False Profits

by Patricia Smiley

“No, thanks,” I said. “I can’t stay long.”

  “Well, then, I think I’ll have some myself.”

  I followed her to a coffee station next to the sink in the storage room and watched as she poured java into the Worrier Princess cup. The handle had been glued back on; you couldn’t tell it had ever been broken.

  “One of the reasons I stopped by,” I said, “was to ask if you still had any of the NeuroMed business plans here at the office. The original is missing, and I wondered if it was sent to Dr. Polk by mistake.”

  She thought for a moment as she emptied a bag of sugar and a heaping spoonful of creamer into her cup and stirred it with a plastic stick.

  “No. I don’t remember anything like that, but I didn’t open the box when it came, and Dr. Polk took it away that same day. It was a long time ago.”

  Yeah, six weeks was an eternity, all right. I had better recall of my flossing history. She took a paper napkin and carefully wiped away a spill and a few sugar granules.

  “By the way,” I said, “I left my car keys here yesterday. When I came back to get them, I found a man in Dr. Polk’s office, looking through his files.”

  Her back was toward me, so I couldn’t see her expression, but her answer came back in an artificially light and airy tone.

  “Probably Dr. Hernandez,” she said.

  “No. It was a man named Wade Covington. Happen to know how he got in?”

  She seemed almost relieved as she turned toward me. “Oh, Mr. Covington. He has a key.”

  My eyebrows darted up in surprise. “Really? Dr. Polk never told me Covington was connected with the Center.”

  “He isn’t,” she said. “He’s a friend of Dr. Polk’s. I hope you’re not thinking he tried to steal something, because I can assure you—”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “I’m not saying that at all. Somebody did kind of leave a mess in your office, though, but it was probably the cleaning people. But don’t worry, I straightened things up.”

  She bit her lip and frowned. “You shouldn’t have—”

  “No problem. Funny thing, though. I came across a patient chart with my name on it.”

  Maybe it was the steam from the coffee, but I thought I detected a film of moisture collecting on her upper lip. She went back to sprucing up the coffee station until it could have passed an FDA inspection.

  “What a coincidence,” she said.

  “Yeah, it’s such an uncommon name.”

  “Maybe it was a typo.”

  “Gosh,” I said caustically. “The whole name?”

  “Well, I can check it for you, if you’d like.”

  I followed Francine back to her office, where she pulled out a breadboard-type tray from above the top drawer of the desk. Taped to it was what looked like an employee address list. She set down the coffee, entered my last name on her computer keyboard, and pressed search. There were several Sinclairs, but no Tuckers, not even any Ts.

  “We have several doctors dictating test results,” she said. “Some of them are hard to understand. Maybe when Janet was setting up the file, she misunderstood and typed the wrong name. I’ll see it gets corrected.”

  Part of me wanted to believe that the name was a transcription error, because, the truth was, her explanation sounded plausible, but I had serious doubts. In any event, Francine would find out soon enough that the Tucker chart wasn’t in the drawer anymore.

  “By the way,” I said, “do you still use a service to process your insurance claims?”

  Her face blanched under the heavy makeup. “Yes.” She walked toward the door and added, “Is there anything else? I have a lot of work to do.”

  “Just one more question. Ever hear of a company called Sunland Manufacturing?”

  Francine crossed her arms and wrinkled her brow in thought.

  “Did you say Sunland? It’s such a common-sounding name, isn’t it?” she said. “Sunland . . . Sunland . . . No, I don’t think so.”

  “Maybe one of your patients works there?” I said.

  She gave me a controlled chuckle that was meant to sound convivial but, in fact, struck me as just the opposite. “I wish I could remember every patient’s employment history, but I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you.”

  What disappointed me was that her nose didn’t grow like Pinocchio’s, because I was pretty sure she was lying.

  I returned the false jolly smile. “Don’t worry, we’ll talk again. Maybe I can come up with something that jogs your memory.”

  What I didn’t say was that the next time we chatted, I planned to have enough information on Sunland Manufacturing to know if Francine was lying, even without the help of a long wooden nose. Unfortunately, there was only one place, other than my office, where I could find that kind of information: Eric Bergstrom’s computer. I just hoped that my ex-husband wouldn’t be a pill about helping me out.

  MY EX WORKS for a company with computer databases that put the FBI’s to shame. The investment bankers at Cohen, Luna & Davoodian discovered early in their careers that he who has the most information wins. If CLD didn’t have information on Sunland and the other Tucker Sinclair, it didn’t exist.

  Eric’s office is in Century City, which comprises several large square blocks of high-rise buildings between Santa Monica and Olympic Boulevards, nestled between Beverly Hills and West Los Angeles. It was the former back lot of 20th Century Fox Studios, sold to developers to recoup some of the heavy losses suffered when the big-budget movie Cleopatra flopped at the box office. Now it’s a Westside alternative to downtown. It’s organized, impeccably groomed, and self-contained, kind of like Eric. I parked in the garage and headed up the elevator to the twenty-sixth floor.

  Cohen et al. is a perennial favorite on the Architectural and Design Tour of Los Angeles. Its art collection alone commands respect, even if you don’t know Hockney from hackneyed. The elevator doors opened. My shoes clicked across the pink marble tiles and then sank silently into the plush rose and aqua floral carpet of the expansive lobby.

  The receptionist was new, one of a long line of well-dressed young women with flawless skin and perfect makeup who typically adorned the firm’s entryway. This one was slightly plump. Management must have relaxed its hiring practices. Usually the company recruited employees based primarily on low body fat. I asked for Eric. She whispered something into the telephone receiver and then told me to have a seat.

  Eric and I had become friends while attending UCLA business school. I was attracted to him because he was the only man I’d ever met who could reach my good china without a step stool. I liked that in a man. By the time we realized that our relationship was closer to sibling rivalry than romantic love, we were married. But too much of our passion was channeled into career building, not relationship building, and both of us had done things we regretted. After the divorce, there had been some competitive wounding, but eventually we both realized that it took too much effort to keep track of who did what to whom, so we went back to being friends—at least, most of the time.

  While I waited, I studied a brass plaque on the antique cherry reception desk that read, No packages on the desk. I hate whiny signage, but I didn’t have time to get too worked up about it, because Eric’s tall, lanky body materialized, escorting a petite woman with cinnamon-colored hair who was carrying a clunky lawyer briefcase. She was a client, no doubt. She reminded me of the sweet but frail ingenue who gets instant audience sympathy in those disease-of-the-moment movies. The elevator door had just closed when he spotted me and waved.

  As he walked over, I noticed those familiar bushy eyebrows that kept his face from being branded pretty. They looked different somehow. As though they were pasted to his forehead. His warm smile looked the same, though, and that, he was flashing just for me.

  “Tucker, hi. I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

  “Me, too,” I said, trying to look unrushed. “Let’s go to your office.”

  He hesitated. “I’m expecting a new client. Maybe we could meet af
ter work for a drink.”

  “That would be good, but see, I need this favor right now, and it’s really, really important.”

  Eric rolled his eyes and raked his fingers through his Rodeo Drive haircut—usually a bad sign, but this time he surprised me. He sighed and nodded for me to follow.

  The view from Eric’s window was spectacular, and I wondered if I’d ever have one at Aames & Associates to match his. The early morning fog hadn’t traveled as far as Century City, but the sky was overcast with puffy gray clouds dense as cigarette smoke on a flight to Tokyo.

  Eric closed the door and settled into his luxurious leather chair at his pricey mahogany desk, which held his classy Mont Blanc pen and a tacky Proud-to-Be-a-Gopher coffee mug from his undergraduate days at the University of Minnesota.

  “So, what gives?” he said.

  I didn’t want to come right out and ask to use his computer. He’d say no. So I decided to use a little investment banking patois and ask his opinion about the fake Internet idea. That would get his juices flowing. It wouldn’t take him long to say fuhgeddaboudit, which was good. Eric was a bit of a pessimist, and there was nothing that improved his disposition faster than dashing somebody’s hopes.

  I willed my face to look earnest. “What would you say to a person who wanted to raise twenty-five million dollars in venture capital for a new high-tech company that had revolutionary medical software and plans for a splashy IPO?”

  “That’s a little sketchy. Is this the company’s first time for venture capital financing?”

  “Yep.”

  “Twenty-five sounds high, then. The percentage of VC dollars invested in first-time borrowers hit an eight-year low in the first quarter. It’s rebounded somewhat, but I’m not even cautiously optimistic that the situation will get much better than it is, at least, not for a while.”

  “What about eleven million?”

  “Still sounds high, but if the company’s hot, I guess it’s possible. Venture capitalists are cautious right now, but they’re still investing four billion dollars a quarter. Most of that goes to software companies. Biotechnology is second, but money going to the medical devices sector shot up fifty-four percent in the second quarter, so who knows?”

  “So, if this somebody told you he’d raised eleven million in, say, six weeks, you’d believe him?”

  “I suppose he could get any amount if he asked the right people.”

  “Wow. That’s impressive.”

  He looked puzzled. “So, is that the favor you wanted? If so, I don’t get it. You have access to all of this information. Why are you asking me?”

  “I just like to get your take on things, that’s all.” Eric’s hands were clasped in front of him on the desk. He was looking at me with a sweet but pained expression. “Why are you staring at me like that?” I went on. “You look like you swallowed a guppy.”

  “I was just thinking: Here you are again, coming to me for advice. It’s like when we were together.”

  I paused, wondering what he was up to. “Um . . . yeah,” I said. “So what’s your point?”

  “I don’t know. Don’t you find that unique? Isn’t that something that’s usually reserved for people in committed relationships?”

  I studied his face. Something was bothering me. “We have a committed relationship, Eric. We’re friends.”

  “I know,” he said, “but I mean, really committed.”

  “Hey, just because we’re not sleeping together doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be there for each other.”

  He hesitated, as if searching for the next sentence. “It’s just . . . I’ve been thinking a lot lately about being part of a couple. How that feels. How you don’t need anybody, or, for that matter, even want anybody else in your life. I miss that, don’t you?”

  I didn’t want to bring it up, but lately I’d been more worried about cell mates than soul mates. I tried to figure out what he was hinting at, but the only thing I could think of was that he was misinterpreting my stress about the Whitener business as “lonely and depressed woman needs man to make her life complete.” I hoped he wasn’t thinking of setting me up with one of his well-groomed friends.

  “Frankly, Eric,” I said sincerely, “I’d have to say no, I don’t miss it.”

  “Really? You’ve never thought about taking the plunge again?”

  I must have looked worse than I thought. Either that, or everybody in my life was flipping out.

  “You have some great personal insights, Eric, but can’t we talk about this some other time, because I know your client’s coming in a few minutes, and I need to take a quick peek at your database.”

  His mouth opened and closed a couple of times, but no words jarred loose. Finally, he leaned back in his chair and let out a deep, frustrated sigh.

  “You know that information is not available to the public.”

  “The public? Oh, come on, Eric. I’m hardly the public.”

  “Every time I log on it’s recorded,” he said. “I practically had to sign a blood oath before they gave me a password. Look at your own files.”

  “Yours are better,” I said. “Besides, I’m on my way to an important meeting and yours are also closer.”

  “Well, that’s certainly more creative than the truth,” he said, “but the answer is still no. Luna is paranoid about privacy and leaks.”

  “Okay, I understand.”

  He paused and arched one eyebrow in mock disbelief that I was caving in so early in the game. I studied that eyebrow more closely, and that’s when I knew something was wrong.

  “Eric, what happened to your eyebrows?”

  “Nothing.” His tone was defensive.

  “Something is different. What did you do?”

  “Tucker, I don’t have time for this nonsense. I have to get ready for my next client.”

  Then it dawned on me. “Omigod! You got them tweezed. Who did this to you, honey? A pet groomer? They look like corgis with a crew cut.”

  He let out a big, loud sigh. “You never change, do you?”

  Just then, “Für Elise” interrupted our conversation. It was the ringer on Eric’s cell phone. He glanced at the incoming telephone number on the display panel and answered with a cautious hello. His side of the conversation went something like this: “Uh-huh . . . I can’t really talk right now. Can I call you back? . . . I don’t know. Can’t it wait? . . . (sigh) . . . Okay, just a minute.” Eric stood and walked toward the door as if he’d forgotten I was in the room.

  “Oh, Eric, I’m sorry,” I said in mock dismay. “Please don’t go. I’ll be nice, I promise.”

  He wasn’t amused. He tucked the cell phone in his armpit to muffle his reply. “Look, Tucker, I have to take this call. If you really want to be nice, you won’t touch anything while I’m gone. I’ll be right outside in the hallway, so don’t get any bright ideas.”

  Eric hurried from the room, closing the door behind him. I sat in the chair for a few moments, mentally kicking myself for failing at my mission to get into his database. I hated losing my touch. In the midst of all that self-flagellation, my eyes swept the room. I couldn’t help but notice that I was alone. Alone with Eric’s computer. I needed that Sunland/Tucker information, and this felt like an opportunity. I slipped quietly out of the chair and cracked open the door to see if Eric was still on the phone. He not only wasn’t on the phone, he wasn’t even in the hallway. Liar, liar, pants on fire. I wondered who he was talking to and why he needed so much privacy. Whatever. I didn’t have time to speculate, so I closed the door and jogged to his desk.

  The Cohen, Luna & Davoodian logo flitted across the screen as I positioned myself in front of the computer screen. Password, password. To a less creative person this glitch might have presented a problem, but this was me figuring out Eric. I won’t say he was predictable, but being married to him meant never having to say, “Oh, honey, what a surprise.” Besides, I knew he kept it in a file marked passwords, right next to his supply of Nut Goodies candy bars. I f
ound the file and the password right away, and while I was in the drawer, I slipped a couple of bars into my purse for Venus. Eric would never miss them, and she’d be in chocolate heaven.

  The computer program was similar to mine at work, so it didn’t take long to get in and find my name. There were no liens, judgments, or bankruptcies filed against me. I wasn’t a sexual offender. That was good news. In fact, I had no criminal record at all—yet. My house was listed under my name with the tax assessor, but not for long if Aunt Sylvia had anything to say about it. But as far as I could see, I was the only Tucker Sinclair living in Southern California, maybe the world.

  Sunland Manufacturing was a little trickier to find, but it was there. It was a privately owned company in Santa Fe Springs. The question was, why did they need a post office box in Beverly Hills, which was a good twenty-five miles away? According to its profile, Sunland manufactured and sold medical equipment under the brand name Medcomac. Some of these products, I knew from my research, were experimental and not supported by the medical community, let alone the insurance industry. Big risk. Sunland had employed about 1,150 employees nationwide until nine months ago, when they’d filed for Chapter 11 in bankruptcy court. Now they were down to a fraction of that number. The CEO was listed as Bernard Cole.

  I checked my watch. Eric could be back any minute. I had to hurry. I clicked around until I located Cole’s name under Who’s Who in California. He was a bootstraps kind of guy. Vietnam vet, community activist in a slew of organizations—some sounded political; most sounded conservative. He had no ties to Milton Polk that I could find, which was disappointing. Time was running out. I was getting ready to print a hard copy when I heard two men talking in the hallway.

  “You’ll like Eric. Hard as nails. Nothing fazes him.” I recognized the familiar lisp of Arturo Luna, Mr. Paranoia. The man with him must be the client Eric was expecting. If Luna found me here, I’d be in big trouble. I quickly logged off and hoped the sound of my heart thumping wouldn’t give me away.

  I eased open the door and saw the two men standing a few feet away. Luna was pointing out his latest acquisition, a large oil painting that looked like Picasso on speed. I waited until both their backs were turned, quietly slipped into the hallway, and retraced my steps through the lobby past a well-dressed man in a charcoal suit reading The Economist.