“So,” Rosie says, “what did you decide to do?”
“Nothing yet. I wanted to reject the deal. I’m prepared to put up additional funds to keep the company afloat. With careful cash management, it could be positioned for an IPO in eighteen months.”
Or it could be in the tank in six weeks. It must be fun to be young, fearless and living off an inheritance. I say, “What did Tower want to do?”
“He was ready to bail. Sometimes I think he forgot that most of the money in the fund was mine.”
This presents an opening. I ask, “Were you having disagreements about the management of the fund?”
His warning light finally goes on. “It’s fair to say that we didn’t see eye to eye about every investment decision. The fact that he was the investment manager and I was the majority investor led to a certain amount of friction. Frankly, I didn’t think he was aggressive enough.”
Grayson also didn’t have a trust fund. “Did you ever discuss the possibility of replacing him as the fund manager?”
His hesitation tells me everything I need to know. He glances over my shoulder and says, “Let’s just say that our other investors raised the subject once or twice.”
I try again. “Did you discuss it on Thursday night?”
“Briefly. Tower was against it.”
No doubt.
“There was more to it,” he says. “Tower was becoming erratic. I don’t know if it was a financial problem, a marriage problem or a substance problem. I gave him the benefit of the doubt, but the other investors started complaining. I had to look into it.”
He was just following orders. I ask, “Did you find anything?”
His lips form a pronounced scowl. “We found some discrepancies in the financial reports. The fund’s attorney advised me that I had a fiduciary duty to our investors to look into any potential irregularities.”
If there was any reason to suspect that Grayson’s hand was in the till, his lawyer’s advice was absolutely correct. I ask, “Was any money missing?”
“Not exactly. Tower took a one hundred thousand dollar advance.”
“So?”
“It wasn’t approved by the other partners and it wasn’t reported until after the fact.” He explains that such transactions required a vote of the partners.
This isgetting interesting. “Did you talk to Tower about it?”
“Yes. He said it was an accounting error and admitted that it should have been reported.”
“Did you believe him?”
He hesitates before he says, “Of course. We disclosed it to our investors, then we fired our bookkeeper and hired Tracy. We hired a large accounting firm to conduct a full audit and we insisted that Tower repay the advance.”
Seems like the honorable thing. “Do you have any idea why he needed the money?”
Another pause. “To pay some bills. He said he had some minor cash flow issues.”
A hundred bucks is a minor cash flow issue. A hundred grand is real money. “Did he provide any details about what the bills were for?”
“No.”
I ask him if he noticed anything else that was unusual about Grayson’s behavior.
“Such as?”
“Unexplained absences? Undocumented expenses?” Paying for hookers and drugs?
“No.” His demeanor clearly indicates that he won’t give us anything more.
“We’d like to talk to the fund’s lawyer,” I say.
“I can’t stop you.”
No, you can’t. “I’d like you to authorize him to tell us everything he knows.”
“I can’t do that. The business of our partnership is confidential.”
Sure, you can. I opt for a measured bluff. “We’re in the middle of a murder investigation. I don’t want anyone to suggest that you or your lawyer are attempting to interfere with a criminal investigation. Obstruction of justice is serious stuff.”
The color leaves his face. “Let me think about it,” he says.
“We’ll make every effort to keep any information that we obtain confidential.” But if it helps our case, we’ll spill the beans on you and everybody you know.
“Thank you,” he says.
It’s a good sign when somebody thanks you for the privilege of being buffaloed. I decide to lay it on a little thicker. “I don’t want to have to come back with a subpoena.”
“I hope that won’t be necessary. I’ll talk to him about it, but I can’t make any promises.”
I ask, “Do you happen to have the lawyer’s phone number?” It’s another bluff. I know how to reach Brad Lucas. I want a sample of his handwriting.
He takes out a slip of paper and writes down Lucas’s number. “For obvious reasons,” he says, “we would prefer not to have this matter aired out in the media. Reputations are at stake.”
Including yours. I try to strike a conciliatory tone when I ask, “Have you had a chance to talk to Mrs. Grayson?”
“Briefly.”
“Do you know her well?”
There’s a hesitation before he says, “Not that well.”
“Have you seen her?”
His demeanor turns circumspect. “Why do you ask?”
I want to know why you were visiting her house yesterday morning. “We’re meeting with her later today.”
“I would be grateful if you would show some sensitivity for her feelings.”
“We will.” I wait a beat and ask again, “Have you seen her?”
“I stopped by the house for a few minutes yesterday.”
This confirms Pete’s sighting.
“I thought it was appropriate to offer my condolences in person,” he says.
How sensitive. It’s an awkward time to ask him whether he and Mrs. Grayson were doing the hokey pokey. “How was Mrs. Grayson?” I ask.
“Devastated.”
She was so grief-stricken that she headed off to the country club for a massage.
# # #
We’re sitting in my car in the parking lot outside Grayson’s office when Rosie says, “He told us more than I thought. He admitted that Grayson had taken some money from the fund without permission and he confirmed that he was at Debbie Grayson’s house yesterday.”
“He also tried to deflect blame from himself,” I say. “Do you really think he might have been involved with Grayson’s death?”
“He doesn’t seem like the type, but they were clearly at odds about some business issues. We’ll have to ask Brad Lucas about it.”
Yes, we will. I stare at the slip of paper with Lucas’s phone number on it and say, “Did you notice anything when he wrote down this number?”
“Chamberlain is left handed.”
“Exactly.”
*****
Chapter 25
“You Have Our Deepest Sympathies, Mrs. Grayson”
“My husband will be remembered as one of the prominent figures in the Valley.”
— Deborah Grayson. San Jose Mercury-News.
Roosevelt Johnson is standing on the doorstep of a six-bedroom house on a tree-lined cul-de-sac in the tony enclave of Atherton, which is just north of Menlo Park and feels like another world. Debbie and Tower Grayson’s five million dollar Cape Cod is in the understated Lindenwood area, which is within the brick walls of what was once the estate of James Flood, the nineteenth century silver baron. You have to go through the original gates of the Flood property to get to the house, which sits on an acre of some of the most expensive real estate in California.
Roosevelt persuaded Debbie Grayson that the best way to get rid of those annoying defense attorneys is to talk to them sooner rather than later. He’s doing us a huge favor and she’s being very accommodating. I don’t want to do anything that might be perceived as overstepping our bounds. Pigs get fat, but hogs get slaughtered.
“Mrs. Grayson’s husband died only three days ago,” he reminds us. “Keep it short.”
He leads us through the double doors. The exterior has a traditional New England l
ook, but the decor inside is decidedly modern. The two-story foyer is filled with floral arrangements bearing expressions of sympathy and uniformed servants are providing refreshments for the few family members and friends who have gathered in the adjoining living room. Their hushed conversations stop abruptly as we walk past them.
Roosevelt takes us under the circular stairway and into the sleek dining room. We move quickly through the restaurant-quality kitchen and out to a covered redwood deck that overlooks an Olympic-sized pool. Nobody is in the water. “Wait here,” he tells us.
We admire the guest house, the sculpted landscaping and the sweet smell of the star jasmine that covers the trellis above us. Roosevelt returns with Marcus Banks and J.T. Grayson. Banks appears irritated and young Grayson is stoic.
I try defuse the tension by showing gratitude. I say to J.T., “Thank you for your cooperation. We really appreciate it.”
“Mother is having a difficult day,” he says. “Please be brief.”
Banks makes his presence felt. “Mrs. Grayson is under no obligation to talk to you and is within her rights to terminate this conversation whenever she chooses.”
# # #
Rosie’s voice is barely a whisper. “You have our deepest sympathies, Mrs. Grayson,” she says. “We’re sorry to trouble you at this difficult time.”
“Thank you, Ms. Fernandez.”
Debbie Grayson is sitting on a lounge chair under the trellis by the pool. Her makeup is perfect and her bleached blonde hair is neatly coiffed. Her toned arms and legs suggest she has a personal trainer. I can’t see her eyes behind large sunglasses. She’s wearing a light blue Calvin Klein top as she sips iced tea. The sun is glistening off the water. Her son is sitting next to her. Banks and Johnson look like sentries as they stand guard behind us.
Rosie leans forward and says, “We’ll keep this short, Mrs. Grayson.”
“I want to find out what happened to Tower just as much as you do, Ms. Fernandez.”
“Please call me Rosie.”
“I’m Debbie.”
Rosie eases her into a polite, but strained conversation about her background. She was born in Chicago and moved to San Jose when she was seven. She met Tower in high school and they got married after they graduated from college. “We would have celebrated our twenty-sixth anniversary this year,” she says. “Our daughter is expecting and we were looking forward to welcoming our first grandson later this year.”
“I’m sorry that you won’t be able to share it with your husband, Debbie.”
“So am I.”
The look in Rosie’s eyes indicates that she’s going to start treading into murkier waters. “Debbie,” she says, “when was the last time you saw your husband?”
“Thursday morning.” She says she spent the afternoon at the club. “I went down for a massage and to swim.”
I look at the vast expanse of blue water. Evidently, the pool side service here isn’t as good as it is at the club.
Debbie is still talking. “I had dinner with a friend at Postrio on Thursday night.”
Not bad. It’s Wolfgang Puck’s hot spot in the Prescott Hotel just off Union Square.
Rosie asks her how she got into town.
“I drove.” She says she finished dinner at ten and drove home. “I watched TV and went to bed.”
I catch a barely perceptible glance from Rosie. Debbie is a little too anxious to provide an explanation for her whereabouts. “What’s your friend’s name?” Rosie asks.
“Susan Morrow.”
Banks interjects, “We’ve talked to her.”
So will we.
Banks adds, “Mrs. Morrow and the owner of Postrio confirmed Mrs. Grayson’s whereabouts on Thursday night.”
This may be my first case where a celebrity chef will be called as a witness. Maybe we can persuade him to bring foiegras to court. More importantly for our purposes, Wolfgang can’t confirm her whereabouts after she left his restaurant.
Rosie asks, “Did you talk to your husband?”
“He called me at four to say that he was going to the city to meet with Lawrence Chamberlain and Brad Lucas. He called again to tell me they were going out for dinner and that he’d be home late.” She adds, “That was the last time I spoke to him.”
“You must have been concerned when he didn’t come home.”
Her demeanor is strangely calm. “It wasn’t uncommon for him to work late, especially when he was in the middle of a deal. It was quiet at the office at night.”
“Did you call the police on Friday morning?”
“No. I called Tower’s office, but he wasn’t there. That wasn’t unusual, either. I presumed he went for breakfast or to the health club. I tried his cell, but he didn’t answer. I figured he’d forgotten to turn it on or the battery had run out.”
I’m not so sure. Guys like Grayson have cell phones surgically attached to their ears. They keep extra batteries handy to avoid being out of touch for an instant.
Rosie asks if anybody was angry at her husband.
“Not as far as I know.”
“Mr. Chamberlain told us that he and Tower had some disagreements about the management of the fund. He said they met with Mr. Lucas to discuss it.”
“Tower thought Lawrence was trying to reduce his management responsibilities. He wasn’t happy about it.”
It sounds as if the crevice between Grayson and his majority partner may have been a little deeper than Chamberlain suggested.
Rosie shoots a glance in my direction. It’s time to switch voices.
I ask, “How well do you know Mr. Chamberlain?”
“Pretty well. I met him a couple of years ago.”
“Do you like him?”
“Yes.”
Do you sleep with him? “Do you trust him?”
Banks interjects, “What kind of a question is that?”
I keep my voice even. “Mr. Chamberlain told us that some of the investors at Paradigm were unhappy.” I pull out my trump card. “In fact he said some money was missing.”
Banks’s eyes open wide, suggesting that he was unaware of this. Now he wants to hear what Debbie has to say. She sips her iced tea, but doesn’t respond.
J.T. decides to get into the act. “There was an accounting error,” he insists. “It was disclosed to the investors and repaid.”
I say, “You didn’t mention it to us the other day.”
“It had nothing to do with this case.”
“We don’t know that for sure.”
“You’re just trying to deflect blame away from your client.”
Yes, I am. “Why did your father need the money?”
He mulls it over and decides, “I don’t know.”
I turn to his mother and ask, “Do you?”
Her eyes turn down for an instant before she says, “No.”
She’s holding something back. Rosie picks up the ball. “Did you notice anything unusual about your husband’s behavior in recent months? Staying out later than usual, going on trips, signs of alcohol use, that sort of thing?”
Stealing money from his venture capital fund, going to strip clubs, sleeping with prostitutes, using drugs, that sort of thing?
Debbie Grayson doesn’t hesitate. “No.”
Rosie gives her another chance. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Stalemate. Rosie tries another angle. “Is someone going to help you with the management of Paradigm Partners?”
“J.T. and Lawrence are going to take care of everything.”
“Have you met with Mr. Chamberlain about it?” Rosie knows the answer.
“Briefly. He came over here yesterday to express his sympathies. He mentioned that it will be necessary to deal with Tower’s estate as well as the ongoing needs of the business.”
Rosie elects not to ask her why Chamberlain was wearing only a sweatsuit. “Debbie,” Rosie says, “I need to ask you a few personal questions.”
Banks interjects, “You don’t have to ans
wer.”
She waves him off and says, “I have nothing to hide.”
Rosie takes the cue and asks, “Are you the beneficiary on any life insurance policies?”
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