Mike pointed to the two leather seats in front of his desk. We both sat. Mike returned to his throne and reclined as he began to hold court.
"Tell me about POP," he said, hands interlocked behind his head.
I explained what was going on with the company. That we were looking to raise a large round of capital with our eye set on going public within a year. Imogen was diligently taking notes and jumping in every now and then with some additional facts and brilliant insights, just as we had rehearsed. Mike lapped it up and asked about valuation and the rest of the questions that most venture capitalists would ask. I told him that I wanted to give him the courtesy of a first look, and that this was just a preliminary conversation. I explained that he would get a chance to review a term sheet once we were ready to go public with the deal. He thanked me and expressed some interest, and then went on to tell me all of the reasons that it was a bad deal—but, of course, he would be willing to take a look when it was time. Jockeying for position. Just like a venture capitalist. Always looking for the best deal.
I was different. I was a straight shooter. Yes, no, or maybe. Those were the answers that I usually gave. I wasn't trying to hide anything. I wasn't looking to position myself for a better deal. I took it all at face value. I put it all out there. At least in business. With Imogen I was still learning how to express myself. I was vague. To a fault. I needed to open up to her. Especially after five years. She wanted to get married. And I did too, but I hadn't pulled the trigger. I was always looking to avoid the subject. Hide in the middle of vague answers and witty quips. But I needed to change. Soon.
Once we were done talking shop, I broached the Ted situation.
"My condolences about Ted."
Mike sat up straight, placed his hands on the desk, and leaned toward Ginny and myself. "Just terrible." He paused, taking a deep breath, and then coupled that with a sigh. "We're beside ourselves here. He was not only a leader of this company, he was…my friend."
Mike's face conveyed sadness, up to a point. I found myself believing that his emotions were genuine, although I was at odds with myself for thinking that. Something about his facial expression made me question its authenticity.
"I can't imagine. Kitty must be a wreck," I said, fishing for something.
"I haven't seen her in a while. Just talked to her briefly the other day when she told me the news. The funeral is tomorrow, so I'm sure I'll see her. I'll pass along your condolences."
Mike's posture was still commanding, and he was maintaining direct eye contact.
"Thanks. How's Clarke taking it?"
Mike leaned back in his chair, relaxing his posture.
"In typical Clarke fashion," Mike began.
Ken S. Clarke, III was an older man, about sixty, who had made his name in Silicon Valley about ten years ago when his company was purchased by an online auction house for $125 million. An ambitious man by nature, he immediately took to the idea of becoming a venture capitalist. He moved back to his hometown, Manhattan, and here he formed a partnership with Ted Baxter and Mike Miller. The three of them grew BMC into a formidable VC firm.
"While he was upset, he maintained a stiff upper lip and implored us all to soldier on. I guess at his age you've seen a lot. Seems like he was able to internalize a lot of his grief," Mike concluded.
"Is he around? I haven't seen Clarke in ages. I'd like to express my condolences to him in person."
"I'm not sure." Mike picked up his phone and called his secretary. He asked if Ken was in his office and then hung up. "He stepped out," Mike reported.
"Oh, that's too bad. I'll try to catch him next time."
"I'll let him know that you were asking for him."
"I appreciate that. Thanks."
We chatted a little more about Clarke and how horrible Ted's death had been for the company. Mike reassured me that BMC was determined to move forward, despite the tragedy. Right now they were just trying to get past the funeral. Once that was over, they were hoping to get back to business as usual.
"On a related note, you know what they say: bis vivit qui bene vivit," Mike added as we were winding down our conversation.
"I have never heard that before."
"It's Latin. Means he lives twice who lives well. And Ted lived well."
"That's lovely," Imogen interjected. "Mark Antony would have been impressed."
"Latin has some beautiful sayings."
"I'm not much of a Latin scholar," I said.
"I'm a bit of a Latin nerd. It's a poignant language. Sort of like Yiddish but without the misery. Gets right to the point."
"I guess I'll be ordering Rosetta Stone after I leave here," I said as the only one, apparently, in the room that had no formal Latin education.
Mike babbled on about Latin for a few more minutes then I jumped into a conversation about what other companies Mike had been looking at recently. He mentioned some subpar deals then was vague, as was the norm in this business. After he had finished providing me with no further information about possible investment opportunities, I thanked him for his time. He shook my hand, complimented Imogen on her insights, and told her it was a pleasure meeting her. After which we both left.
CHAPTER TEN
It was the day of the funeral. Imogen and I would not be attending, but John had called me first thing in the morning, before I had even left the house, to tell me that he and one of his colleagues would be there to get a read on Ted's circle. More likely, he called to keep tabs on me, but I was determined to stick to my plan of full disclosure of all pertinent information. So while I had him on the phone, I filled him in on my meeting with Mike. I explained to John that Mike hadn't offered up any real information about Ted.
"They rarely do," John said, acting the part of the grizzled detective.
"They as in killers?"
"No, they as in people. That's what makes my job hard. I have to pry the information out. Dig. That's what I do."
He was telling the truth. I knew that by now. He was digging. Always digging. I was sure he was referring to me as well, not just Mike. Dig. Dig. Dig. And you just might strike gold.
"Well, this person did mention one thing that Imogen and I have been pondering."
"And what was that?"
"He mentioned a Latin phrase about Ted's death. Imogen wrote it down. Let me get it and I'll read it to you."
I asked Ginny to give me a copy of her notes.
"Bis vivit qui bene vivit." It didn't sound very eloquent coming out of my mouth. Julius Caesar would have been disappointed.
"Something about living?"
"Actually, yes."
"I took Latin in college. Glad it's finally getting some use."
Am I the only one who never took Latin in school?
"It means he lives twice who lives well."
"It fits. I've been to his house. Ted certainly did live well."
Another inappropriate comment about wealth. First my house, now Ted's house. I let it go.
We chatted a bit more about Mike's use of Latin and then John thanked me for the information. But then he added something that bothered me.
"Max, I, um, appreciate all of the information that you've passed along, but why don't you leave the police work to me?"
"Well, I just thought—"
"We've got everything under control. You and Miss Whitehall just stay put and we'll be in touch."
He didn't say it in a mean tone. Didn't say it in any sort of confrontational way. It was just matter of fact. The kind of matter of fact that meant compliance or there'd be a penalty. Cops have a way of talking like that.
We had entered Phase Two. Shut the suspect out of the investigation. I had a feeling that things were about to get a little uncomfortable for me.
The rest of the day was uneventful. I did some work out of my home office and Ginny went home. She assured me that she would be back for dinner.
Imogen arrived back at my place around seven. We decided to grab some Chinese food at a restaura
nt down the road. There were only a few other couples eating, which made for a semi-private atmosphere. I ordered a white wine, and Imogen did as well.
"This private investigating is harder than it looks," Imogen said, taking a sip of her wine with a devilish grin on her face.
"Well, Carrington told me to back off."
"So, we're calling it quits?"
"Hardly. I think we have to dig even deeper now. I've got a feeling something bad is going to happen."
"Oh, don't say that, Max. They can't possibly think you had anything to do with this."
"That's exactly what I think. Shutting us down is just the first step. That's why we can't stop. We need to figure this out before I end up in a cell."
"Jesus, Max."
I was being a depressant. Not good. I needed to change my attitude. Liven up this depressing Chinese dinner. I took a sip of my wine.
"On a separate note, you make a wonderful venture capitalist," I said.
It seemed to work. Ginny smiled, and I even thought she blushed a little.
"Why thank you, Max. I certainly think Mike bought it."
"He most certainly did, my dear. Will be helpful if we ever need to meet with him again."
Over dinner we discussed the case and went over the facts as we knew them so far, trying to connect some of the dots. But by my second glass of wine, the dots were becoming a little blurry. I put down my chopsticks.
"Check."
* * *
I stood at the door to my house, Imogen next to me, fumbling for my keys in the dark. Finally, after a few moments, I managed to slip the key into the deadbolt and turn. But there was no click. No metallic slide from post to door. No tension on the key. The lock was open.
"Wait in the car," I said to Imogen.
"We took a taxi here, Max, remember?"
I must have been slightly inebriated.
"Wait here."
She looked worried. "Why? What's wrong, Max?"
I tried to sober up as quickly as I could. "The lock was open."
"So? Maybe we forgot to lock it. It happens."
That was true. It did happen. Hadn't happened to me yet, but I guessed there was a first time for everything.
"Yeah, well, you wait here. Let me make sure there's no one in there."
"No. I'm coming with you."
"Ginny! Wait here or in the car. I don't need you getting hurt."
"I'm coming with you. I'm not letting you go in there alone."
I wasn't going to win this battle.
Imogen reached in her purse and pulled out a little canister of some sort.
I whispered to her, "What the hell is that?"
"Mace."
"What do you think you're going to do with that?"
"Blind whoever is in there."
"Let's hope you we don't need it."
"Enough. Let's go already." She held up the mace in front of her like a gun.
"OK, on three."
I slowly opened the door, first looking into the foyer, then venturing a few steps into the house. Ginny followed, mace at the ready. We moved into the foyer, by the stairs. Nothing. Not even Jabber stirring around. She was never a barker. She must be upstairs. I moved my gaze over to the living room. Nothing. Quietly, we made our way into the kitchen. Everything seemed fine. Nothing was missing. Nothing was out of place. Maybe we had just left the lock open.
We made our way slowly up the stairs. Ginny moved with the grace of a lynx and the determination of a special operations soldier. Moving the mace around side to side like an assault rifle. Ready to take out the unwanted intruder. As we approached the upstairs hallway, there were no signs of life. The hallway light was on, but that was normal. I usually left it on. Then we made our way toward the rooms.
My bedroom door was almost shut. I never shut the door. It was always wide open. Jabber never even bothered to close it. Sometimes I wasn't sure she was even a dog. Maybe just a furry human.
Something had happened here. I motioned to Imogen to stop in her tracks. We stood outside the door, just off to the side, like I'd seen in the movies.
I tried to mime to Ginny that I would slowly open the door with my wrist, see what happened, and then we'd move in. I looked over to her. She hadn't understood a lick of what I was trying to convey. I pleaded with my eyes for her to listen to me.
"Can you just tell me what hell you want to do?" she whispered.
"What if there's someone in there? They'll hear us," I whispered back.
"Too late, Max," she said.
"OK, just follow my lead."
I slowly opened the door. It creaked. I needed to get that fixed. Once the door was open and my arm wasn't shot off, I peeked around the doorway into the room.
"Holy shit."
Ginny, who was standing behind me, looked perplexed. "What?"
"Just come around and look."
She did. We both stood in the doorway and stared into the room. It was in shambles. Clothes were everywhere. Our platform bed was still in its place against the wall, but the mattress had been flipped over. But there was Jabber. Sprawled out sleeping in the middle of the mess.
"Check your stuff," I said to Ginny.
She ran to the closet and went in. It was a large walk-in closet, so she would probably be there a while. I walked over to my nightstand, where I kept a case for the few watches that I owned. It was still there. I opened it. All was well. The Baume & Mercier, Rolex, and Piaget were all safe and sound.
This wasn't a robbery. No one was here. They had already been here, searched the house, and left. While we were at dinner. Someone had been watching us. Waiting for us to leave. Waiting for the right time to break in here and dig around. But why?
"Everything's here," Imogen called out from the closet. "They didn't take anything."
No, they didn't take anything. Nothing except for my sanity.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
By the time Imogen emerged from the closet, I had formulated a theory. My theory was that this was a scavenger expedition to try to dig up some information on me that would implicate me in Ted's murder. She listened.
"Why? Who? Who would do this?" she asked.
"I have no idea."
"Who on earth could be watching us?"
"All I can think of is the police. But they can't do stuff like this. It would be illegal."
"I don't know, Max."
"Let's look around. See what other kind of damage they inflicted on my poor house."
We looked in each of the six rooms. One of which was my office. Nothing was broken in any of the rooms. Everything was just rifled through. Thrown about, like someone was trying to send a message. But not a very strong message. The kind of message that throwing around mattresses and papers conveyed. Whatever that was. Not the kind of message that breaking and stealing stuff conveyed. That had to be worse.
My office was the most disheveled room of the lot. Every drawer was emptied. But to the intruder's credit, they put the drawers back where they belonged. The contents were another story, strewn about all over the room. Everywhere.
I racked my brain trying to remember if I had anything. Anything that could be misconstrued or held against me. I couldn't come up with a thing. Maybe there was a not-so-nice email here or there between me and Ted. But that was business. And I was confident that there was nothing threatening going on in any of that correspondence. Regardless, my laptop was still on the desk. Despite all of my papers having been thrown on the floor.
"What do you think they were looking for?" Imogen asked. Now with the mace back in her purse. Confident that the imminent threat had disappeared.
"I have absolutely no idea. Something that ties me to the murder. But what that could be is another story altogether."
Imogen was visibly shaken. This incident seemed to have rattled her more than anything so far. Even more than my lack of a proposal of marriage.
"I don't feel safe here, Max. Not after this."
I didn't blame her. I didn't fe
el safe here either. Someone had come into my house, turned it upside down, and then left. Who knew if they'd be back? Who knew if they'd try to hurt us next time?
"I've seen enough. We're not staying here tonight."
Imogen just listened.
"We're going to your house. And bright and early tomorrow, we're going to see Detective Carrington."
CHAPTER TWELVE
After a five-minute drive, Imogen and I strode up the steps to the old brick police station that sat in the middle of town. We were waiting to talk to John at 9 a.m. in the reception area that contained all of four plastic seats and an on-duty receptionist in uniform that sat behind a bulletproof plastic window. She didn't bother to mention that he usually showed up around 10 a.m. That left an hour for Imogen and me to sip our coffee. When he finally did arrive, he invited us into his office, where Imogen and I explained what had happened to us last night.
Sitting at his desk sipping his coffee, he said, "You two certainly have had quite a night."
I crossed my legs in the uncomfortable government-issued metallic chair. Ginny leaned back in her chair and then addressed John. "I don't feel safe, detective."
"I don't blame you, Miss Whitehall," he said, and took yet another sip of his coffee.
"What are you going to do about it?" Imogen asked.
"What would you like to do, Miss Whitehall? File a police report? I don't know how much that's going to help."
"Yes, I want to file a police report," Imogen said. "Someone broke into our house."
I found it lovely that Imogen would refer to my house as our house. She loved me. And I loved her. There was only one thing left to do, and that was to make our union official.
John put his coffee down on his disheveled desk. "Miss Whitehall, I understand your concern. I really do, but—"
"It certainly doesn't seem that you do, officer."
"Detective. I do, Miss Whitehall, but I'm not sure there's too much we're going to be able to do from what you're telling me. You see, it's—"
"That's not very comforting, detective," she said.
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