As I stomped away, I heard a “hiisst” from another cubicle. I turned around and peered through the opening.
Howard reached up as though to adjust a tie, but he was wearing a blue polo shirt with gray khakis. “He’s right. Not patentable. If the way to access the Spanish dictionary were clever enough, we could possibly patent that, but you have to have something to bank on, something that is good enough to keep investors interested. If you want to run an idea by Lawrence or myself, it really helps if you have the basic code in place along with a complete diagram of the engineering.”
I sighed. If I had the code in place, maybe I’d sell it upriver and not bother with these people. “Yeah, thanks, I’ll get right on that.” I didn’t bother to tell him I wasn’t gunning for a patent, but the thought made me curious. “If Borgot gets a patent, does your name go on it automatically as the lawyer filing it?”
He blinked a little owl blink and huffed out a sigh. “Only the inventors belong on the patent.” Red crept up his neck. “Just testing the invention doesn’t count either.”
I turned away before he got any angrier, but his comment made me wonder how Lawrence had gotten on a patent. He had one; I remembered seeing it listed when I looked up the executive names. But selling our code upriver—or was it downriver? Either direction wouldn’t help Lawrence or Howard get on a patent. Maybe Lawrence didn’t want another patent so he now sold his ideas to the highest bidder?
Instead of starting a test, I pounced on Paul, the IT guy, because he foolishly happened to walk by. “Did you get started in this business as a programmer?”
He hiked up his khaki shorts with one hand and frowned at me. He hadn’t shaved that morning, and possibly not the morning before that. “Yeah, right. Cary already offered me a programming job. I’m not into that stuff. I’m not doing ballet either. Look, if you people want programmers, drop the hiring freeze and hire some programmers. I don’t care if they make more money, and there is no job that pays well enough for me to dance around with my co-workers.”
“You got that right,” I nodded my agreement as he stomped off. If his hating the idea of being a programmer was a ruse, he had managed to sound as put off with it as with ballet lessons.
I visited the two other testers in my group and three marketing people. I even asked Heather, Monique’s replacement as the head of marketing, about programming. She didn’t know what I meant. She just started complaining about her DVD player not recording her shows properly.
It made sense to talk to Lawrence and find out whether he’d ever been a programmer. His name and address had been on the email that set up the ballet lessons and the phone drop. But what if he was guilty? Would I be showing my hand by questioning him? And I bet Monique had access to his email. Howard probably had access to it too. Monique had said she was planning on setting up the team building exercise. Maybe the two of them were in cahoots to sell and market Borgot code to thieves.
Of course, Monique didn’t sit still long enough to code. If she needed an alibi for just about anything, including the murders, she could turn in her cell phone records. With all the phone calls she made, there wasn’t any time left over to write code. Larry was out of the office more than in, but there was no telling what he was working on when prying eyes weren’t around.
I passed by his cube twice, but he wasn’t in. Maybe the smart thing to do was to ask Monique if Larry had a programming background. The only problem with that plan was that she was yakking on her cell when I waltzed by.
These questions were a waste of my time. Even if someone admitted they knew how to code, we still had to prove that same someone was adding to the Borgot code and selling it to Clockworks.
I settled down to work for several hours, but it was very hard to concentrate. Near the end of the day I made another round of the cubes, inspecting the name tags on each one, trying to figure out who might be adding extra code to the Borgot phones.
I paused near the cube of the one other person who probably had access to most of our email accounts. I stuck my head in. Kay set up meetings on behalf of several people at the company even though she reported directly to the CEO.
She gave me one of her raised eyebrow sneers and chuckled when I casually asked her if she spoke Spanish or knew how to code. “I should have gotten my degree in programming,” she said agreeably. “Instead, I waitressed my way through college and busted my butt to earn a geology degree. Yet, here I am.” She spread her arms wide to indicate her cubicle. Not even the admin for the CEO had an office at Borgot. Granted, her space was twice the size of mine, and she had somehow managed to have the walls done in a paisley fabric instead of corporate gray, but we were all rats in the same maze, no matter how you decorated it.
“We need all the help we can get with this phone,” I said. “There’s got to be someone who can help with the code.”
I waited, but she didn’t bite. If she knew of anyone harboring secret skills, she wasn’t sharing.
As I turned to go, she asked, “You leaving for the funeral now?”
I sighed. “Is it four already?”
“Three-fifteen. Some managers might have mentioned they’d like me to write down names.” While I processed her hint, she removed her heels and extracted flats from a large tote bag. She unclipped an amethyst pendant from her silver chain, leaving the subdued silver necklace as her only jewelry. The red shoes had brightened up a dark pantsuit. With the black penny loafers replacing the heels, she was now perfectly dressed in funeral attire.
“Seriously?” I asked. “You’re jotting down roll call?”
She nodded. “No joke. If there had been any geology job out there that paid, I’d be hunting and cataloging rocks. Instead I work with people who have their heads full of pebbles, and I get to catalog infractions.” She picked up her computer tablet and stashed it in a black purse. The red tote with her heels went under the desk.
I shuffled out. I didn’t care about my name being on a list for missing Joe Black’s funeral. If I hadn’t told LeAnn I’d be there, I might have skipped just to be contrary.
***
I waited outside the funeral home for as long as possible, but LeAnn was a no-show. The sedate little building was shaped to resemble a chapel with steps leading up to large double doors. The guy posted at the door was the size of a tank, decked out in a leather vest and motorcycle chaps. Tats circled one arm, crooked teeth poked from beneath his upper lip, and he either forgot to comb his hair or it had recently been on fire, making it impossible to force the stray knotted bits down over the various bald patches. Maybe he’d been in a fight and someone had pulled clumps out. The gold hoop earring in his right ear looked as though it had been yanked on a number of times because that earlobe was long and distorted, almost double the size of his left ear. He had not shaved in days, and the speckled stubble was mottled gray and black. If he were competing for the world’s ugliest dog title he’d lose, but only because at his feet was a bulldog mix of some sort that had obviously won the title.
When I reached the top step he put his hand on the doorknob. “You here for Joe or his ma?” he growled out.
“What?” I stuttered, backing down a step. While I contemplated running away, LeAnn appeared behind me and grabbed my arm, panting.
“Yes,” she gasped out.
His beady gaze drifted to her. She met his stare with bravery that had to come from having survived childbirth and the raising of children. Or insanity.
My feet shuffled, but LeAnn held steady, albeit breathing hard.
“Joe’s side on the left. His ma on the right,” the man holding the doorknob declared.
“It’s divided? Like a wedding?” I sputtered.
LeAnn cocked her head sideways and gave him a respectful nod. It was easy to be respectful when the guy towered over us by two feet and had us by a yard on either side. He was either carrying a retractable whip or a baton on his hip, and he kept his hand near it, hooked in a pocket.
“Your dog is adorable,”
LeAnn said. “Is it okay if I pat her on the head?”
Tank’s eyes lit up, and he showed more crooked teeth than an aging dinosaur. “Harley. She’s more’n happy to say hello.”
LeAnn matched his smile, if not his teeth, and crouched down to greet Harley. “We’re in Wanda’s sewing group,” she said. The dog showed her approval by trying to wag half her butt off. The slobbering growling noises she made were either because LeAnn represented a tasty snack or because Harley was very enthusiastic about being petted.
I double checked to make sure Tank wasn’t any closer to drawing his baton weapon and offered my fingers to Harley for a sniff. The mutt, who had four different colored paws, made more gurgles and accepted a petting from me as well.
“Wanda’s a good egg,” Tank said. “Her son got her in with the wrong crowd. We take care of our own.”
Harley looked up and whined at the threat in her owner’s voice.
“Weren’t some members of your own gang the ones who introduced Joe to—” I started.
“Fleet. We have a fleet, not a gang.” His finger jabbed at me to emphasize his point. “And those kids were Joe’s friends, not his ma’s.”
I nodded my agreement before he loomed any closer. “Well, sure.”
Without further stalling, we scooted past. Most Borgot employees sat on the left. That alone would have convinced me to take the right side, but LeAnn had already declared our loyalties. She parked us directly behind Joe’s “ma,” much closer than I’d have ever sat on my own. Of course, had I come on my own, after seeing Tank I might have claimed a robbery was in progress and left.
Wanda sat in the first row, her ankle monitor almost completely hidden by jeans that had torn seams at the bottoms to make room for boots. She wasn’t wearing her motorcycle boots today; they probably didn’t allow it because the ankle monitor would never have fit.
The funeral home was dead cold. I shook that thought from my head. I was sweating profusely, which was ridiculous given the freezing drafts in the place. Were they running the air conditioner this early in the springtime? Maybe they did it so the bodies wouldn’t smell. I choked back that thought as well, focusing instead on the scent of flowers. The only problem was there was a noticeable lack of blooms near the casket. Two tall stands of lilies shouted, “standard funeral home provision.” A smallish vase near the pulpit had a card bearing Borgot’s logo. Well, thank God someone had thought of flowers. I certainly hadn’t, and it didn’t look as though Joe had many friends.
Everyone on this side of the aisle, excluding ourselves, was dressed in mostly black leather and tight jeans with boots, or a combination of the two. They all took up two seats because a helmet was placed next to each person.
My cell phone buzzed. It took me a few extra-long seconds to extract it from my jacket pocket. For the first time, I envied Radar and his smartwatch. If I had one, I could have discretely glanced at the watch to see who was calling and possibly sent a response without ever showing my phone. It was bad form to pull out a cell during a funeral, although technically the funeral hadn’t started yet. LeAnn was busy on her phone too so it was probably acceptable, at least until things got started.
Checking my phone, I saw the text was from her.
“I arrived early,” she texted. “Put large black watch on his arm.”
His. Arm. I glanced at the casket, my eyes wide. She had put a watch on Joe’s arm? Was she crazy?
My phone buzzed again. “Can’t see the watch clearly without pushing sleeve up,” she texted.
I swallowed hard, wanting to ask just how she had managed this task, but the answer arrived without any prodding.
“Showed up early, but had to duck in a closet and hide until the coast was clear.”
I closed my eyes momentarily and then typed, “We aren’t planning on mentioning this to Mark, right?”
“Already texted him.”
I looked up to find her grinning at me, her face flushed with pride or from whatever Mark had texted in return. I gave her a nod. She was a brave woman.
She texted me again. “We’ll keep our eyes glued to the subject. Catch anyone fiddling with sleeve.”
I wasn’t gluing anything to that idiot. I’d had more than enough of Joe.
LeAnn put her cell inside her voluminous canvas bag. She then extracted a neat pile of kerchiefs. There was a pink one with delicate lace on the edges, a blue one that looked more practical and two nice big white ones. She tapped Wanda on the shoulder and handed her the stack. “From the sewing girls,” she whispered. “Made them this morning.”
Wanda turned and blinked at us. When recognition dawned, her jaw dropped. She worked it back up, but it fell again. We were the reason she was in jail, but our cover was good. No way would anyone think we had pulled off that arrest on purpose, because it certainly hadn’t gone as planned.
Wanda finally reached up a tentative hand and accepted the hankies. She fingered them for a moment or two before nodding her thanks and turning back around.
LeAnn whipped another two out of her bag and handed one to me. It was a very soft cotton in a flower print. The edges were perfectly finished. I wasn’t about to cry over Joe, but the hankies were nice enough to bring a tear to my eye.
Just as I relaxed back in my seat, Tank rolled through the middle aisle and took the three seats next to Wanda. One was for his helmet, the other was for his dog.
Mark sat down next to me as the funeral director took the mic.
Chapter 30
Joe’s mother didn’t offer a eulogy, and who could blame her? It wouldn’t sound good to say, “My son got himself killed, and his criminal activities got me arrested.”
When LeAnn offered Mark a kerchief, he rolled his eyes and shook his head sharply. I covered up a laugh by pretending to sneeze.
The funeral director intoned peaceful cliches about “moving on” and read a poem about hills and valleys and journeys. The whole presentation would have been more successful had the guy not borne a striking resemblance to Ichabod Crane right before he lost his head.
I shifted in my seat in order to scan the room behind me.
The Borgot employees were stacked together like dominoes ready to fall. Roscoe was definitely typing on a tablet. Lawrence wore an impressive dark blue wool suit that went well with Monique’s subdued pantsuit. She dressed it up with extremely high heels and a small nose stud. We all had to be grateful that there was probably nothing painted on her butt.
Howard must have called in reinforcements because he was sitting near a couple of guys I had never seen before. The three of them looked like a lineup for an Eddie Bauer flyer, casual professional. Then again, maybe the two unknowns were with Paul, the IT guy. He was in the same row dressed in his shorts and ever-present sandals with socks. He probably didn’t own anything other than eight sets of the same. He reminded me of Radar when we first met; uncomfortable in the light of day with a touch of panic about him. Kovid wasn’t much better, fidgeting and earning a glare from Heather and Kay at the same time. I doubt he noticed or cared.
The surprise attendant was Clint, our mysterious ballerina ex-marine. He sat near the back on our side, next to two of the ladies from the sewing group. Barb, the owner of the shop, was too nice a person to miss the funeral. The rest of the chairs were peppered with the motorcycle gang, er, fleet members.
I completely expected to see Detective Saunders and Adrian standing at the back of the room, and they didn’t disappoint. Saunders grimaced an accusatory stare in my direction. I wrinkled my nose and turned around lest he decide I was obviously the perpetrator because I dared peek at the other attendees.
When it came time for us to offer condolences and respect at the casket, I kept myself planted. Not only did I not want to greet Wanda, I had nothing to offer that casket. Besides, it was my duty to watch for anyone who might show an interest in a half-hidden watch.
Mark squeezed my wrist, and whispered, “Stay put.” He found a place against the wall where he could keep tr
ack of people offering their respects.
Tank must have been expecting trouble or perhaps he just enjoyed scaring people because he stood to the left of Wanda as though he was her personal bodyguard. His stance blocked LeAnn’s view and part of mine.
Undeterred, she hopped over my legs to Mark’s abandoned seat.
We watched. Mark watched. The policemen watched us all. Joe’s mother kept her composure, but her hands shook when she accepted the clasps from some of her friends. Borgot employees streamed past almost as a single entity. Roscoe didn’t even pretend to pay his respects to the casket; both he and Kovid bolted down the center aisle without looking back.
Lawrence and Monique minced their way past, heads mostly down. The rest of the group seemed to end up in front of the casket at the same time, blocked by Lawrence who had to stop suddenly because Harley had shuffled into the center aisle. The dog sniffed studiously at his shoes and may have drooled on them because Lawrence jumped back, bumping Monique. She hit Howard. For a few moments, everyone was shifting and shuffling, searching for personal space.
Lawrence finally edged around the dog, but Monique was having a harder time of it in her high heels.
I glanced at Mark. He was surveying those left in front of the casket. Good. With so many people standing there, it was impossible for me to see what any one individual might try.
Tank finally realized Harley was blocking traffic. He patted the side of his chaps and Harley lifted her head. She gave a quiet woof rumble and dragged her rolls back over.
The dam broke.
When all had cleared, Joe was still in his casket. If anyone had tampered with him, I couldn’t tell. LeAnn slumped beside me in frustration.
The rest of the line went through smoothly. Before I had a chance to decide whether it was necessary to offer further condolences, Tank stepped up, raised his hand and closed the casket. It slammed shut rather hard, a ponderous, final thud.
Tank’s friends were prepared. Without further ado, they marched Joe down the aisle and outside.
Executive Dirt: A Sedona O'Hala Mystery Page 17