Suicide Season

by Rex Burns

  “You look very nice.”

  “Thank you.” The color deepened. “It’s the first time I’ve been out since the funeral. But it’s all right, isn’t it? This is a business meeting, after all.”

  “Of course it’s all right.” I asked about the visit to the zoo and listened while I drove as she detailed what the children saw and did and said. It interested her, certainly, and it was good to hear the animation in her voice and to see her gradually lean back against the seat, tired from the effort but now relaxing and satisfied with the knowledge that she had given her children a day they would remember with pleasure.

  “I’m boring you. Nothing’s so boring as hearing a mother talk about her children.”

  “I’m not bored—I like kids.” Which was true, and in fact I’ve occasionally wondered lately what kind of society we have when a statement like that has to be offered as an apology. It should be a given: an adult likes kids because they’re the future, the continuity of life. But maybe that was the problem: kids did represent human life, a thing that so many adults were increasingly careless about—their own as well as others’. “I remember the elephants from when I was a kid. How they loomed up there against the sky and yet moved so smoothly and big and carefully as if they were afraid of stepping on me. It was always kind of surprising to look up that big gray hairy side and see an eye stare back at me.”

  We told other things that we remembered from childhood in the way that one memory will lead to another, and by the time I pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant, she was laughing. It was a very nice laugh, one that didn’t get used enough, and one I enjoyed watching as well as hearing.

  I’d chosen a restaurant close to the Belcaro compound, and we arrived just before the evening’s rush. After ordering a glass of wine, we took our time with the menu.

  She sipped and glanced around the tables slowly filling with diners. “Austin and I used to come here often.”

  I have to admit to a little twinge way down deep, very like something Bunch would laugh at as jealousy. But there was no reason for it, and I told myself it was only the normal distaste any man feels at being a surrogate for another. “So what do you recommend?”

  We talked a bit about the menu and favorite dishes and other restaurants we’d enjoyed, and by the time the waiter, breezy and familiar, took our orders and the request from the wine list, the conversation had drifted over to likes and dislikes in books and theater.

  “Before I forget—” She handed me a brown mailing envelope that bulged at one end with a wad of loose contents. It had been opened and resealed with tape. “I’m not sure what’s in it. I looked inside when it came, and when I saw what it was I didn’t feel like going through it. And then I just forgot about it.”

  “Thanks. I’ll get it back to you in a few days.”

  “Do you think it might help?”

  “I don’t know. It’s more information than I had earlier. But even if he was guilty, I doubt that he would have made any contacts with Aegis from his office. Let alone put anything in writing. Still, it’s best to look at all of it.”

  “I hope … Well, we’ll see what you come up with.”

  I had a good idea what she hoped, and I hoped so too. “Maybe you can help me unravel his appointment book. I brought a list of initials and first names that I don’t recognize. Do any of them mean anything to you?”

  She studied the sheet of paper and I studied her: the clean, delicate lines of her profile, her unconscious grace of movement, the classical delicacy of her slender neck, her shiny, black hair swinging loosely against her cheeks as she bent over the paper. “This one—Bob—that’s probably Bob Schwartz.” She looked up to meet my eyes gazing at her and the dark of her pupils widened suddenly. “What’s the matter?”

  “Not a thing. I was just admiring you.”

  “Oh.” She quickly turned back to the list and said, “Thank you.” Then, in a different voice, “Ron Stewart. He’s a land-use planner. I remember Austin had to meet with him a lot.”

  “Working for the city?”

  “No. The company. They were laying out the Columbine project and I remember that Austin was worried about the size of the lots. Ron wanted them smaller so there would be more to market and the cost of service units could be cut. Austin was pushing for larger sections that would offer a little more for the money and make a more attractive overall design.”

  “That decision would come pretty early in the project, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes, but it’s the only issue I remember them arguing over. The later meetings were on more routine things: the layout of services, drainage, commons areas.” A crispness came into her tone when she spoke of her husband’s business.

  “You know a lot about it.”

  “Austin and I often talked about the job. Sometimes I was able to make a helpful suggestion.” Her fork absently pushed against the fish. “I miss that. A lot of things I expected to feel—and I have. But I’m surprised at how much I miss sharing Austin’s work, even only what he brought home.” She smiled quietly. “God knows, I love my children, and I know how much they need me. Especially now. But I think I’ve just discovered that I’ve been increasingly bored.” Those green eyes met mine again. “I don’t know whether to thank you for that or not.”

  “Margaret, darling, you look simply wonderful!”

  A fashionably thin blonde leaned over the table to peck at Margaret’s cheek.

  “Elaine—good to see you. How’s Jerry?”

  “Oh, same as ever—you know Jerry.” She gestured behind her. “He’s over there now. We weren’t sure it was you.” She smiled at me, and Margaret made the introductions. “Please don’t stand up—oh my! Maybe you should; you’re a big one, aren’t you?” She glanced knowingly at Margaret. “Well, I just wanted to apologize for not having dropped by since—ah—the funeral. But it seems like only yesterday—I mean time goes by so quickly, doesn’t it, darling? It’s so nice to see you out and enjoying yourself, dear.”

  “Mr. Kirk is—”

  “In securities. I’m trying to convince Mrs. Haas to make some safe investments with her settlement.”

  “That’s a wonderful idea. One can’t be too safe, can one? We simply must get together for lunch, Margaret.” She smiled widely once more at both of us before picking her way back to a table where, through the dimness, a man’s vague face smiled our way and a hand lifted briefly.

  “He works for McAllister, too?”

  “Jerry Ewald. He’s an architect in the design section. He was on the Lake Center project. We used to see a lot of them before Austin died.”

  “And nothing since.”

  She sipped her wine. “That’s one of the things I expected. I read somewhere that a widow becomes an outcast. At least they don’t practice suttee.”

  “Maybe not physically. But I suspect I’ve provided an item for the gossip mill. I apologize—I didn’t think of that when I chose this restaurant.”

  “Nor should you have. And there’s no reason to feel guilty, is there?”

  “Of course not.”

  She identified a few more names and several sets of initials, among them the J.E. of Jerry Ewald sitting across the room, and I made notes beside the entries. Although, by the time the meal ended, most of the references still remained blank, there was at least something to get started with.

  The ride back through the evening streets was a quick one and for the most part silent, though not uncomfortable. At the door, Margaret sounded sincere when she said she’d had a very nice time. “It was good to talk to an adult for a change. And to laugh at something besides the children’s jokes.”

  “I’d like to do it again.”

  Something like a wince shadowed her face and she gazed out past the glare of the lamp beside the entry toward the cluster of lights that marked the distant neighboring house. “That would be nice. But … this sounds presumptuous … I really don’t want to rush anything. There’s still so much turmoil. And Austin—
young Austin—still hurts so much … “

  “I understand. But we have to get together for business meetings occasionally. They might as well be pleasant.”

  We both smiled at that.

  I spread the contents of Haas’s desk across the top of my own, placing items in loosely organized rows. Tacked behind me on the cork board that formed one wall was a list of Haas’s known and anonymous contacts as noted by calendar and appointment book. Now the job was to spot linkages between the dead man’s activities, to build a network that would fill in the man’s life for the six months or so preceding his death. There were holes in the method; as I told Margaret, if her husband had been trying to hide something, he wouldn’t be likely to record it where it could be found. But so far it was all we had to go on, and a lot of men with a lot of experience in espionage had made the types of mistakes that could be turned up with this kind of sifting.

  In time, the correlations sketched by the computer began to emerge and I could picture Haas’s role in the company, as well as the people—a number still only initials or first names—he had met with. As expected, one group centered around the Columbine project, and the other around the Lake Center one. At several key points, Haas was the liaison between the two. And, like a handful of others in the company, he was one of the few whose overview put him in touch with all of the major components making up the team for each project. There was, of course, the possibility that one of these handful was the real thief—one of those that McAllister had put off-limits to my initial investigation: Dana Prescott, head of the Budget Office; Mark Trilling of Legal; Allan Fallico, construction supervisor; Bob Schwartz of Land Use; Howard Eberlein, Purchasing. Add each man’s secretarial staff, those who would have handled the top-echelon correspondence and documents, and you had a platoon of possible suspects. But only one had committed suicide, and the idea was to find out if that one was guilty or not.

  There were gaps in the network, but general patterns surfaced, and it was with some satisfaction that I began to figure out a few of the cryptic notations: “CIV w/ J on D”—”Columbine, phase IV, part D with J(erry) Ewald or J(ohnson).” It was probably Johnson in Accounting because, according to McAllister, the fourth phase of the development was the final cost-analysis stage where the various architectural plans would be submitted to Purchasing and Accounting for a last check on estimated costs. This would have been Section D of the project, which could have been a major building, or roads and drainage, or sewage and conduits. Whatever it was, Haas began to meet with “J” often in the final two weeks.

  A third group of names and initials remained, a list of unattributed references that I had gone over once and set aside to look at after tracing out the known details. If any of the material held real promise, this did; and I was just turning to it when a familiar thunder rang on the iron stairs. A moment later Bunch came in to glance over the papers spread across the desk.

  “Ah, for the exciting life of a detective—glamour, travel, romance!”

  “System, detail, and luck.” I explained my findings.

  “You’re doing better than I am.”

  “No correlations on the tapes?”

  “Sure. Lots. What I don’t have is any kind of pattern yet. I’ll program it a few different ways and see what comes up. Anything here you want me to start feeding in?”

  “I suppose we should start listing the identified references.” Computers had taken the place of file drawers, contact cards, and—in many ways—notebooks. They were great for the retrieval and collation of information, but somebody still had to punch each item into the system. “Here’s the list I have so far. What’s the best way of programming it?”

  Bunch glanced at the sheet. “No sweat. I’ll code it so we can move it around wherever we want to. What’d you find out last night?”

  “A few more names. And this is the stuff Bartlett cleaned out of Haas’s desk. Most of it’s junk.”

  “Most? What’s not?”

  I showed him a small slip of paper whose rough edge said it had been torn from a memo book. “These initials, ‘D.N.’ I haven’t found any other reference to them anywhere yet.” The page was sharply creased as if it had been folded and pressed in a book or wallet.

  “There’s a phone number beside the initials.”

  “I know.”

  Bunch sucked a squeak of air between his teeth. “All right, smartass. Whose number is it?”

  I pressed the Play button on the tape recorder that routinely monitored our calls. A bell rattled once and a male voice, unhurried and authoritative, said “Hello.” My voice asked, “Is Mr. Bunchcroft there?” The voice said “Who?” Then, “No. You’ve got the wrong number,” and hung up.

  “Why the hell’d you ask for me?”

  “I knew you wouldn’t be there. Besides, nobody knows who you are.”

  “That’s only because I seek neither fame nor glory. Humble worker in the vineyard, that’s me.”

  I slid the paper toward him. “Can the humble worker stomp this grape?”

  The paper folded and almost disappeared between Bunch’s thick fingers. “It shouldn’t cost too much.”

  “Or take much time, right?” I glanced at my watch and grabbed my coat off the rack. “Gotta run—tight social schedule.”

  Bunch’s voice followed me out the door, “I don’t want to eat at Gianelli’s anyway!”

  The restaurant was another of those that had moved into a refurbished building in lower downtown, marking the tentative return of life to that corner of the city between Larimer and the railroad yards. After almost fifty years of neglect, the old brick façades with their cast-iron and plaster decorations had been rediscovered, and here and there along the narrow sidewalk wooden construction fences and pedestrian tunnels marked additional remodeling. The restaurant was in an ugly, square building of narrow frontage, and its only advertisement was the green awning that reached the street and bore GIANELLI’S RESTAURANT in white block letters. On each side were buildings equally stark and still used for commerce. Gianelli—Bob Hirschorn to his friends—had told me with a straight face that the plain exterior wasn’t just an economy measure but a deliberate contrast to the Victorian interior and its atmosphere of muted opulence. It was. A wide stairway led between gleaming brass rails up from the tiled entry to the reception desk, and a new maitre d’ with a thin mustache made me wait while he concentrated on his appointment book and seating chart. Finally he looked up. “Yes, sir—do you have a reservation?”

  “Kirk. For two.”

  “Oh, yes.” The mustache stiffened in a smile. “The lady has already arrived. This way, please.”

  “I’m sorry I’m late—let me apologize with a drink.” Carrie Busey had dark blond hair that tumbled to her shoulders in stiffly sprayed curls, and cool gray eyes made larger by the wide glasses balanced on a small nose. Sculpted was the word that came to mind. She had the symmetrical evenness of a model and a smoothness of skin that hesitated to show either smile or frown. While we waited for the drinks, I thanked her for coming and she said it was all right, and that’s about all she did say until after the bar waiter had set the cold glasses in front of us. Then at last she looked up at me.

  “I only came because I do not believe that Austin killed himself, Mr. Kirk.”

  “Oh?”

  She stirred the tiny straw that disappeared into a frosty gin and tonic. “He wasn’t the type to do that.”

  I pooled the martini’s sharp flavor on my tongue for a moment. Tanqueray gin, dry and up, and the smooth blend said Leila was at the bar. “People often do things that surprise us. Even people we think we know well.”

  “I was his secretary for five years.” She looked at me without blinking and added, “And his lover for four.”

  “I see.”

  “I knew him better than anyone else. Even his wife. He would not kill himself.”

  “Are you ready to order, Mr. Kirk?”

  The tuxedo at my shoulder was a welcome interruption. I
had come believing I knew what to ask Miss Busey, but she had come with something entirely different to say. And her coolness in doing it was unsettling. I asked George what he recommended from today’s menu but only half-listened to his answer. When he’d gathered the ornate cards and headed for the kitchen, I turned to Carrie Busey.

  “Did Mrs. Haas know of your relationship?”

  “I don’t think Austin told her. But she knew. She went out of her way to be generous to me every Christmas.”

  There were ironies in that which I would have to ponder later. “Was Haas planning to divorce her?”

  “No. Nor did I expect it. The children … the job … No.”

  “He told you that?”

  “He didn’t have to. I was happy with things the way they were, Mr. Kirk. Austin and I could be together periodically, and I had plenty of time for myself.” Her head tilted as if she just realized something, and a glint of thin humor came into her eyes. “I’m not one of those women who can define herself only with a man. I do have a life of my own. And if I wanted to go to bed with anyone—you, for instance, Mr. Kirk—I would choose you. Not vice versa.”

  I believed her. “You chose Haas?”

  “We chose each other.”

  “Still, there must have been pressures on him, especially if his wife suspected something.”

  “He could handle pressure. It’s one of the things I admired most about him.”

  “Suppose there were other pressures?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Behind the round lenses, her eyes had gone flat and I guessed she knew what I meant. “Suppose he thought someone suspected him of selling corporate secrets?”

  “You mean to the Aegis Group?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve heard those rumors.” The blond hair stiffly wagged no. “Austin would have fought. He was a very strong man—he could not have gotten where he was without being strong and aggressive and capable. He thrived under pressure, Mr. Kirk. That’s what I’m trying to make you see. I worked with him, side by side, in some very chaotic and demanding crises, and not once was his will shaken. Not once did he lose his nerve.”