Dead Midnight

by Marcia Muller

  “And these honchos—who are they?”

  “Jorge Amaya, the CEO. His family owns half of Costa Rica, or one of those Central American countries. He’s the Remington Group’s boy, was brought in to run the company because of his credentials—degree from the Wharton School, strong history of guiding firms to IPO. I don’t know him very well, but he’s superficially charming and appeals to women. Then there’s Max Engstrom, publisher and editor in chief. He founded the ’zine, but agreed to turn over the reins to Amaya because he knew that was the price of getting funding. He’s not very happy about it, and it shows in his behavior. But I’ll get to that in a minute. Finally there are the department heads, those high on the organizational chart; they also wield a fair amount of power.”

  “What’s the structure of that chart?”

  “Similar to print magazines.” J.D. signaled to the waiter for more wine. “Basically you’ve got Content, Art, Marketing, and Tech. Content breaks down into entertainment, food, travel, and so forth. Each is headed by an editor, with associates and copy editors working under him or her. Most of the people in Content are well educated, but with the kinds of degrees that translate into zip dollars, so they work their asses off trying to replace the person above them. It’s a brutal atmosphere.”

  Roger Nagasawa had worked in Content, in the entertainment department. “This brutal atmosphere—what characterizes it?”

  “Infighting. Excessive competition. In some cases, sabotage of a coworker’s projects.”

  The office from hell, as Jody Houston had called it. “What about Art?” I asked.

  “Less competitive, mainly because the staffers’ skills are more clearly defined. They use a lot of freelance material, coordinate with Content and Tech. Now, Marketing, it’s really a mess, mainly because they’ve never been able to keep anybody in the director’s position long enough to develop a real selling product.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Well, you take an e-tailing site like L.L. Bean. They’ve got an identifiable product—jeans, moccasins, sweaters. InSite, on the other hand, is selling ad space, and they’ve had a hard time convincing prospective advertisers that an online ’zine is an effective venue. In a print ’zine, the ad’s there in your face every time you turn to that particular page. But online, it’s all too easy for a reader to click off on the connection to the individual advertiser’s site and thus not receive the information being aimed at them.”

  “Like I do when a window offering me a product comes up before I access my e-mail. I just click on ‘no thanks.’ ”

  “Exactly.”

  “So is InSite losing money?”

  “Struggling to keep head above water, with infusions of cash from the Remington Group. Back when the dot-com bubble burst, Remington and Amaya considered going to IPO early, but decided against it. Instead, the Remington Group scaled back on its investment, slowed the growth.”

  “All right,” I said, “what does Tech do?”

  “It’s a lot like Layout and Production at a print magazine. They’re responsible for keeping the software and hardware functioning, as well as the links to the advertisers’ sites. It’s headed by a Webmaster who calls herself the WebPotentate—they all adopt offbeat job titles at InSite. She’s a very big honcho, second only to Engstrom and Amaya. Dinah Vardon, her name is, and let me tell you, she’s one scary woman.”

  “How is she scary?”

  J.D. tipped back in his chair and closed his eyes. “How can I describe her? Do I own the words? She’s single-minded, very focused, but that in itself isn’t it. She wants what she wants, and she makes damn sure she gets it. An example might help. One day last year I was in Max’s office, and Dinah came in. She wanted him to hire a guy for the Tech staff that he didn’t particularly like. Made a good case for it, but Max said no, so she retreated. Fifteen minutes later she was back again with a new argument, new approach. And again at every fifteen-minute interval, until Max finally caved in.”

  “Tenacious.”

  “Relentless. It was as if there was an army of Dinahs; each time one was defeated, another somewhat different version took her place. Each wore away at Max’s defenses till he waved the white flag.”

  “Okay, you said she wants what she wants. What is that?”

  J.D. shrugged. “Power, I suppose. After that, whatever it is that will enable her to remain in power.”

  “Money?”

  “Well, sure.”

  “Okay, earlier you said that Max Engstrom’s displeasure at Amaya being put in charge is reflected in his behavior. I’ve heard he’s a sadist.”

  “Max would say he enjoys an occasional practical joke.”

  “And you would say … ?”

  “He’s giving the Marquis a run for his money. But really, Shar, to understand the people and dynamics at InSite, you have to meet them and see for yourself.”

  “How would you recommend I do that, without them realizing I’m conducting an investigation?”

  He regarded me through narrowed eyes; in the light from the candle on our table, his face looked reptilian. “If your investigation pans out, will it be newsworthy?”

  “Eventually.”

  “And if I help you, will I get first crack at the story?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He continued to stare thoughtfully at me. After a bit he nodded. “I have the germ of an idea. When it sprouts, I’ll get back to you.”

  February 14

  I’ve destroyed everything I don’t want people to see and deleted all my files. I’ve mailed my note to my parents and e-mailed my brothers and said good-bye to Jody— even though she couldn’t have known it was good-bye. Eddie will look out for her, and if she’s intimidated in any way, he’ll see that she finds the insurance policy I’ve left at her fingertips. Now it’s time to go. I’ve always envisioned that I’d take this step off the Golden Gate. It’s beckoned to me since I was a child. But given the circumstances and my many failures, the Bay Bridge seems more appropriate. The circumstances. The failures. I wish I could undo them.

  I set down Roger’s journal and went to turn off my office lights. Through the arched window I could look up at the underside of the span from which he’d jumped shortly before midnight on St. Valentine’s Day. It hung high above the pier, the noise of the few vehicles passing over it at this late hour muted. Still, in my irritable state, the rumble and clatter above, as well as the steady hum of traffic on the Embarcadero, grated.

  I looked toward Treasure Island, followed the curve of the bridge’s lights toward Oakland. Tried to make sense of the journal entries, but couldn’t.

  At least he attempted to explain himself. Unlike Joey.

  There had been nothing in the squalid rental house where my brother killed himself except the empty booze and pill bottles and his abbreviated note of apology. His few possessions, according to the sheriff’s deputy, were suitable only for the trash. I’d asked him to have them disposed of before John flew up there to identify the body and arrange for its cremation. I’d told myself I wanted to spare him the heartbreaking details of Joey’s last months.

  Maybe I should have gone with him, looked over Joey’s things. Why hadn’t I?

  Well, for one thing, I’d needed to make myself available to testify in a civil suit that week. But that was just an excuse. In reality I’d wanted to wash my hands of Joey’s wasted life. On some level I’d needed to believe that his life was as senseless as his death.

  Too late now. I’d failed him. And my family.

  Wednesday

  APRIL 18

  The waiting room at Golden Gate Vision Center was large and crowded. I sat sandwiched between a man who was going over a legal brief and a woman who in ten minutes had had five calls on her cell phone.

  Across from me was a glass display case full of red-and-blue Imari plates; a small sign on the middle shelf read HOW WELL CAN YOU SEE US? Subtle prodding of the clinic’s prospective clientele to avail themselves of the corrective procedure, an
d more aesthetic than a vision-test chart. I closed my right eye and stared at the case with my left. I’d always had great eyesight, but three weeks ago during my monthly practice session at the firing range I’d thought I noticed some fuzziness, and while flying over the Pacific near Touchstone, Hy’s and my seaside retreat in Mendocino County, I’d momentarily mistaken a large seagull for a distant plane.

  Were my eyes starting to go? I closed the left, checked the right. The patterns of the Imari ware were sharp and clear. Good genes in that department: Elwood Farmer, an artist, was in his sixties and still didn’t need glasses; my birth mother, Saskia Blackhawk, wore them only for reading the fine print in her law books.

  The door to the inner office opened and a woman came out, followed by a tall man in a white doctor’s coat. Not Daniel Nagasawa; this man was Caucasian. Almost everyone in the waiting room looked up when the woman said to him, “It’s so wonderful to wake in the morning and actually be able to see the clock! Of course, seeing my face in the mirror is an entirely different proposition.” A few people laughed and most looked relieved. This woman had come through the procedure and post-operative checks unscathed and satisfied. Help was just a flick of the laser beam away.

  The woman left, the doctor went back inside, and I checked my watch. Ten minutes after nine; Daniel Nagasawa was late for our appointment. Much more delay, and it would have a domino effect on my tightly packed schedule. I had to be in Palo Alto at eleven to meet with his son Eddie, who had only the one hour free—

  “Ms. McCone?” the receptionist said. “Dr. Nagasawa is ready for you. If you’ll come on through I’ll show you to his office.”

  The inner hallway was thickly carpeted, the walls hung with Japanese woodblock etchings. Daniel Nagasawa met me at its end, a stocky man in a blue sport coat and chinos, with narrow eyes that assessed me shrewdly. No glasses, of course—a perfect advertisement for his services. He ushered me into a room where objects covered every flat surface: files and books on the desk; more files on the floor; more books spilling off built-in shelves; two stylized sculptures of women in kimonos on pedestals; bonsai plants on the windowsill. I thought of what Roger had written in his journal about the clutter in his parents’ home: “Japanese crap, as if they’re trying to prove they haven’t lost touch with their roots.”

  Dr. Nagasawa asked me to be seated and thanked me for agreeing to investigate, then went around the desk and sat in a leather chair, hands folded on a stack of papers, eyes attentive. I asked if he would mind my taping our conversation, and when he agreed, set up my recorder.

  “I’ve been over Glenn’s files,” I told him, “so I’m familiar with the background material, but I’d like to hear it in your own words. I understand Roger lived with you when he returned to the city.”

  “Yes. He wanted to buy his own place, but he didn’t have quite enough saved for a down payment. His mother and I offered to loan him the money, but he said he’d rather accept room and board. Roger could be prickly when it came to owing anyone.” His gaze shifted to the far wall, and mine followed. A family portrait hung there, three boys standing behind their seated parents; their ages ranged from around ten to the late teens.

  “Which one is Roger?” I asked.

  “The boy in the middle.”

  The middle child even in the family portrait. A difficult place in the birth order. I’d been the middle child in my adoptive family, and it had made me feel set apart from my older brothers and younger sisters, turned me into something of a loner. Of course, as I’d learned last fall, there were other reasons for those feelings… .

  I refocused my attention on Daniel Nagasawa. “How did that arrangement—Roger living at home—work out?”

  “Very well. He came and went as he pleased, and did his best not to make extra work for our housekeeper. Roger is … was the most independent and considerate of our boys. We’ve yet to persuade Harry, the oldest, to move out, and Eddie brings his laundry home from Palo Alto every other weekend.”

  “A pleasant home environment, then.”

  Dr. Nagasawa’s gaze muddied and he looked down at his clasped hands. “It was.”

  I waited, and when he didn’t elaborate, asked, “What did Roger tell you about his experience at InSite?”

  “Very little. He wasn’t secretive, but he didn’t share unpleasant things. We knew the job wasn’t going well, though. He was tense and irritable. Worked long hours and didn’t get enough sleep. Sometimes he’d be at the office all night, come home to shower and change clothes, and go straight back again. When I suggested they were working him too hard, he told me that was the way of the dot-com world. But he looked exhausted and was losing weight. After he moved out of the house we invited him for dinner frequently, hoping to make him eat a decent meal, but he rarely came.”

  “Did he seem depressed?”

  “No. As I said, mainly on edge.”

  “But didn’t he have a history of depression?”

  “Certainly not. He was a happy-go-lucky child.”

  Perhaps as a child, but not as a man. At least that was what my reading of his journal indicated. Like many parents, Daniel Nagasawa hadn’t really known his adult son.

  “Dr. Nagasawa, what made you decide the people at InSite were responsible for Roger’s suicide?”

  He flinched. It was a reaction I could empathize with; to a person whose loved one has killed himself, the word has the force of a violent physical blow, no matter how often you hear it.

  “The karoshi case in Tokyo was what turned my thinking in that direction. I read a very detailed account of it in a magazine, then searched out other articles in legal journals and the Japanese press. The conditions the victim was trying to cope with were so similar to those that some of Roger’s friends—you have their names on the list I gave Glenn—to what they described to me after the memorial service. I talked to more of his friends, heard the same thing. Then yesterday …” He looked down again, straightened the edges of the stack of papers.

  “Yes?”

  “This is something I haven’t even told Glenn yet. Yesterday evening a young woman called me. One who had been at the service. Jody Houston. She said she had heard we’d hired an investigator to look into the cause of Roger’s death.”

  “She heard that from me. We met yesterday morning at Roger’s building.”

  “That explains her call. She was very melodramatic, said one of the top people at the magazine had effectively murdered my son and was now threatening her. She wanted to see me immediately. Frankly, I didn’t believe her. So I suggested she contact you and be prepared to present proof of her allegations. She became agitated and hung up on me.”

  “Did you try to call her back?”

  “Not last night. But on reflection, I sensed she was genuinely afraid, so I looked up her number and phoned this morning. I reached a machine. I take it she didn’t get in touch with you?”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  “Will you contact her, please? Ask if she’s all right and find out what she knows?”

  “I’ll see to it right away.”

  There was just enough of a window of time in my schedule to stop by Houston’s flat. I drove over to Brannan Street and repeatedly rang the bell, but received no answer. When I dialed her number, I heard only her recorded voice. I left a message asking her to call me and saying that Daniel Nagasawa was concerned about her, then headed south to Palo Alto, reviewing my conversation with him and preparing for one with his youngest son.

  “I don’t have a clue about what was going on with Rog,” Eddie Nagasawa said.

  Not a clue, and he seemed strangely indifferent. Eddie was a handsome young man, stocky like his father, with a small gold loop in his right earlobe and a tiny tattoo of a spider above his left wrist bone. While the day was cool and overcast, he wore shorts and a sleeveless tee. He slouched in his chair at the Fine Eats restaurant on University Avenue, picking at something called a Feel Good Salad. I took a bite of my cheeseburger and for the se
cond time that day mentally thanked Saskia and Elwood for their good genes; my metabolic system processes fat like most people’s do water.

  I asked, “What did Roger tell you about working at In-Site?”

  “Not much. He and I didn’t talk often. He was six years older than me and had been away at school since I was twelve. I didn’t really know him.”

  Hadn’t I said the same of Joey? That we’d never had a real conversation? But I’d been lashing out in anger, while Eddie seemed all too calm.

  “Your father said Roger was tense and irritable. Did you notice that too?”

  “Couldn’t help but. One time I tried to talk with him about the ’zine—it’s cool, and my friends were curious about what it was like to work there—and he practically reamed me out. After that we kind of avoided each other.”

  “You saw him at the house?”

  “On weekends.” His mouth quirked up. “I bet when you talked with Dad he told you what a leech I am. Always coming home with the dirty laundry.”

  “Well, yes.”

  “I can hear him: ‘My boys won’t get outta the house. All our friends’re empty nesters, but not us. We can’t get them to leave.’ Secretly he loves it. He knows we keep coming back because he and Mom are terrific.” He frowned and pushed his salad away. “I hate what Rog did to them. They didn’t deserve that.”

  So he was angry. “Suicide’s a pretty hateful act.”

  “It ruins everything.” He pushed back from the table, threw his balled-up napkin on the remains of the salad. “Why’d he have to come home, anyway? Why didn’t he just stay back east? I mean, we were all doing great, and then there’s Rog dragging around the house like a zombie. Next thing he’s bought this flat and can’t even bother to come over to dinner. I mean, what’s dinner once or twice a month? But no, he neglects and hurts Mom and Dad, then he throws himself off the bridge. And now everything’s ruined.”