated his words. “Hello, Michael. Great to see you again.”
“It’s been a long time, Nick.”
“Indeed it has.”
“I thought you finally retired.”
“I got bored after a few weeks. I like hanging out with my great-grandkids.” He spent the next fifteen minutes devouring the contents of a plate piled high with chicken, ribs, tri-tip, shrimp, and pasta, along with two glasses of pinot noir, while regaling us with tales of the expansion of his agency, the value of his real estate portfolio, and the marketing plans for his latest novel. “Confidentially, we’re in negotiations with Netflix about a TV series.”
It wasn’t that confidential. Nick had leaked the information to the gossip columnist at the Chronicle. “Are you going to play yourself?”
He beamed. “Indeed I am.”
I silently chuckled at the possibility that millions of people around the world would be able to binge-watch Nick. “You come here often?”
“Indeed I do.”
“To watch the show?”
“To work.” He took another bite of chicken. “A company whose name you would recognize asked us to monitor how many of their employees come here for, uh, lunch. They finally realized that operating a business like a fraternity house doesn’t enhance their brand.”
“Aren’t you being a little, uh, conspicuous?”
“That’s why I sit here in the corner. Besides, people are more interested in what’s happening onstage.”
“How do you monitor the second floor from here?”
“I have a dozen operatives working the floor.” He grabbed another shrimp. “Bernie works for me.”
I wasn’t surprised.
Nick was still talking. “She’s a single mom who works three days a week as a dental hygienist, and three days here to pay for her health insurance. She supplements her income working for me. It’s a win-win.”
Welcome to the gig economy. “I could make a strong argument that this establishment is exploiting her. Doesn’t it bother you?”
“Indeed it does. On the other hand, I didn’t invent strip clubs. I’m helping Bernie save for college for her kids, and she’s helping me get dirt.”
Pete subtly held up a hand in a secret sign between P.I.s that it was time to stop the BS. “How often did you see King?” he asked.
“Three or four times a week. This is where the tech guys blow off steam. They call it ‘Conference Room G.’”
“Anybody else from Y5K?”
“Blackjack Steele, Gopal Patel, and most of the upper management team. A sales guy named Tristan Moore who looks like a young Chris Pratt. A programmer named Alejandro Sanchez who looks like a ratty Benicio Del Toro. And King usually brought his pal, Drew Pitt.”
I wasn’t surprised to hear the name of the “Guy from Rye.” “Ever see Sexy Lexy?”
“Afraid not. Too bad. She’s a looker.”
“Was anybody mad at King?”
“Everybody on Planet Earth. He treated everybody like crap—especially the women.”
“Even his friend, Drew?”
“Yes. And Steele. And Patel. And Moore. And Sanchez. And everybody he met.”
“Were you ever asked to tail him?”
“He’s one of the few people in the Valley that we haven’t been asked to tail.”
“Who else should we talk to?”
“It’s going to be tough to get people at Y5K to talk. The place is an armed fortress. You can try Patel and his associate, Christina Chu, but they invested a lot of money in the company.”
“Ever see anything suspicious when King was here?”
“This is a strip club, Mike. Everything is sketchy.”
True enough. “Anything come to mind?”
“King brought Steele’s daughter here once when she was an intern at Y5K. It showed an astounding lack of judgment. To her credit, she walked out.”
Good for her. “Was her father here at the time?”
“No.”
“We may have a few more questions for you.”
“Happy to help. Next time, it’s standard rates.” He excused himself and headed to the restroom.
I turned to Pete. “I need you to find Debbie Steele. I’m going back to the office and see if I can get an audience with Patel.”
The lights flickered and the music got louder. Applause filled the cavernous space as a line of scantily dressed women—including Bernie—made their way to the stage.
Pete finished his beer. “You want to stick around for the show?”
“No, thanks.”
“You were more fun when you were a priest.”
35
“HIS BEHAVIOR WAS ERRATIC AT TIMES”
“Thank you for seeing me,” I said.
Gopal Patel’s expression was stern. “I appreciate the fact that you called for an appointment this time instead of ambushing me like you did at Bird Dog.”
I didn’t want to throw Pete’s mole, the maître d’, under the bus. “I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted.”
I appreciated his graciousness, however grudging.
Two days had passed since Pete and I had dined at the Gold Club. I was pleased—and a bit surprised—that Patel had agreed to meet with me. Then again, he didn’t want to appear uncooperative. I looked around at his modest office on the ground floor of a two-story, cookie-cutter complex on Sand Hill Road, adjacent to the ritzy Sharon Heights Country Club. The modular furniture looked as if it had come from Scandinavian Designs. His bookcase was jammed with three-ring binders with hand-written labels for venture capital investments.
“Something the matter?” he asked.
“I guess I was expecting a successful VC’s office to be a little fancier.” Especially one who’s supposedly worth a half a billion dollars.
“We invest our partners’ money in our portfolio companies, not our offices.”
Good line. I wonder how many times you’ve repeated it. “That’s admirable, Mr. Patel.”
“Gopal.”
“Mike.”
In response to my inquiry about his background, he walked me through his C.V. Born to an affluent family in Delhi. Studied electrical engineering at the India Institute of Technology. MBA from Stanford. Worked at a couple of startups before landing as the forty-third employee at Google. Made enough in the IPO to buy houses for his children and grandchildren. Married his current wife twelve years earlier. Two college-age kids from a previous marriage. A mansion in Hillsborough. A cabin at Lake Tahoe. A condo in Maui. The American Dream.
I asked him why he decided to become a venture capitalist.
“I got tired of playing tennis. I’m competitive. I wanted to prove that I didn’t make a fortune just by being at the right place at the right time.”
But it sure helped.
His tone turned self-righteous. “My partners and I decided to invest in entrepreneurs who demonstrate a commitment to good moral values, community service, and philanthropy.”
“Very commendable.” Especially coming from a guy who is cheating on his wife and meeting women on a sugar daddy site. “What percentage of your investments are profitable?”
“One in ten sees positive cash flow. One in twenty turns a modest profit. One in a million hits it big
like Google or Facebook.”
Might as well play the lottery. “How do you decide whether to fund a company?”
“The first question is always whether the entrepreneur is trustworthy and of good moral character. That’s also the second question.”
It wasn’t clear to me how King’s proclivity for hooking up with young women on Mature Relations checked those boxes. “And the third?”
“Whether the new technology is delightful.”
You’re kidding. “Delightful?”
“Think of the first time you did a search on Google or watched a baseball game on an iPhone. You’d never seen anything like it, right?”
I played along. “Right.”
“We’re looking to fund companies with products that millions of people can’t live without.”
“You don’t need Google or an iPhone.”
“Or ninety-nine percent of the stuff that we buy, Mike. But we think we do. Technology allows us to do things faster and cheaper, but it hasn’t fundamentally changed what we want—things that make our lives easier, enhance our productivity, and entertain us.”
And make you a ton of money. “In other words, it delights us.”
“Exactly.”
I wanted to puke.
His tone turned serious. “You didn’t come here to talk about venture capital.”
“I wanted to ask you about Jeff King.”
“He was a visionary.”
So I’ve been told. “Why did you decide to invest in Y5K?”
“Jeff was a seasoned entrepreneur, and the technology is a game-changer.”
At least he didn’t try to sell me on King’s morals again. I kept my eyes on his and nodded at appropriate times as he recited a canned sales pitch about the potential of the Y5K platform. His description included multiple mentions of “synergies,” “dynamics,” “analytics,” “enhanced reality,” and “empiricals.” It took every ounce of my self-control to avoid laughing when he started talking about something called the “hockey stick profit curve.”
Finally, he folded his arms and spoke with conviction. “This company will be a case study at Stanford Business School of a near-perfect venture investment.”
What could possibly go wrong? “Is the company making money?” I asked.
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