Suicide Season

by Rex Burns

  I held out my cup for a splash. “Any prints?”

  “Too many. Mostly smeared and overlapping. It sat in the lot a long time before they made the connection with the Haas assault. I don’t think they’re going to get anything from it.”

  “Where was it stolen?”

  “Over at City Park. Some picnickers left the key in it and when they finished their beer and Frisbee, lo—it had disappeared.”

  “No leads at all, then?”

  “Only our well-founded suspicions.”

  “A stolen car and a hit-and-run—it does sound like a familiar m.o.”

  We were both thinking about the same thing: the meeting this afternoon with Neeley. The man would probably have someone with him—a driver, perhaps, who also provided muscle. But he had been told to come to the site alone. We’d picked the spot because it was a long, open walk away from the closest parking; and with Bunch a short pistol-shot away hidden in the bushes along the creek, there would not be any way to sneak up on me. I hoped. That part we would have to play as it came, and I could feel the nervousness begin to build in my taut neck and shoulders as I thought about it. Bunch must have felt the same way, because he stretched his back, his spine giving a muffled rattle of pops when he laced his fingers behind his head and pressed. But there was no sense worrying now; things had been set in motion, and time—measured by the tiny pulse of my watch—steadily passed. I made a call to one of the home security companies whose work I trusted and told them exactly what I wanted installed at Margaret’s, and how soon. Then I turned to the day’s paperwork and tried to focus on it. But I wasn’t really successful, and it was a relief when the telephone broke into what could laughingly be called my concentration.

  “Devlin, lad, it’s Percy. How many feet of snow are you under this fine day?”

  “It’s barely up to the window, Perce. Of course we’re on the second floor.”

  “Ah, it’s not the snow that’s piling up, but something else I think. I have some information on your Professor Michael Loomis, late of the hallowed halls of Columbia University. There’s a bit of a story about the good professor, one that not too many people wanted to air to old Percy’s ear.”

  I motioned to Bunch and flipped on the phone’s speaker and tape recorder. “What’d you find out?”

  “It seems the professor was something of an embarrassment to the grand institution, a bit of poison ivy, so to speak, and they were all too happy to give him a fine recommendation to be able to send him on his way to greener pastures. Saved embarrassment all around.”

  “What kind of embarrassment?”

  “Apparently the gentleman used his classes as a means of industrial espionage—something along your line, Dev.”

  “Espionage?”

  “Clever. Ingenious, in fact. Thoroughly admirable technique. It seems that the students in his graduate courses came from a variety of business backgrounds, and most of them were working and attending their classes at night. All Horatio Algers stuffing down the American Dream as promised in the Wall Street Journal, and burning the midnight oil in the pursuit of knowledge and self-betterment.”

  “I understand, Perce—I get the picture. What about Loomis?”

  “Patience, Dev—you always were an impetuous lad. To fully understand the beauty of this scam, you have to envision these students: eager to grasp that next rung, anxious to please the good professor, proud of their achievements in the companies they served so well, wanting—in short—to do the best possible work in order to further their bright careers as administrators and managers and ultimately captains of their massive corporations.”

  “I envision them.”

  “Good. Now envision the professor: brilliant in his field, witty, very demanding but avuncular nonetheless. And oh so insistent on high-quality and up-to-date research. Insistent that the research be based on the real world—the world, in short, of the students’ own occupations.”

  “He made them raid their companies?”

  “Ah-ah—he guided their research, Dev. A pointed question here, a request for amplification and expansion there, a well-done-but-couldn’t-we-broaden-it-a-bit now and then. They did the work for him, and he picked their corporate brains like a branchful of plums. Eager, they gave him the secrets of their companies, and not one of the poor bastards realized what he was doing. Not one, that is, except for that mad Armenian you put me onto, Mr. Sharabigian.”

  “You found him?”

  “Not without exercise. But when I did, he was a veritable volcano of information about Loomis, spewing flaming epithets and hot nuggets of information. He made crystal clear why such an important and busy and richly successful collection of professors like the Columbia University School of Business was so eager to say nothing about one of their cohorts. A little mud splashes a long way, you understand.”

  “He did a paper for Loomis?”

  “And what a paper! He did a market-and-development analysis for a new patented formula that his pharmaceutical firm was working on. Sharabigian is a whiz at computer programming, and he based his paper on the work he was doing—as his professor requested. But Professor Loomis didn’t like the first draft. Too many holes in it, he said. Not enough information about the product in question, he said. Without a clear idea of what was to be marketed, how could Mr. Sharabigian design a marketing evaluation and strategy for it, he said. So Mr. Sharabigian gave him more. And then more. And before he could say diddly-squat, his firm had lost its market because some Swiss pharmaceutical outfit announced the sale of exactly the same product.”

  “Loomis stole it?”

  “Sharabigian swears to it. Loomis, of course, swears he didn’t. Was very offended at the accusation, in fact, and had Mr. Sharabigian dismissed from the university on charges of moral turpitude. Nice touch, that. However, a decent period after all that died down, Professor Loomis announced his resignation from the faculty to pursue more lucrative fields elsewhere—out West, where all our crooks flee to start their new lives.”

  “Did you find a link between Loomis and the Swiss firm?”

  “I haven’t, no. That would take a lot of time and not a little expense, Dev. Right now, Sharabigian’s old company—he was fired by the pharmaceutical people and went to work for a computer firm that proceeded to go bust—and the Swiss company are fighting over the patent claims. Something might come out of that for you but it will take years. And most likely it’ll be settled out of court anyway; all drug companies have skeletons that they prefer not to dangle in the public eye of the courtroom. But I did manage to get the names of some other students of Loomis from that secretary you talked to. She has a very harsh tongue, by the way. I wonder if she’s related to my mother-in-law?”

  “Did you talk to them?”

  “A dozen or so. And two others had similar experiences, but it wasn’t until I mentioned the papers they did for Loomis that the parts fell together in their little brains. They had been robbed and didn’t even know it, and their companies had spent thousands looking for the industrial spy who somehow got the goodies. Needless to say, there were a few red faces and some very worried young executives who were eager that I not pursue the topic further.”

  I thanked Percy and offered to reimburse him for any expense. But he called it even for a favor I did him earlier. When the line clicked silent, I looked at Bunch, who stared back at me.

  “What the hell do we have here, Dev?”

  “A man who’s not all he seems.”

  “Or more than he seems. Loomis … Busey … Haas. It makes a neat triangle, doesn’t it?”

  I picked up the telephone and called McAllister’s direct line. His personal secretary asked me to hold on while she found out if Mr. McAllister was available. A few seconds later, the strong, brusque voice barked hello. “What do you have, Kirk?”

  “I’d like to ask you some questions about Professor Loomis, sir.”

  “Mike? What for?”

  “Some background information. I don’t know how
relevant it might be.”

  “All right. But make it quick—I’ve got a plane waiting.”

  “How long have you known him?”

  “About … four years now, I guess. I brought him in as a consultant in … May, four years ago. May seventh.”

  “Did he have anything to do with the Columbine or Lake Park projects?”

  “He did a projection on their short-term market potential. His specialty’s short-term growth analysis.”

  “Did he have access to the detailed plans?”

  “No. Just the final numbers. That’s all he needed for his work. What is this, Kirk? What are you fishing for?”

  “Just a few more questions, sir. Was he good friends with Austin Haas?”

  “They saw each other socially. He was Margaret’s professor one time back in New York, I believe.”

  “Have you ever had occasion to be suspicious of the professor?”

  “What?”

  “Is it possible that he and Austin Haas worked together to get the plans to Aegis?”

  “Hell no! What the hell are you trying to say, Kirk?”

  “His name was found in Carrie Busey’s purse, Mr. McAllister. I ran a routine check on him and found that he had been forced to resign from Columbia University because he was suspected of stealing corporate secrets from the papers his graduate students were writing for his classes. That’s what’s behind my questions.”

  There was a long silence and when McAllister finally spoke, his voice was low and taut with anger. “I know goddamned well what’s behind your questions, Kirk. You don’t like Loomis because you think he stole your father’s business. He told me all about that before he even brought you to me. And he told me about his name being in Busey’s purse, too. And, by God, he even told me about leaving Columbia because he felt the administration did not do enough to support him against some kind of accusation from a disgruntled student. He didn’t know why his name was in Busey’s purse, and I believe him. And I also believe he wouldn’t have his present position in the school of business if there was the slightest chance those old accusations were true. Those people over there aren’t fools, Kirk; they’re businessmen. And I’m no fool either. Now, by God, I won’t put up with anyone—you included—besmirching a man’s reputation with slanted questions and innuendo. You think I can’t judge a man? You think Mike or anyone else could blind-side me and I wouldn’t see through it? I wouldn’t be where the hell I am today if I was a pushover like that! By God, you’ve got another think coming, and here’s something else you’ve got coming: you’re fired. Your check will be in the mail for your services up to this second. Because as of now you are fired!”

  “Devlin,” sighed Bunch, “we’ve got to improve our customer relations.”

  Fired or not, we had Neeley to worry about now. Bunch and I drove slowly toward the west side of town where the long, narrow green of Bear Creek Park wound for miles between two major highways that flanked the small stream. On the north side was one of Denver’s sprawling residential areas, block after block of single homes with their patches of front yard cushioning them from the streets. On the south, the suburbs of Bow Mar and Lake wood and even parts of unincorporated Jefferson County held the same kinds of houses and shopping centers and schools and churches. In the distance, the snow that highlighted the ragged skyline of the Front Range was shifting from glaring white to softer blue as the westering sun shadowed the steep faces of the peaks. And over all—the mountains, the distant rows of homes whose roofs followed the rolling prairie, the billows of low trees along the creek, and the green of the park’s evenly mown grass—arced a clear blue sky that seemed both a short reach away and eternally deep. All in all, it wasn’t the kind of setting one thought of for meeting with a potential murderer.

  CHAPTER 15

  I SAT AT one of the concrete picnic tables scattered across the field. From somewhere beyond the high, green-tinted mesh surrounding the tennis courts came the hard ping of rackets and the scuff and squeak of tennis shoes pacing one of those cerebral games that substituted a lot of lobs and corner shots for a strong serve. The unseen players were serious, too, because the only other sounds were “long” or “net” or “out” without any of the howls or laughter that accompanies a light-hearted game. In fact, I could feel the tension of the combatants in the long, ping-filled silences between calls. Or perhaps I was just projecting the tension I felt while I sat and idly traced the initials carved into the table’s planks, and thought how nice it would be to run and sweat and worry only about reaching a spinning ball before it touched earth for the second time.

  Across the asphalt bike path, a thick screen of brush marked the creek, and, here and there, the bushes opened to muddy paths that led to the water, a shallow and mild turmoil over its rocky bed. Bunch was somewhere in there, a pair of binoculars and self-powered shotgun mike aimed at me. I had let him off a block away and pulled slowly into the almost empty parking lot by myself. Then, unhurried, I strolled around the area, gave an eye to the few possible places a man could hide, and looked to see if the tennis players seemed honest about their purpose. Finally I meandered over to the bench and settled at the table where I talked to myself in a conversational voice and gave Bunch a chance to test and adjust the mike against the screens of the tennis courts that—we hoped—would block out any background noise from the distant highway. And now, listening to that game echo around the other vacant courts, I waited.

  At precisely two minutes to the hour, a gray car cruised slowly through the lot, paused, then just as slowly pulled out again. The hour passed. Five after, and I began to feel the hardness of the bench numb my backside, while the warmth of early afternoon sun nibbled into my shoulders. At almost ten after, the same car swung in again, this time purposefully, and a distant figure got out to leave the vehicle empty. Neeley had not brought the two thugs with him. And, as the man came briskly toward me, I saw that Neeley had not even brought himself. Instead it was Kaffey, whose balding head glinted as he lifted his hat to rub at it with a handkerchief.

  “Kirk. We figured.”

  “Mister Neeley couldn’t make it?”

  “He could have if he wanted to. Now what’s this about you have …?”

  I lifted the briefcase from under the table. “Sit down.”

  “You stand up first. I want to make sure … “

  “Check my ears? Fingernails?” I stood while he quickly patted me down. “A sad indication of your deep distrust of human nature, Mr. Kaffey.”

  “It pays to be cautious. You don’t carry a …?”

  “A weapon? Not if I don’t have to. And certainly not among gentlemen.” Besides, a well-armed Bunch was listening in.

  “Right. They’re a real pain.” He ran his hands down my hips and legs. When he was finished he gestured me to sit and open the briefcase. “I want to make sure you’re not wired. You know: we keep things … “

  “Confidential. I know. Who can hear us? Look around.”

  “Right. It’s a nice place. Now, you got …?”

  I opened the briefcase and he saw the portable tape recorder among the papers.

  “What’s that?”

  “A tape recorder. But it’s for playing, not listening.” I set it on the table so he could see it wasn’t turned on. “It’s some of the merchandise.”

  “All right. Let’s … “

  I handed him the Xeroxed pages that Bunch and I had put together as a reconstruction of Haas’s dealings with Aegis. We had, I thought, done a pretty good job in collating the dates of “tee-off” times in Haas’s appointment book with entries in a newly invented diary. We even had a couple of bogus memos requesting parts of the Columbine and Lake Park files from the documents section, as well as a complete set of the plans on disk, compliments of our late employer. Another document accompanying the disks held cryptic but suspicious notes outlining exactly what changes should be factored into the violated plans.

  Kaffey read them over quickly, scanning the papers as if
he were familiar with most of them and spending more time on the personal notes that Haas might have written if he’d had the foresight. Then he looked up. “What’s on the …?”

  I pressed the Play switch and Kaffey heard himself say hello followed by Haas spliced in and then his own answer. It was a voice from the past that seemed long ago now—a ghost that, as Bunch had once said, wouldn’t stay buried; and for all his stony lack of expression, Kaffey was startled to hear it. I gave him the few more seconds of tape that included Neeley’s voice spliced with Haas’s, and then clicked it off and smiled. “There’s a lot more, but that’ll give you the idea. No sense boring you with the whole sordid tale.”

  The man chewed his lip for a long minute and stared sightlessly at the papers he still held. “None of this means shit, you know. In court, this stuff couldn’t … “

  “Maybe it couldn’t, maybe it could. It’s always a gamble to go to court, isn’t it? Think about it, Mr. Kaffey—the strange coincidence of Aegis corporation’s plans being almost exactly like the McAllister plans. Except for that little accounting discrepancy, of course—the one noted in Haas’s files and dated before its discovery. And tapes of the voices of Haas and two chief executives of Aegis on their private, unlisted lines. And a suicide, of course, for heretofore undiscovered reasons. A judge might think it probable cause for a hearing. And you know how crowded the dockets are these days; it would take a long time to come to trial. In the meantime, the Aegis Group would get a lot of publicity over it. A lot. The kind Mr. Spilotro would not like.”

  “We never heard of … “ he said, but the response was automatic because his mind was on something else. “All right, just for discussion. This shake-down—how much?”