The CEO Came DOA (The Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries Book 5)

by Heather Haven

  “No. Richard checked it out a few days ago. Nada. And if my brother doesn’t find it, it’s usually not there to be found.”

  My brother, Richard, is the head of our IT Department, and I add with no small amount of sisterly pride, a computer genius. He’s been responsible for much of our company’s success in technically driven Silicon Valley.

  “And there’s more, Frank. Last night I found some shocking things in Collier’s Chinese Puzzle Desk.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “It’s a gorgeous piece of furniture he had built last year; carved ebony wood. The man had taste; I’ll give him that. This type of desk is known for its hidden drawers, difficult to locate. But I’m good with Chinese puzzles.”

  “Let me get this straight, you found some hidden drawers in his desk?”

  “You betcha. Four of them.”

  I looked at Frank. He looked at me. A moment passed before he spoke up, his tone agitated.

  “Well, is this a dramatic pause or are you going to tell me what you found?”

  “Sorry, mind working.” I tapped the side of my forehead.

  “Well, give it a rest and get on with the conversation.”

  “Okay, okay. Two drawers held several flash drives of highly classified documentation emailed or messaged to a handful of rival companies.”

  “How do you know they were classified?”

  “The word ‘Classified’ was emblazoned at the top of most files, but all you had to do was read them. Internal memos re medical stats; six-months worth of controlled studies, including failure rates in detecting specific diseases; the how-to of their successes; highly sensitive info like that.”

  “Why would he do that, send rival startups information that could destroy a business he was instrumental in founding? That sounds insane.” Frank’s sputtering would have caused me to laugh under normal circumstances.

  “And that’s not all.” I picked up my coffee mug. Frank spoke up.

  “Is this another one?”

  “Another one what?”

  “Dramatic pauses.”

  “Oh, sorry. I was going to take a swallow of coffee.”

  “Well, don’t until you tell me what else you found.”

  I put the mug down. “In another drawer I found a drive containing Bitcoins for one point three million dollars from Ultimo Meds, one of Read-Out’s archrivals. I see you are just as surprised as I was.”

  “One point three million dollars! Bitcoins, Bitcoins.” He thought for a moment. “Refresh my memory, Lee. Bitcoin is the new electronic money, right?”

  “Fairly new, yes. Bitcoin is digital currency that isn’t backed by any country's central bank or government.”

  “That doesn’t sound like something I’d want.”

  “Think of it like a new twist on the old barter system, Frank. Bitcoins can be traded for goods or services with vendors who accept Bitcoins as payment. In the past, Bitcoins were controversial because they could have been used to anonymously transfer illicit funds or hide unreported income from the IRS. Bitcoin policy now requires transactions that involve traditional, government-backed currencies to be attached to an identity, but they still have a bad rep.”

  “Was D. H. Collier’s identity attached to these?” I nodded. Frank went on. “And each Bitcoin is worth what in hard cash?”

  “Approximately twenty-five dollars to a Bitcoin, give or take. Once again, there was one point three million dollars worth on the flash. Now most people who get handed over a million dollars in any form would have done something with it, not let it just sit there. But I guess to billionaires it’s chump change.”

  “The flash was lying in a drawer?”

  “All by its lonesome.”

  “Was it dated?”

  “Six weeks ago.”

  Frank leaned back in his chair. “Good God.”

  “As an aside, in another drawer I found Collier’s last will and testament, in the old-fashioned form, written on paper. Once I realized what it was, I didn’t do anything with it, not even give it a quick read. Looking back, I wish I had. I’m going to drink my coffee now, because I’ve told you everything.”

  Frank digested this information. “All of this was in hidden desk drawers.”

  I nodded as I slurped. Frank continued his thought.

  “Apparently, Collier didn’t think anybody else was good at Chinese Puzzles besides him.”

  “It’s not usually on one’s résumé, but I have a knack for that sort of thing.”

  “You’re sure he was the saboteur?”

  “If it looks like a rabbit, hops like a rabbit, and has a one point three million dollar carrot in one of its drawers, I’d say yes.”

  “Did you remove the flash drives?”

  “Only to copy to D. I.’s cloud. Then I put them back.”

  Frank got a pensive look on his face. “I’d like to see those files. But first, you should turn them over to the Sunnyvale investigative team in Collier’s death. There may be pertinent information there.”

  “Whatever you say. I don’t mind sharing, Frank, as long as it’s reciprocal.”

  He stared at me then shook his head. “Oh, no you don’t.”

  “Come on, Frank. Haven’t I been forthcoming with you?”

  He continued to stare at me. I smiled at him, knowingly.

  “I knew it! What have you got, Frank?”

  “You are such a brat.”

  “What have you got, Frank?”

  He thought for a moment, and let out a deep sigh. “Okay. It seems there’s a private entrance to Read-Out used only by D. H. Collier, with unmonitored video access.”

  “Wow! I wondered about that. I saw the backstairs, but couldn’t get any access or information on who used it.”

  “Everyone knows Collier was big with the ladies, especially the young ones, despite the fact he was a bit long in the tooth.”

  “Maybe because of it,” I offered.

  “Yeah, well, some men need to keep their pants zipped.”

  “Temper, temper.”

  “Apparently, he brought his conquests here to seduce, probably because of his daughter being at home. And he didn’t want his amorous deeds videotaped, so he set up a non-video-able spot for his assignations here at Read-Out, using a standard hotel keycard to get in. He used it last night around midnight shortly before he hung himself.”

  “The keycard number was recorded?”

  “Yes. As you can see, Lee, this is a plain and simple suicide. Nothing for you or D. I. to be meddling in.”

  After his brief lecture, he was quiet for a moment. Then that glint showed up in his eyes, the one he gets when odd things show up in a case.

  “Funny, though. I had a conversation with the Chief Financial Officer, Rameen Patel, a while ago. He didn’t mention any internal conflicts. Maybe he doesn’t know.”

  “I suspect he does, Frank. CFOs are known to have hidden agendas. They’re the ones answerable to the Securities and Exchange Commission if the ‘i’s aren’t dotted and ‘t’s aren’t crossed. He may have been trying to police some pretty strong personalities, people who often have emotions running high.”

  “You have the gift for understatement.” Frank let out a snort. “Silicon Valley’s loaded with brilliant but egotistical babies.” He leaned in. “What do you know about, as you say, the strong personalities here? You must have learned something in your snooping.”

  I looked around to make sure we weren’t overheard. “Once again, nobody talked about it, but I get the impression the late, great D. H. Collier was controlling and competitive. Even people he was supposedly tight with had problems with him. Take Craig Eastham. He and Collier founded the business together, but they were as different as night and day. Eastham stayed in the shadows while Collier stole the limelight and took credit for everything.”

  “So they didn’t like each other?”

  “Major. Eastham sent Collier an email a few weeks ago where he said Collier should get over himself a
nd stop believing his own press. Collier replied Eastham could do something physically impossible. Most of the time, they used Patel as an intermediary, who neither one of them particularly liked, but respected.”

  “Sounds pretty hostile.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time a CTO crossed swords with the CEO on the QT. God, I hate all these initials, and people who use them…said the PI.”

  Frank ignored my attempt at humor, but seemed to agree with me. “So the relationship between Collier and Eastham wasn’t what people would like to think. Remember what happened at Apex Media a couple of years ago? The two men who started it were best friends.”

  “Sure, one is dead and the other is in jail for killing him. Just goes to show, Silicon Valley can corrupt a lot of ordinarily nice people.”

  “You’re sounding far too jaded for a bride-to-be, Lee.”

  We both laughed.

  I looked down at my coffee before I spoke again. “You know, Frank, I hoped to keep this revelation under wraps, at least until I got a chance to talk to Eastham and Patel. Maybe there’s something here I don’t know.”

  “Nobody will hear anything from me about your unsubstantiated conjectures.”

  “Thanks. For whatever you said.” I closed my eyes and exhaled, leaning back in the chair.

  “Lee honey, you’re exhausted.”

  “I am. I was here until around eleven; Chinese Puzzles don’t open willingly. And then when I got home, Double Indemnity was on with Barbara Stanwyck. I had to watch that.”

  “You and your 1940s movies,” said Frank. “Your father should have never introduced you to them.”

  “Are you kidding? They made me who I am.” Frank harrumphed, as I sat upright, struck by a thought. “If I’d stuck around another hour, I might have seen Collier when he came in. Maybe I could have prevented this.”

  “And there’s another unsubstantiated conjecture. You need to go home. There’s nothing more --”

  “I don’t know, Frank,” I interrupted, leaning forward. “I can’t get those baby blue jockey shorts out of my mind.”

  “Go home,” he repeated more forcefully.

  I ignored him, ruminating out loud. “Why kill yourself in the boardroom of your own company? And why take off all your clothes to do it? None of it makes sense. I’m going to try to stick around unless Read-Out fires me. Maybe I’ll learn something.”

  Frank said nothing, but squeezed his eyes shut, and let out a deep, noisy sigh. I went on.

  “You’ve got to admit it’s a weird way to go.”

  “Depends on how whacko the guy was. D. H. Collier didn’t march to the tune of the ordinary drummer. That’s how he got to where he was.”

  He took a deep breath as if to say more but stood and stretched out his long frame. “Never mind. No point in telling you again to go home. Well, I’m leaving. I’ve worn out my welcome in Sunnyvale. And I need to fight off the press, protect Collier’s home and property from the curious. Did you give your statement yet?”

  “And signed it. Did it electronically. One of life’s modern miracles; no trip to the station to sign off on it.”

  “And just as legal, too.” Frank looked over my shoulder. “Don’t look now, but guess who’s coming up behind you at eleven o’clock.”

  I turned to see the CFO, Rameen Patel, striding across the room toward me. One of the oldest Read-Out people at age thirty-one, Patel had an impressive history.

  Born in California of East Indian parents, he attended Wharton Business School, and worked on Wall Street auditing Fortune 500 companies. Six years later he left a good paying, secure job back east to return to California for the CFO title at Read-Out, making bupkis. He was one of thousands in the Bay Area, shooting to turn bupkis into gold with a startup’s IPO.

  According to more water cooler gossip, Patel was the poster boy for the success of arranged marriages, too. Maybe I had nuptials on the mind, but at twenty-two he’d married eighteen-year old Marjana, neither having laid eyes on the other until the wedding day.

  Nine years later they had four girls, aged eight, seven, six, and three. For whatever reason Patel didn’t drive, so every evening at exactly six-thirty his wife arrived in their Mercedes SUV and waited at the front curb, children and family dog in tow. The employees were then privy to the kind of familial huggy-poo, kissy-face usually seen in Norman Rockwell paintings.

  But Rameen Patel didn’t look very Norman Rockwell as he approached me. In fact, he looked more like the portrait of the “Anguished Man,” painted by the artist in his own blood right before he killed himself.

  There's no single right place to be an entrepreneur,

  but certainly there's something about Silicon Valley.

  Peter Thiel

  Chapter Three

  Frank backed up, gave a short nod of his head to the CFO, and departed. Rameen didn’t acknowledge the greeting, but came directly to the chair opposite me and sat down, leaning in.

  “There’s been a catastrophe.”

  His voice, normally a lilting tenor, shook when he spoke and took on a raspy edge. I leaned into him squarely with one arched eyebrow.

  “You mean other than your CEO swinging from a rope in the boardroom?”

  Either he didn’t hear or chose to ignore me. He straightened his horn-rimmed glasses with a trembling hand.

  “We can’t talk here. We need more privacy.”

  Without another word, he stood, turned, and walked away. I got up and traipsed after him, still nursing my coffee. I followed him to his office, I assumed for privacy, which didn’t make a whole lot of sense.

  Read-Out was a modern-thinking business, i.e. no doors on offices or communal spaces. Employees were expected to be open and non-secretive at all times, even unto their workspace. The exceptions to this ‘no door’ policy were the restrooms and the offices of the two founders, D. H. Collier and Craig Eastham. Upon reflection, given what I’d found in Collier’s desk, taking away his door might not have been a bad idea.

  We stepped over the threshold of Rameen’s small and unassuming workplace with a grand view of the parking lot. He went behind a modern, IKEA type black desk, the top of which held a laptop computer and over half a dozen framed photos of his family. I stood at the front of his desk and waited. I didn’t have long. Words exploded from him like Yellowstone’s Old Faithful and almost as wet.

  “Everything is missing, the chips, prototype, and tester. Without them there is no Read-Out. They were our only assets. We are ruined!”

  His voice rose on the word ‘ruined’ and he looked over my shoulder to see if anyone else had heard him. I turned, too, following his example. One of the ubiquitous geeks walked past his office, deep in conversation on his phone.

  Satisfied he hadn’t been heard, Rameen focused on me once again. The normally soft caramel color of his face took on a mottled, ruddy look. I thought he might have a heart attack on the spot.

  “What are you talking about? What’s missing and from where?”

  Without uttering another word, Rameen unlocked and opened the bottom drawer of his desk. He pulled out a large shoebox labeled Clarke’s Walk-Abouts, set it on the desk as if it were the Holy Grail, and took the lid off. Gentle hands belying his otherwise tense state, unfolded white tissue paper. Nine by six inches of something shimmered up at me in a textured, iridescent hue. He picked up the top paper-thin layer by the edges and displayed it to me.

  “Do you know what these are?”

  “Looks like computer chips. Only smaller than what I’ve seen.”

  “The box could hold around two hundred thousand dollars worth of chips. What’s in here now is worth over ten. I’ve never asked you before, because it wasn’t pertinent to what you were doing. How much do you know about the manufacturing process, itself?”

  I hesitated. It’s hard to admit when you’re a dummy. “I’m sure there are holes in my knowledge. Why don’t you start at the beginning, and if you get condescending, I’ll let you know.”

  �
��Very well. It’s done by a process called semiconductor device fabrication, used to create the integrated circuits that are present in nearly every device we use. It is a multiple-step sequence of photolithographic and chemical processing during which electronic circuits are gradually created on a wafer made of pure semiconducting material, usually silicon. Are you with me?“

  “Not really, but go ahead.”

  “The entire manufacturing process, from start to finish, takes six to eight weeks and is performed in highly specialized facilities.”

  “Those are called fabs, right?” I was relieved to know something.

  “Correct. What I am holding in my hands are the results - all that are left - copies of the prototype chip. These chips are smaller and more powerful than anything currently on the market.”

  After his burst of pride in the product, he leaned across his desk thrusting his face into mine in one quick, jerky movement. I instinctively took a step backward. His concentration was such he didn’t notice my reaction but went on in a hoarse whisper.

  “The prototype is missing from David’s office.”

  “For clarification purposes, Rameen, David is what friends called D. H. Collier; it was his first name. You’re not talking about someone else?”

  He pulled back with a look of confusion. “Yes, of course. David felt the D. H. gave him a certain image to the outside world. For those of us who worked closely with him, we called him David.”

  “Good ‘nuff. Back to the prototype.”

  “It’s worth several million dollars. It should have been in David’s wall safe and it’s not.” Rameen’s left eye began to twitch.

  “Did you check his desk?”

  “I went through the drawers, but he wouldn’t leave something worth millions of dollars out where anyone could take it.”

  “No, they’d have to be good at Chinese Puzzles.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. I’ll look, myself, although I didn’t see anything like that on the first go-round.”

  “As if that wasn’t enough,” he said, his eyes blinking rapidly, “when I was leaving David’s office I got a call from security. All the computer chips fabricated from the prototype are also missing from storage, along with the tester.”