Shattered Shell

by Brendan DuBois

  "Why do you want to do that?" she asked, her voice quiet and neutral.

  I shrugged again. "I promised, that's why. Because you asked me, that's why. And because you're my best friend, Diane. That's why."

  “I think she was biting her lip. "Those are pretty good reasons." She looked up at her condo. "Kara's doing a bit better. She's starting counseling and I've even agreed to come in with her. She's eating and sleeping more, but, my friend, I still want to know who he was. So, yes, continue. But I'll hold you to your word. Don't come talking to Kara, She's beginning to smile again, and that's very important to me."

  "A deal," I said. "Felix and I will do some more digging, and 1'1,'11 pass it along when we've reached the end."

  "Thanks. What have you got planned?"

  "Felix is talking to the landlord again, and I was planning on going to Digital tomorrow."

  "Let me call for you," she said. "Otherwise they won't tell you what time it is."

  I finally put the white flag down. "How are you doing, otherwise?"

  She hefted up her briefcase. "Goddamn Crescent House burned down earlier this week, in case you haven't noticed."

  "Oh, I noticed, all right."

  "Same damn thing. Nothing makes sense. No money problems, no threats, no connection with the other fires. But still the damn thing burned, and it was arson again."

  I thought of what Paula had found out, about the planning board and the motels, and decided to keep quiet. That had been a promise to Paula. Damn hard to keep track of one's promises, sometimes. "You working any better with the fire inspector?"

  "Hardly." She shivered and said, "I often don't think this way, especially in the summer when it's busy and I get asleep every night about one minute after I get to bed, but all that's gone on these past few weeks has made me think about evil."

  I could tell she was in no joking mood, so I kept my expression straight. "One would usually think about evil in the hot months. Not necessarily the winter."

  "No, not for me. I think about bad things and evil in the winter. Everything around here shuts down, everything's boarded lip, and there's not enough light in the day. People leave home in the morning and it's dark, and when they get home, it's still dark. It’s cold and windy and the ocean seems that much wider, and the nights are very long, Lewis. Long enough for minds to be at work, for minds to urge people on to do evil things. Like burning down motels. Like raping young women."

  "And where does it come from?"

  "From the sick ones," she said. "Not the ones with bedwetting problems when they were younger, or who caught Mommy and Daddy bouncing in bed. I mean the real sick ones, the ones who enjoy torturing small animals when they're kids and who move on to bigger animals when they get older. I think they're born that way. Just born evil."

  I said, "Some local clergy might not like my opinion but I'm with you on this one."

  "Good. An ally. Tough to be the good guys nowadays, we're so unfashionable."

  "And probably freezing, too," I said. "You should get inside. Kara's probably wondering what the hell we're doing."

  "Fair enough," she said. "And ... thanks for coming by."

  "My pleasure." I turned to walk away and she called out, "Wait!"

  "What's that?"

  She stepped up to me. "Fool," she said. "What makes you think I was going to let you leave without a hug?"

  She grasped me around the waist and I returned the favor, and something seemed to catch in my throat when I said, "I'll do the best I can, Diane. Promise."

  A firm squeeze, a kiss on the cheek. "I know you will. Now get going, before my woman sees us in action."

  The next day I was driving through a remote part of Newburyport, near the town line of Newbury and just a few minutes off 1-95. This part of Massachusetts is known as the North Shore, and tho Merrimack River cuts through a lot of the towns on its way to the ocean. Parts of it are still fairly rural, and the road I was on curved gently among the snow-covered fields and bare forests.

  Eventually I turned right at a driveway that was marked by a blue-and-white sign saying DIGITAL and quickly found a spot in the visitors' section. About half of the parking lot was empty, and the lot was poorly plowed. This Digital plant was a distant cousin of the big and brawling company that had roared through the early and mid-1980s, making its mark in the world and also causing giddy headline writers, who should have known better, to compare the North Shore with Silicon Valley. The fall from favor and profitability had been a long one, and Digital had shorn off plants and employees like desperate Russian sleighers being pursued by wolves in a Siberian winter, tossing off passengers to lighten the load. It was still surviving, though it had gone through two or three additional rough years.

  The reception area was tiny, with vinyl-covered couches and chairs, a scuffed metal coffee table that had a copy of its annual report, and issues of Money and Fortune. The receptionist sat behind a glass window arrangement that looked like it belonged in a bus station in the Bronx, and after announcing who I was and passing over my New Hampshire driver's license, I was privileged to get a green plastic badge that said VISITOR. I clipped the badge to my shirt collar, took off my coat, and sat down, watching the snow melt from my boots.

  I didn't wait long. The door was buzzed open and a man poked his head through.

  "Mr. Cole?" he asked.

  "The same," I said, getting up.

  "Scott Weber," he said, extending his hand, which I shook.

  "I don't have much time, so let's see if we can get things squared away."

  The head of security for the Digital plant wore a two-piece dark blue suit, white shirt, and light red tie. He had on black-rimmed glasses, and while his features were delicate, his eyes were hard blue and unmoving.

  "That'll be fine," I said. "I don't think it should take that long."

  I followed him through and the security door slammed shut, bringing back some memories of my old job, and I followed him down a tiled corridor. Off to both sides were cubicles and the sounds of' phones ringing and the incessant tapping of computer keyboards. There was a banner taped to the side of one cubicle that said SCREW HEWLETT-PACKARD, with an illustration that showed a long screw protruding through a circuit board that bore the Hewlett-Packard logo. Weber saw that I noticed the banner and said with a thin smile, "Bit of corporate cheerleading, I'm afraid."

  "Does it work?"

  "It better."

  The hallway opened up on the right-hand side with large windows overlooking an assembly area. People were hunched over on long tables, working with power tools of some sort, slapping together circuit boards and cathode-ray tubes and other electrical devices. Most of them wore earphones of some sort, and all were working with heads bowed, staring at what was before them. There were no windows to the outside.

  Inside, we went to a conference room, and another man stood up, and again repeated the centuries-old ritual of shaking hands as Weber introduced me to him. He was about my age, wearing a light blue polo shirt and stonewashed jeans. His black hair was quite short and his tanned face sported a black goatee.

  “I’m Rick Kiper," he said, sitting down, as Weber sat down next to him. "I'm Kara's supervisor. Listen, before we start, can you’ll tell me how she's doing?"

  I sat down, putting my coat on the polished wood of the table, "She's doing better, but I think it's going to be a while before she comes back to work."

  Rick shook his head, looked over at Weber. "All of us were stunned when we heard what happened. First that something awful like that could happen in Newburyport, and then to hear that it happened to a lovely woman like Kara.... My God. Makes you wonder if anyone's safe."

  Weber crossed his arms. "Well, I'm concerned about Kara, but I'm also concerned about the company and its liability in speaking with you, Mr. Cole. The only reason I arranged this session is because a law enforcement official from Tyler asked that it happen, and because Rick here insisted on speaking with you. I also want to tell you that I don't intend
for this meeting to be a fishing expedition. Not to be a prick about the matter, but I would like you to ask your questions, get your answers, and then leave."

  Rick looked over at me, smiled. "Such a charmer, eh? You ought to see how he acts when me or some of my people come in and forget our access badges."

  I decided that I didn't like Weber's attitude, as much as I could understand it, but I also knew my presence here was on shako ground indeed. They had no official reason to allow me here in the first place, and only because of Diane's insistence and the kindness of Kara's boss was this interview even going forward.

  I picked up my pen and notebook and said, "I know this is highly irregular, but I'm doing some inquiries about Kara Miles and what happened to her. It may end up as a story one of these days in my magazine, but more likely than not, nothing will come out of it, However, there's a chance that in preparing for this story I might find out something that will help the police."

  Weber's look was grim, but Rick seemed intrigued. "Really? Are you also a private investigator?"

  "Nope," I said. "Just a private citizen who wants to see what I can learn."

  "What might that be, Mr. Cole?" Weber asked.

  I ignored him and looked at Kara's boss. "Tell me about Kara, her job history, how she got along with co-workers. That's good for a start."

  "Well, Kara's one of our best," Rick said, crossing one leg over, holding the knee with both hands. "She runs one of our customer support groups and she does a wonderful job. It can be a stressful job, but she knows how important it is."

  "What exactly does it entail?"

  Rick looked over at Scott and smiled. "It means keeping us out of trouble, that's what it means. It means holding on to our customers and taking care of their needs. It's taken a while for this company and others to realize it, but the customer calls the shots. There’s a lot of competition out there, and if you get a reputation of screwing over your customers and not taking care of them, then you’re dead. That's it."

  "Does she work alone?"

  "No, she had a crew with her, and the number fluctuated, depending on the problems they were working with."

  "Any problems with co-workers? Someone not liking her, not getting along?"

  A quick move of the head. "No. Absolutely not. She's a joy to work with, someone who really likes what she does. Lot of people, they're content to spend a good chunk of their time bitching and moaning about their job or their co-workers or the company's personnel policies. Not Kara. Always the first one here in the morning, and usually one of the last to leave the place. Wish I had two or three more like her."

  I made a few quick notes in my notepad, none of which was probably going to be helpful. "Customers, then. Anything come up with customers? Vendors hitting on her? Customers feeling like they were getting a runaround from the company?"

  Rick looked at me with an odd expression. "You mean, some one who would get so pissed at the company that they would do something to Kara? Is that what you're saying?"

  "No," I said, aware that Weber's expression was slipping from studied boredom to annoyance. "I'm just looking for something that might give me an idea of what to do next. You ask a lot of questions. You get some answers. Sometimes those answers lead you to other people, other places. Most times, they don't do much. But you haw to ask them."

  Rick didn't look convinced. 'Tm afraid I can't help you there."

  I shifted my position and looked over at Weber. "Anything you can offer?"

  "Like what?"

  "Like security incidents at the plant. Hate mail. Odd men hanging around the parking lot, the bars where your people go after work, harassing women or following them. Anything like that at all?"

  "No. Any more questions?"

  Time to go, I supposed. I closed up my notepad and said, "One more thing. I'd like to see Kara's office."

  Rick smiled, relaxing a bit. "You mean her cubicle. Sure."

  "Wait a minute---" Weber started.

  "Oh, don't worry," Rick said. “I’ll make sure that he doesn't see any secret plans. Look, you go back to doing your security work and I'll take Mr. Cole here out to Kara's office and then escort him back out."

  Weber didn't look too pleased, but he stood up, and after a brief handshake he left the conference room, and Rick said, "Brrr, nice to have him leave the place. Helps raise up the room temperature a few degrees. Ready for a quick tour?"

  “Sure,” I said, and I followed Rick out to the hallway. Other people were there, moving fast, carrying reams of printouts or legal-size notepads.

  "How's business?" I asked.

  "Is this for publication?" he tossed back.

  "It's for polite conversation," I said.

  "If that's the case, Mr. Cole, then we're struggling," he said, looking to me and raising an eyebrow. "But then again, everybody's struggling. A few years back, when I was out in California in Los Gatos things were quite different."

  "Where was that?"

  "Near San Jose. The original Silicon Valley. My friend, back then if you were smart and knew your stuff, it was a dream. Money was great, working conditions were even better, and if your boss was a twit, you literally could quit on a Friday and start work somewhere else on a Monday morning."

  I said, "What happened then?"

  Rick stopped at a locked door and took out a keycard, swiping it through the bulky lock. A green light flashed and in we went.

  "Like most dreams, this one ended, and everyone woke up, and a lot of people woke up unemployed. Recession, higher taxes, increased competition, especially from overseas. Some people saw I coming, others didn't."

  "And what did you see, Rick?"

  The door closed behind us. Before us was a warren of cubicles and corridors. Rick said, "I saw that it was a dream, right from the start. While my friends out there were spending money on houses, cars, and skiing trips up to British Columbia, I stayed in a quiet little apartment and rode my bicycle to work, and put everything else into mutual funds and T-bills. When the great collapse happened, I decided it was time to come back home to New England, and here I am. And here's Kara's office."

  He had led me through a maze of corridors and I was outside of a cubicle, about twelve feet square. There were metal bookshelves built into the walls, overflowing with books and technical manuals. A whiteboard filled with blue-marker writing-most of which were in acronyms and symbols-was on another wall. Her desk was fairly clear of clutter, and there was a computer terminal at one side. Along the phone was a headset. There was a calendar of Shaker art over the computer terminal, and there were a couple of framed photographs on top of the terminal. A nameplate outside the cubicle said KARA MILES.

  "For someone you said is a great worker, this isn't much of an office," I said.

  "Unless you're a director here, this is all the office you get," Rick said. "This is the newer, leaner Digital. Not much time for fancy offices or executive parking spaces."

  I walked into the cubicle, looked at the computer screen, "You said she's good?"

  "One of the best. Once she was hooked up to the phone and the terminal, she'd be kicking along so well that she'd often skip lunch. There's a rush out there for the really good ones, about cutting through bureaucracy and the engineering crap, getting the answers you need. It's a big puzzle game, every day, and Kara is one to solve puzzles."

  I looked at the photographs on top of the terminal. There were three. One of Diane out on her boat, and another of Diane and Kara mountain climbing. The third photo was black-and-white and older. "Anything you want to tell me, now that the friendly security presence isn't here?"

  “Like what?"

  "Like anything you might not have felt comfortable with." I picked up the black-and-white photo. It looked like a family shot, taken in the 1970s. Mom and Dad, plus a daughter and son. They were on a picnic table in a wooded area somewhere. Only Kara seemed to be smiling. The looks on the other faces were hesitant, us if they were concerned about the photographer's intentions.
r />   Rick crossed his arms. "Care to be more specific?"

  I put the photo down and turned to him. "Kara's sexual preference. Did it matter to anybody here? Anybody around here think it was his God-given duty to convert lesbians by any means necessary?"

  He frowned and his features darkened. "That's a hell of II shot."

  "No, that's a hell of a question. You got an answer?"

  He motioned with his head. "This may be a leaner place, but it still has a heart, as weak as it is."

  "That so?"

  He looked directly at me. "That's so, Mr. Cole. I know from experience."

  "How's that?"

  The same steady gaze. "Let's just say that Kara and I have similar lifestyles, and that it's no big secret, and it's never been a factor here. You got a problem with that?"

  "Not at all." I returned the photo and said, "Look, I know my questions aren't always so polite, but I'm trying to do something here. I'm trying to find out who hurt Kara. Sometimes that means being a bit hurtful to people I just meet. That's the process, and apologize for interrupting your day."

  He seemed to relax and said, "No problem. Anything else?" I looked around the cubicle, thought about how long it might be before a young and confident woman was back at work here, feeling that her life was at last back in order, at last made sense, at last was no longer hurtful.

  "One more. What do you think?"

  "Hmmm?"

  "Anything I haven't asked that I should have? Any loose ends? Anything that went through your mind the moment you found out that Kara had been raped?"

  He leaned back against the cubicle's doorjamb. "Not a damn thing, and I'm very sorry for that. I really wish I could help. I really do.'

  I gave the cubicle one more glance. Something bothered me, like the faint breath of someone at the back of my neck, someone standing too close. What was it? I wanted to spend another hour in this little office, toss the papers, go through the drawers, and talk to some other coworkers, but I knew I was right at the edge of overstaying whatever welcome I had here.