“Maybe he had the wrong room,” I said, but my tone felt like it needed convincing. It could have been a coincidence and not actually connected to the murder of the caricaturist, but those sorts of coincidences don’t happen too often.
I pulled out my phone.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m calling the police,” I told her.
As I raised it to my ear, her hand rested gently on my wrist. Rebecca met my gaze and quietly shook her head. I ended the call before it was picked up.
I let silence fill a few minutes.
“What’s going on?” I finally asked.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Where’s Julie?”
“I don’t know,” came the same reply.
“Are you worried?” I asked.
Rebecca shot me a look that made me regret stating the obvious. She was worried but not necessarily out of fear for Julie’s safety.
“The police spoke to our gardener today,” Rebecca explained. “He says he saw Julie leaving the house on Saturday afternoon.”
“She’s a suspect,” I finished for her.
“Person of interest,” she corrected. “They would like to talk to her.” After a moment she added, “As would I.”
My urge to help was countered by the realization that there wasn’t anything I could actually do other than offer bits of advice that she already knew.
“You should at least tell the PV police about this,” I instructed. “And consider another place to stay.”
“I’ll move to another room,” Rebecca responded, ignoring my first suggestion.
“If he found this room he could find another.”
“You’re right,” she said, but not in a way that meant she would do anything about it.
“You should really call the police,” I continued. But she wasn’t listening anymore. She just sat on the edge of the bed and stared at a spot on the carpet that held no answers.
“I’m sorry, Rebecca.”
I made a move to leave.
“Okay,” I heard her say behind me.
When I turned, I saw an image I knew too well and had seen too often. It was the one I’d seen sitting across from me when some poor bastard decided their best option was to leave the firm voluntarily, the same look they had when making the “dead man walking” march to the elevator bank. It was the look of complete resignation.
“Okay,” she repeated, “we’ll quit the contract.”
I left with what I came for but there was no joy in the victory.
ANOTHER WALK TO THE ELEVATOR
The following morning, I had my monthly touch-base with Paul Darbin and the outside private investigator we used on everything from background checks on job candidates to surveillance work on false disability claims. Badger (this was a self-appointed nickname that I reluctantly had to use with him) was undergoing a bit of a transformation ever since I started holding these meetings at the office and since we started giving him more important work. As if sensing that he needed to professional-up his image, he traded in the acid-wash jeans for a suit that unfortunately looked like the one his father was buried in. He also attempted to upgrade his vocabulary in these office sessions, but invariably succeeded only in further butchering his already well-slaughtered use of the English language.
“Hold up, chief,” he said over Paul’s attempt to move on to the next agenda item. “I’d like to reconnoiter that last topic.”
Paul once complained to me about Badger’s use of the term chief, feeling it was grossly insensitive to the ancestors of our great land. I encouraged Paul to take the issue up with Badger personally, not because I thought he was right but because I knew what would happen. I had made that mistake before and was subjected to a long dissertation on how Badger’s mother was one-eighth Cherokee and suffered many an injustice growing up among the yonega, a derogatory term for white people. I later found out he was a tract-housing kid from Lakewood, but why ruin a good story? What mattered was that he believed that story, as evidenced by his tear-streaked cheeks when he told it to me.
“My own Trail of Tears,” he said, wiping his face.
I smiled at how much he grated on Paul. Pushing my colleague’s buttons was fast becoming one of my favorite pastimes. We had always been “friendly” rivals at the firm, but ever since I took over the role as head of the group and Paul started reporting to me, I found myself going out of my way to make his life miserable. I justified these actions by recalling how unprofessional he was when we both applied for my current position. He did everything in his power to undercut me, often with false information. I wanted to believe I was above petty retribution, but in Paul’s case I made an exception.
Paul had once tried to replace Badger with a private investigator of a more “appropriate caliber,” code for someone more polished. Badger’s edges were rough, but at his core he was honest and a hell of a good investigator. I eventually denied Paul’s request and to show no hard feelings, I put him in charge of managing the Badger account.
“One more stealth item,” Paul said, using the term for a topic not on the approved agenda. “Have you been following the story about the murder in Palos Verdes of the woman who worked for Power of One?”
“Vaguely familiar,” I said, and purposely checked my watch, which signaled that this topic would not be worth the time it was about to take. Paul either missed my cue or purposely ignored it.
“Our very own Julie St. Jean is wanted for questioning,” he continued. “But it doesn’t look like they know her whereabouts.”
Paul had every right to probe this topic but for some reason I found myself deflecting. I let my silence show how much of a non-issue this was for me and even went so far as to start piling up the handouts from the meeting and putting the cap on my pen. It all said one thing—this meeting was over.
“This person of interest works for you guys?” Badger piped up.
I tried to shut Badger up with a cold glare. He caught it and seemed to understand.
“This is clearly upsetting you, Chuck,” he said. “Tells me I need to get to the bottom of it.”
“I agree,” Paul quickly piled on.
“Guys, let’s be prudent here. I understand your concern, but we already have a full list of action items, so we don’t need to be creating new work for ourselves. I’ll add it to the parking lot,” I said, using another term whose literal meaning was to “park” a topic for later discussion but whose effective meaning was to put it somewhere and never talk about it again.
“We should consider looking into it,” Paul continued. “Pat’s always telling us to challenge the conventional thinking.”
I studied Paul.
I had wondered how Pat had gotten word of the murder at Julie’s house so quickly, and now I had my answer: Paul had told him. This was one aspect of Paul’s repertoire that I couldn’t underestimate. Passive-aggressive undermining came naturally to him.
I could have told Paul that Power of One would no longer be engaged by our firm but I held back. It seemed safer to play along until the breakup was official and well-communicated to the higher-ups.
I told Badger to put it on his list.
“This is my number-one priority,” he pronounced. He somehow forgot that he had made this claim twice already in the meeting. Badger’s list of priorities read horizontally because every task was slotted in at the top position.
“Thank you,” I said, and watched Paul smirk, so proud of his maneuvering skills. I let him enjoy it, then added, “Add ColorNalysis to that list, too.”
Paul jerked his head so fast his ponytail whipped around and nearly hit him in the face.
“Why, why do we need to do that?” he stammered.
“Contingency planning,” I said. “If your concerns over Power of One are confirmed, we’ll need a backup plan. ColorNalysis is the likely successor to guide associate development programs, wouldn’t you agree?”
Of course he would agree, because
he’d been pushing us to replace Julie’s firm with this one for nearly five years. Paul was one of their disciples, going so far as to travel with his lifemate—a term he coined to justify a long-term relationship with a woman who wouldn’t agree to his prenuptial agreement—to a three-day ColorNalysis retreat in Sedona so they could better understand each other. He made our firm pay for his half of the bill.
ColorNalysis was another outfit selling the same nonsense but presented under the banner of neuroscience to lend it some validity. They used brain mapping to chart your personality type on a patented grid that looked like a four-color Rorschach test. This color card became the guide from which your individualized development plan was generated, with the goal of helping you focus on the areas that needed stretching. I marveled at this machine’s uncanny ability to always pinpoint one area—color—in major need of extensive (read: expensive) one-on-one counseling.
“They’re on my list,” Badger announced. But before he could tell us yet again that it was his number-one priority, I stole his thunder.
“Badger, let’s put that one at the top,” I instructed.
I felt bad for denying Badger the pleasure of his usual pronouncement, but it was worth it to see the pallor of Paul’s face. ColorNalysis, like all these outfits, had to have some skeletons in their closet. These were rarely deal breakers, but Paul’s reaction gave me pause. Maybe we should be looking into them after all.
The meeting was over, but I asked Badger to hold on for a minute. Paul nervously looked back as he left my office. It was a cheap move on my part—no one wants to feel left out of a private discussion—but this time I had a legitimate request for Badger. But before I could get to it, he surprised me.
“I assume you don’t want me to do any actual work on these consultants?” he asked.
I smiled and gave him an approving slap on the back, and got a whiff of his cheap aftershave, which failed to mask the odor of whatever damp towel he used to store his suit in.
“Badger’s no dummy,” he said, shifting to the third person, which signaled an elevated level of pride in his own abilities.
“No, he’s not.” I played along. “But I actually do want you to look into Julie St. Jean. Personal reasons,” I added to address his confused look.
“Ahhhh,” he mused, and gave me a wink.
“Not that personal,” I corrected. “Just dig up what you can.”
Rebecca came by the office that afternoon to sign the documents that would officially end our two firms’ relationship. I had left a clause open that would offer some remuneration for early termination, but to my surprise, she turned it down.
“If we’re not doing any work,” she said, “we shouldn’t be paid.”
It was probably better that she declined it because the penny-pinchers would have many questions for me once they discovered the extra payment.
“Where should I sign?” she asked.
It all felt too rushed, and I felt a pang of guilt that it had to be under these circumstances. I found myself finding ways to delay the inevitable.
“Any updates on Julie?” I asked.
There was some news but none of it was good. Rebecca relayed in a very matter-of-fact manner the call she had gotten from the Palos Verdes police informing her that they had found Julie’s Bentley at a Union Station long-term parking lot. They believed it had been there since Saturday. So far, closed-circuit cameras hadn’t turned up any more information. It meant one of two things—Julie was either in trouble or on the run.
“How are you holding up?”
“I could answer, but it would just be a throwaway response.”
I nodded.
“Sorry. I don’t mean to be so dismissive.”
“It’s okay. It was a meaningless question.”
“The one thing, Chuck?” she said. “The thing I can’t get my arms around? How fast it all unraveled.”
Rebecca had likely used my first name countless times in the past but there was something about this instance that struck me deeply. Perhaps it was having it linked to such a brutally honest reflection from someone I hardly knew.
“I think I can help you,” I blurted out.
Later, I realized this was my intention all along. It was hard to put into words but I just felt a need to try to help her. It led me to deflect Paul’s probing of Power of One, it led me to request Badger’s assistance, and it led me to make the offer to help when I should have been getting her to sign the termination documents.
The way I said it, however, and the way Rebecca looked at me, it felt like both of us needed convincing.
“Help me with what?”
“Find Julie.”
At least she didn’t laugh. But she didn’t accept the offer, either. Instead, she thought about it for a minute, then asked an odd question.
“What do you think of me and Julie?”
Before I could answer with some fluffy response that masked the true feelings beneath the words, she appended her question.
“What do you really think of me and Julie?”
“I think you could guess,” I said, laughing.
“I want to hear you say it.”
“Well, for starters,” I began casually.
Rebecca looked at me like she was ready for the truth.
“I think you and Julie are certifiable cranks. I’d even go so far as to say you’re a couple of con artists. You haven’t done anything to warrant even a penny of the money that’s been paid to you. All of your programs are just packaged-up gibberish. And, really, the only thing that’s kept me from losing my mind all these years while sitting in your endless sessions is the dream of one day getting to fire your sorry asses.”
The words were even more satisfying to express than the countless times I had imagined saying them. Even Rebecca seemed to find some level of enjoyment out of them as she studied me with a wry smile. But she had another view to share.
“‘A lonely, frustrated man,’” she said. “That’s what Julie calls you. I’d probably add a few more adjectives.”
“I bet you would.”
“You know I’m sick,” she said. “Big ‘S’ sick.”
It was a subtle jab at the corporate world for its habit of signaling something of importance by actually saying that the word was capitalized.
“You’ll be fine,” I said.
“That’s not what I meant.”
There was defiance behind her words and a clear signal that she loathed anything approaching pity.
“Altruism is overrated,” I told her. “And I believe I can actually help you.”
“What about this?” she said, pointing to the paperwork before her.
“We’ll figure it out later.”
I put the unsigned documents back in the folder.
Later, as we walked out to the elevator, I thought I heard her whisper: “There’s really no one else.”
That could have meant no one else in her life, no one else who could help her, or both.
RENO OR BUST
I cashed in an RO (Remote Office) card, which allowed employees to work a few days a month out of their homes. Everyone loved these days because without the distractions of the office setting, they were able to be much more “productive.” In practice, that meant chiming in on a few emails to prove you were working, but otherwise, you were free to do whatever you wanted—play golf, do some Christmas shopping, or just watch I Love Lucy reruns.
I used my RO day to begin the search for Julie St. Jean.
Rebecca had a morning treatment, so I picked her up at the chemo center in Lincoln Heights and we headed over to the Omni Hotel so I could help her pack. The one condition I had stipulated before starting to help her was that she agree to switch hotels. As Rebecca slid the keycard into the slot and opened the door, I think both of us expected someone on the other side. I feared another run-in with the bowling ball man; I’m sure she secretly hoped to find Julie lounging on the bed.
The room was empty.
Rebecca packed her things while I made several trips to the car. The exile from the Palos Verdes home—self-imposed or otherwise—had clearly been a long one. The rift I imagined she had had with Julie widened with each additional bag I loaded into the trunk of my car.
“You can take those boxes down,” she instructed while she dumped the tray of prescription bottles into her purse. Nothing is more unmistakable than the rattle of pills in plastic bottles.
I recognized the boxes stacked in the corner as containing the binders for the latest Power of One workshop. It was an unnerving reminder that I still needed to resolve the issue at work with them. As I did with most problems in need of immediate attention, I decided to let it marinate and hoped a magic solution would appear later.
“Jesus,” I yelped, as I hefted the first box of binders onto the bellhop cart. Who knew nonsense weighed so much, I mused, massaging my lower back. That’s when I noticed the red light on the room phone.
“There’s a message,” I told Rebecca.
She looked at me.
“All of mine were from the other day. You never returned them.”
Rebecca ignored my jab and hurried over to the phone. I watched her expression go from hopeful to disappointed as she listened to the voicemail.
“Just the front desk,” she said. “They have my umbrella.” She gave a puzzled look at the door, where an umbrella was leaning in the corner. “Must be a mistake,” she reasoned.
On the final load out, I swung by the front desk but no one there seemed to recall a missing umbrella. The lost and found box didn’t contain one either.
“Try the valet,” the receptionist suggested. “Folks sometimes leave things in the courtesy cars. They have their own lost and found.”
That piqued my interest. I recalled the development that Julie’s Bentley was found parked at Union Station. The police likely assumed she fled the city on a train. But Union Station was only a short walk from the Omni Hotel. Julie might have used that as a ruse to throw the police off her trail.
I made my way out to the main entrance and asked around until I found a valet who worked on Saturday.
“A guest used one of the courtesy cars,” I told him. “Do they get them through you guys?”
The Big Con Page 4